This time last week, I was just waking up from pelvic reconstruction surgery. As my diastasis sypmhysis pubis has spent a week healing I have been healing in other ways, too.
My mom arrived on Sunday. She has been a huge support for me while we are home without my guys.
She made today epic.
This morning, as I transferred myself from my chair to the commode without any stabilizing help, my mom told me “I’m proud of you.” An hour later I heard her tell my cousin over the phone, “I’m really proud of her.”
This means so much to me. As a kid, she told me she wished she could buy stock in me. I’ve always known she appreciated me, counted on me, knew I worked hard. Knew I could take care of myself. She didn’t say “I’m proud of you” though. That was something my Dad said.
Growing up, I was “the weak one.” I have no idea how that reputation among my immediate family started. Talking about it this week, my mom said it was because of how I reacted with things happened. That I wasn’t sick very often so I was more miserable, and when I was in pain I went over the edge. She used the example of the third time I broke my nose.
From my perspective: I had stepped on a friend’s foot and fallen to the side rather than falling on top of her. When the fall stopped, my face contacted a cast iron chair. It was a blinding flash of pain. It hurt, but worse, it bled all over and streaked the carpet and I was upset about running my mom’s carpet.
From my mom’s perspective: She remembered it as hitting the friend’s head and going into hysterics.
She told me today that none of that in the past mattered. That I was stronger than they were combined. That she was proud of me for getting up everyday and doing what I have to do to get better.
Thank you, Momma.