Normal Is As Normal Does

As of the first of the month, the doctors have lifted most of my post-surgery restrictions. Some remain, like the no-caffeine rule (damn). Others will gradually go away in another six months or so--the pulling and pushing and weight-lifting ones. 

My body has changed. I've put on weight, an expected side effect of the drugs, temporary inactivity and of  food tasting better.  The aches and pains are the same-old, same-old. The tiredness that was so overwhelming has receded. Ah, yes, I still enjoy those naps that have become habit-forming, but I can do without them most of the time.

Many of my senses have been heightened, besides that of taste. Maybe it's the result of greater blood flow. My eyesight has improved to the point where I can once again enjoy a large-print novel. I notice the feel of things, especially smooth things, more than I did before. Strange, isn't it?

My sense of smell is far more acute. Hubby no longer smokes in the house. Where the odor of cigarette smoke has always bothered me, it has now become painful to inhale, even in tiny quantities. The smell of cleaners, paint, bleach and strong perfume, once merely an annoyance, has become a very real health issue. My throat feels irritated, even from the strong scent of flowers. It's hard to explain.

Live as normal a life as possible, says the cardiologist.

Easy for him to say. He deals with heart issues every day. He sees every spectrum of normal. I see only one. Me. And I'm not sure what normal is.

Some days I feel like my entire life has been shrunk like a car in a crusher, from big and comfortable and fast right down to a two-ton coffee table. Other days I am ready to explode with energy and joie de vivre. And I still don't know what normal is.

What I do know, however, is that the body heals from the breastbone-cracking and the ripping apart of a vital organ. The scars will eventually fade. The surgeon did his job. It will take months, even a year, for the physical healing to be complete.  I understand. That part of my recovery is doing well. I have had no pain associated with the surgery.

What takes longer is the healing of the mind. My awareness of each minute of living is acute. I waste time, and it really bothers me to do so. I want to be on the go constantly so that I think less of my own demise and more of the years that lay ahead. Or months. Or weeks.

Logically, I know that the repair job should hold up for years. But, frankly, this too-close encounter with death has scared the crap out of me and left me shaken.

I want to be an eighteen-year-old normal again instead of a sixty-two-year-old normal. I want to run and play and dance and ride a bike around the bay.  I want to go to drive-ins and ignore the film. I want to eat heavily salted French fries and high-fat ice cream and not worry about packing on pounds, or  my blood pressure soaring. I want to bend the rules of decorum until they break. I want my summer car to be a two-seater sports cars instead of an SUV. I want my bucket list to be a list of what I have checked off, instead of a list that I won't live long enough to finish. I want the man I love to see me as a fox instead of a pudgy grandma. Is this normal?

It's hard for a person to grasp what is in another's mind. Some people take one day at a time, accepting the ups and downs with calmness. Some see living as just existence. Sometimes, I do, too.

But there are days when normal for me is longing for my carefree self, the days when I felt confident and energetic and full of passion for life. I have those days still, but living seems more like a Tilt-a-Whirl sometimes than a Sunday drive. So much to do, so little time.

I think I'll go back to bed.