home. sleeping.

we got discharged yesterday.

and now we’re entering the long, slow, path of healing.

everything hurts.

the 14 (yep, count ’em) calcium monsters (we’re not producing any minerals due to removal of aforementioned glands) pills per day are nausea-producing (too much info? sorry, darlings) and the antibiotics are much needed as we fear any small bug/infection and there’s a bunch of other stuff too – but no narcotics, thank god. we couldn’t go There.

B stayed over and was a Superb Nurse.

and he gave us sophie (the loveliest dog in the world) to keep us company for a few hours.

we are sleeping.

and not returning all the lovely calls, txts and emails at this time – please don’t be offended. we are feeling Very Under The Weather (delightful British phrase).

at least the collar with our own blood (UGH) drain was removed.

and this morning we were able to unwind the TORTUOUSLY tight bandages.

and very gingerly and with a few tears we were able to wash our hair for the first time in days – not a good look, prior, although B did say we looked rather Kate Hepburn with a strict turtleneck look with our neck brace and our barely-there-voice – OUCH sore vocal chords from tumours/tumor damage – sounded a tiny bit like Tammy Grimes (Mary Poppins – not the lovely Julie – the mummy of Jane and Michael with the gum drops voice and the suffragette sash in blue).

so now we’re down the penultimate layer of dressings for a week or until we see our surgeon and get the C results and stitches removed (OW).

resting now.

more tomorrow.

9 thoughts on “home. sleeping.

  1. Little sister! Saw Pavs for breakfast and he told me (a) I’d missed you in LosA, and (b) straits. Told me I’d find you here. xoxo So sorry for this journey and the pain. Lean into it. And let me know if/how I can help. Thinking of you with love, prayers, and light.

  2. Hello, (snip – real name!). I’m thinking of you recovering slowly and painfully in your late afternoon New York bed while I sit at my computer in mid-afternoon Los Angeles listening to the buzz of buzz saws cutting branches off of trees two streets over. At this exact moment, it seems a crude metaphor for surgery.

    I’ve thought of you more or less continuously for the past week and a day since I saw for the first time in heaven knows how long. There’s been a sort of (snip! real name) stream of consciousness running on brainwaves number two or three while brainwaves number one or two handle things like driving, keeping myself from saying awful things to irritating people, feeding the cats, getting ready to go back to work, etc. Then my (snip! real name) stream of consciousness rises to the surface and I feel quite well again. So, I can only wish the same for you.

    You are an angel. I really think you are. You’ve certainly been one in my life and I think it’s most unfair that you should be in pain and discomfort. Can’t see the reason for it and I certainly don’t like it but if you can be brave and accept it then so can I.

    Thinking of you in the City of (One Less) Angels.

    1. Pavlin

      so delicious of you to pop by (we just did a Tiny Edit of your comment as we must be anonymous here for purposes of Day Job and other stuff ;-) hope you’re not offended by the edit marks ;-)

      we feel better already for your description of los angeles. and for your beautiful sentiment.

      sending so much love back.

      _team gloria xx

  3. There can be no beating around the bush with surgery like that. It sounds hellishly painful.

    Take the drugs and get lots of sleep. Am hoping your results are good news.


    1. Jane

      We know you understand.

      And that makes it all the more beautiful that you took time to write.

      sending much love from a warm manhattan evening – listening to chet baker, sipping tea very gingerly…..

  4. Of course you look gorgeous and sound gorgeous – we knew that!

    Rest, and don’t worry about us, although we will continue to worry about you if that is ok.

    You are so brave.

    Big squeeeeeeeeze.


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