Day 6 after surgery, I trained for the Olympics.
Okay, fine. It was a walk to the nurses’ station. In grippy hospital socks.
After they took 2/3 of my stomach, just sitting up felt like a marathon. So when the nurse said “Let’s try a lap around the floor,” my husband and sister went into full coach mode. My sister tied my robe. My husband turned to the nurse, completely deadpan, and said: “Go easy on her. I only have one wife.”
The nurse laughed. My sister snorted. I tried not to laugh because laughing hurt, but it was worth it.
The socks were mint green with little rubber treads. I swear I strutted like I was on a runway. Ten steps. Stop. Breathe. Ten more. The nurses’ station had never looked so far away or so victorious when I finally slapped the counter like I’d just won gold.
I told my husband: “Put this on my modeling résumé too. Catwalk: 40 feet, hospital wing.”
He said, “You’re ridiculous.” My sister said, “You’re amazing.” Both were right.
A year later, I walk miles without thinking. But I still remember those mint-green socks and that line: I only have one wife. Because cancer tries to shrink your world to a hospital room. That day, my husband joked it back 40 feet wider.
Healing is weird. Some days it’s a paper cup of carrot soup. Some days it’s shuffling in socks while the man you married makes the nurses laugh so you’re not scared. Both count. Both are brave.
If you’re in your own “grippy sock” phase right now — where brushing your teeth is the workout — I’m cheering from here. Ten steps. Stop. Breathe. Ten more. You’ve got a whole team, even if it’s just one person saying “I only have one of you.”
Next up: Back in the ICU. My brother came to visit and made me laugh so hard my husband tried to shush me.
Bruna
One year out, still collecting small wins like Olympic medals.
