I gave my daughter a piece of my liver (part 2)

Healing.

I kind of wish I had started writing this part sooner, because my body and the intricacies of its nervous system have conveniently forgotten the shock of the immediate and short-term aftermath of surgery. It was easier to write about the surgery itself in the last part, because, of course, I was writing about the idea of the surgery, given that I can’t actually know what really happened, because of the general anaesthetic, and can only go on the account of bystanders*. That, and the unspoken echo held deep within my cells, telling me stories only in the quietest parts of my dreams (and, to be honest, nightmares).

*there were actually quite a lot of them as it turns out; a literal operating theatre

Although I woke up not long after the surgery was complete, I don’t think I actually woke up in a sense that felt somewhat normal until around 48 hours after. My body was incapacitated; handed over to the care of medical staff, extracted from, infused, weighed, stretched, stitched, some of its basic functions handed over to a degree of machinery, mopped with wet wipes by nurses so kind they made me want to cry at the proof that, actually, the world is very good also, if you find yourself in the privileged position of true vulnerability. My body was not my own in those moments, and it didn’t need to be. In my line of work, I tend to be all about ‘embodied this and embodied that’, and there is a place for that, I’d say most places are for that, but not this place. This was a place of detaching, dissociating, disassociating, depersonalising.

I’m not one to gender everything, because its boring and passé, but there is something undeniably patriarchal and paternalistic about surgery, even if its a female surgeon working on a male patient. The act of cutting into a body when the person is completely unconscious made me think of a friend who took a rape case to court. Because she had no recollection of the assault she endured, the law (also a patriarchal, paternalistic construct) did not reward her with the justice she deserved, but the judge did acknowledge the glaring grey area of extreme intoxication in rape cases; by this, she was vindicated.

I remember laying there a couple of days post-op, timidly stroking the incision. It had been stitched from the inside and was glued over the top. ‘Did I really consent to being glued?’ I thought. Of course, on paper I absolutely did consent, and I am not for a moment suggesting that there was even an inch of grey area in this highly complex surgery that I willingly went into, well-informed.

But still, there is something unsettling about seeing the mark of something violent that happened to you, without recollecting it. It was hard to reconcile my shaky, mouse-written signature from the digital consent form a few days prior, with the life-long signature of the surgeon written down the centre of my abdomen.

One thing I know about myself is, I don’t like going through things, and will try every which way too speed up the uncomfortable part; this healing process was evidence of that.

I didn’t like the feeling of the opioid pain relief, so I had them change me to a different one. It was also shit, but in a different way; variety perhaps made the time pass quicker.

I wanted to go and see her sooner than I physically was able. I still went sooner than I was able, and I paid the price both physically and emotionally.

The thought of recovering in a public bay on a ward with other people felt inhumane to me; not because I am a princess (although there are latent aspects), but because I am a proud introvert who heals in isolation, whether thats from illness, break ups or break downs.

In the end, being on a bay with elders actually turned out to be one of the most healing things I could have done. The woman opposite me was a widow who had not long ago lost her husband to the same kind of cancer she had just been treated for. When she was ready to be discharged, she told them that she didn’t want to leave, because she was ‘all on her own’. This made me rethink my proud introversion and what it was really serving. She told me I was brave for what I had done for my daughter, and I felt all my instincts to tell her that it was nothing and that actually I was being a bit of a baby in my recovery and that I was just doing what any mother would do and and and bubble to the surface, but then I kept that voice at bay and just said thank you instead.

Holding court with these mature women for 3 days taught me the power of sitting in an ordinary moment. How resplendent they were without the ego-chorus of too much social media and too little social connection. All we did was share the space in the simplest of ways. No one spoke too much or too little. No one filled any gaps that were better left empty. No one competed, no one complained. What a privilege it was.

I’m talking a lot about my own recovery and making it about me (typical), and you, dear reader, are probably wondering when I’m going to get to the good part, and talk about the lady herself.

Here’s the thing. I always knew she would do well out of this. That’s not wishful thinking, it’s the knowing my daughter like only a mother can. I knew her way before she came to me in physical form. The beginnings of her were born when I was born, they were even born inside my own mother’s womb, when I was growing there. I know from memory the music of her cells, ever since they started knitting their way into the waiting walls of my womb. I knew everything about her as she grew inside me and, yes, I always knew there was going to be something about her that would bring my life more challenge and more overflowing joy than I ever thought I was capable of.

I also didn’t think beyond the surgery. Knowing and trusting at this level does not require thinking.

One thing I didn’t anticipate, was just how protective I would feel about her privacy, and her right to her own story, in her own words, however and whenever she is ready to express those.

So yes, it feels like I’m singing the sweetest love song in perfect harmony with all of the universe when I get to tell you that she is doing so well. She thrives before my eyes and delights the patriarchal/medical appetite for ‘numbers’ and ‘trends’ that seem to improve day on day, exactly inline with what they’d expect to see, whatever that means (ha, no, but seriously, I am delighted with that too.)

And that’s it really; she strengthens day on day and shows me the ways in which she has started to alchemise a part of my body to become her own. There will be challenges, surprises and lots of other moments that don’t need to take away from how good things are now. The rest is hers to tell.