My Post-Surgery Misadventure

A favorite restaurant is located three blocks from my house. I walked out my front door early on a pristine autumn morning, not a cloud in the sky, the sun shining, warming the night-chilled landscape. 

I walked slowly, unsure how my body would react six days after surgery. The past few days had been spent in bed and on the couch, imbibing clear liquids like vegetable and chicken broths. The only solids consumed were a meal of scrambled eggs and, for another dinner, a cup of mashed potatoes.

Workers had knocked on my door and, after a buenos dias and instructions, my husband Steve and I headed out for breakfast. I breathed fresh air and marveled at the lack of activity following a busy summer. Folks were at work, at school, or at home enjoying their morning coffee. 

We were the only ones in the restaurant, a place most summer days filled with folks hanging around on the sidewalk waiting impatiently for a table, gawking at those already seated.

I opted against outdoor seating because the restaurant offers comfy, cushioned chairs inside. I settled in, ordered an iced coffee and perused the menu. I decided to splurge on a favorite, eggs benedict, without the English muffin. No potatoes.

I relished my meal, but my stomach and appetite shrunk after days of downing liquids. I could not finish my food, an unusual occurrence. Normally I would savor the eggs, English muffins, and roasted potatoes.

My body deserted me and withered, weakened. The walk, the food, the environment, resulted in exhaustion. I put my fork down and slowly leaned over onto the chair next to me – we had chosen a table for four – and closed my eyes.

I fell asleep.

Suddenly shaken awake, I sprung up, sort of, in slow motion. Three employees stood over me. Are you all right? Anything wrong? Anything we can do?

How long had I slept? Long enough. Steve had finished his breakfast and the staff noticed my prone position. At least I did not snore, which I occasionally have been known to do.

No, I sheepishly whispered, I recently had surgery. Still recuperating.

Steve told me he would walk back home, retrieve the car, and pick me up. I resisted, insisting I could walk, but gave in. I didn’t want to walk.

I sat at the table, unable to eat or drink, or do anything but wait. I kept my head down over my phone, but my eyes clouded and my mind could not comprehend anything.

About fifteen minutes later my ride arrived. I stood up, unsteady but eager to leave. I looked at the employees, who could not help staring at me, muttered thank you, and lumbered out.

We were still the only customers in the place.

I shuffled to the car and into the passenger seat. Three minutes later we pulled up in front of the house.

Less than three minutes later I was on the couch, crawled into a fetal position, my weary body asleep following my morning escapade.

When I venture out again in public, I will ensure I am strong enough to endure the experience.

Do you think that restaurant will welcome me when – if – I return?