A year ago today, I woke up early to do some work. We were frantically gathering and uploading information to our website for parents and students, and I had an overwhelming number of emails to read and extract attachments from. I was frustrated by being asked so many questions that I believed I’d already explained in detail and by the number of items I received that were formatted or labeled in ways that required multiple extra steps on my end. I was already tired and hangry when my dad picked me up, having been unable to eat or drink anything since midnight.

Dad drove me to the doctor’s office, where I continued to work from my phone in the waiting room while he waited in the car (because, COVID). Eventually, I was called back to be wrangled into a mammogram machine and have a wire inserted deep into my left breast to mark for the surgeon the exact area to remove. It was not pleasant. It felt exactly the way you would expect it to feel if someone shoved a wire a couple inches into your skin and tissue, and I had to stay very still to ensure that the placement was accurate. Then the long end of the wire was taped to my skin, and I was wrapped up and sent on my way to the hospital for surgery.

My dad was able to accompany me in to the waiting room until I was processed and admitted, and then he went back to wait in the car while I was prepped for surgery. It involved a lot more waiting, during which time I continued to answer emails, until finally the anesthesiologist offered me a “cocktail,” and I wisely surrendered my phone, along with all of my clothes and belongings to be taken out to my dad’s car, since there were no lockers being used for patients because of COVID. The hospital staff tried to make me comfortable and offered me TV and music while I waited, but my to-do list was swirling in my head, and I really just wanted to get the surgery over with so I could get back to it. The knowledge that my already-full inbox was, at that moment, collecting even more messages was overwhelming, and although it’s not in my usual bag of tricks, I welcomed whatever medication it was that made me doze on and off while I waited.

At some point, my surgeon appeared, masked and face-shielded to the point of being unrecognizable, but as she was pregnant and we were in the early weeks of COVID anxiety, I was grateful she was willing to be at the hospital at all, knowing there was already a whole floor dedicated to COVID patients. She signed my surgical site and we chatted about what exactly she was going to do. Now that I think of it, this was probably pre-“cocktail”… It’s fuzzy. I remember just feeling so much admiration for her, being so attentive and warm and kind. (Okay, reading that makes me think I’d already had the drugs…) I remember being taken to the OR, and I remember being told to count down from 10, but I think I may have made it to 8.

I woke up in recovery feeling groggy but not nauseous, and the nurses did their best to make me comfortable while they called my dad to bring my belongings back inside so I could get dressed and discharged. I was given my post-operative instructions, some ginger ale and crackers, and wheeled out to the car. We stopped at the pharmacy on the way home so I would have the pain medication I was prescribed, but all I wanted was to get to my bed and sleep. I had to prop my arm up to protect the incision a little, but I slept for a few hours and woke up hungry but otherwise fine. After I ate, I sat down at my computer again and waded through more emails and attachments until I was as caught up as anyone was going to be three weeks into COVID lockdown.

And then the next day, I got up and worked. The beauty of it for me was that, since everyone was working from home anyway, I was able take just the one day “off” and be right back at it the next. The girls were with their dad, so in some ways I was more productive then, without the calls for endless snacks and meals and refereeing. I wasn’t in much pain, so I didn’t take any of the pain meds, just ibuprofen to help with the swelling. Instead, I opted for ice now and then, along with a couple of short naps, and by the time the girls returned the next day, I was eager to seem them and completely recovered from the anesthesia. They were just the right height, though, to give me a good jolt of pain when they hugged me, but as any mom will tell you, it was worth it, and they were very helpful to me in the next few days, when I wasn’t able to lift anything and my range of motion was really limited.

I’m not writing this to pretend I’m tougher than anyone, or to garner sympathy, or anything like that. It was my choice not to tell almost anyone that I was even having surgery, so I wasn’t expecting any special treatment at the time, nor would I have wanted it. I was angry that I needed it in the first place, but I felt like since there wasn’t much I could do about it, I’d just power through like always, and since *everyone* was having an awful time, there was no point in whining. In the end, I’m glad. Later, in the summer, when I did become the object of many kind gestures and sympathy, I was already worn out and a little resigned, so I was ready to accept those kindnesses. But on April 6, 2020, I was just annoyed.

And now, a year later, I have a fading vertical scar and some residual swelling and soreness, but none of that kept me from working out, enjoying a (terribly played but sunny) round of golf with my brother-in-law, a couple drinks with a friend, and dinner and laughs with my little beasties today. I’m lucky. I’m on the other side of it, even while others are struggling. For me, the biggest lesson of that day was the recognition that on any given day, I have no idea what someone else is going through, so I need to extend some grace to them–and to myself.

Happy Lump-iversary to me.

(Shoot, if I’d been thinking, I’d have served chicken breasts instead of drumsticks for dinner.)