recovery is boring. I'm sick of this recliner and the view out the window. I have the internet, but man, even that's not really very fun lately. I get up for little walks, but my stitches hurt and it feels like my nonexistent rectum is going to fall out if I'm on my feet too long.
Isn't that weird? I don't have a rectum. Or an anus. Or a chunk of my colon (sigmoid, I believe). The stitches in my butt are bumpy, and it's just unnerving to think about there not being anything there. Eric and I were talking last night about whether or not the surgeon or either of my other doctors had mentioned rates of survival or what stage I'm at. They haven't. But I didn't ask. At one point I said, "Well should I have asked about rates of survival before I let someone cut me up?" I suppose it's late to have second thoughts, but there it is. I really do believe my surgeon when he said I could have this surgery or I could die. I'm so grateful for his accurate diagnosis and his confidence in my treatment. And I still don't want to know what my odds are, not really. In the cancer game, I think there is such a thing as too much information. At least there is for me.