I Had a Good Day

Celebrating the little victories in one of Arizona's quirkiest towns.

After weeks of doctors, bloodwork, IV antibiotics, PICC lines, physical therapy, medications, and enough medical jargon to earn an honorary nursing degree, I finally had something that felt almost normal.

I had a really good day.

Friday started with an appointment with my surgeon. To be honest, I had spent several nights replaying conversations in my head. I had notes. I had concerns. I had things I needed to say.

Most importantly, I needed him to understand one thing:

When I tell you something is wrong, I need you to hear me.

Not dismiss it as anxiety.

Not brush it aside as part of recovery.

Not assume I'm overreacting.

Just hear me.

For the first time since this journey began, we actually had that conversation.

And it was good.

Really good.

He listened.

He acknowledged my concerns.

We talked about the CT scan my primary care doctor had ordered and what it showed. We talked about moving forward and working together. We talked openly and honestly, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like we were sitting on the same side of the table.

What surprised me most was hearing him tell me just how well I'm actually doing.

According to him, most people at this stage of recovery aren't doing half of what I'm doing.

Apparently, I'm a bit of an overachiever when it comes to healing.

Who knew?

The incision looks good. Everything is holding together. My blood thinner was adjusted because my platelets are still running high, and overall, he was extremely pleased with my progress.

When I walked out of that office, I felt lighter.

Not because everything is magically fixed.

Not because the journey is over.

But because I finally felt heard.

And sometimes that changes everything.

Now, my husband Kevin knows me pretty well. He could see the difference. So he decided we were going to celebrate. When Kevin suggested lunch in Bisbee and dangled the promise of my favorite funky overalls in front of me, I was excited.

Well... sort of.

I was excited, but there was also fear.

Real fear.

Could I handle a 30-minute drive?

Would I be able to walk up the street and back?

Could I stay out for a few hours without completely running out of steam?

These aren't questions I would have given a second thought to a few months ago.

But recovery has a way of changing your perspective.

Every outing now comes with a silent calculation of energy, endurance, and "what happens if I hit my limit?"

Kevin saw it before I even said a word. Apparently, after 40 years together, my body language still gives me away.

But we went anyway.

If you've never been to Bisbee, it's what happens when a mining town, an artist colony, a hippie village, and a history museum all decide to move in together and become best friends.

It's colorful.

It's quirky.

It's wonderfully weird.

In other words, my kind of place.

We wandered through the old streets, peeked into shops, enjoyed a wonderful lunch, and soaked up the atmosphere. There were artists, tourists, locals, motorcycles, dogs, and enough character to fill several lifetimes.

For a few hours, I wasn't a patient.

I wasn't focused on medications, bloodwork, healing timelines, or doctor appointments.

I was simply a wife spending time with her husband on a beautiful Arizona afternoon.

And it felt wonderful.

Of course, every celebration has consequences. And just so we're clear, my body got the last word.

When we got home, I didn't simply take a nap.

I collapsed.

I settled into my recliner and that was pretty much the end of my productive day.

Dinner? Not happening.

Housework? Absolutely not.

Even getting back up felt negotiable.

Healing takes more out of you than most people realize.

While it may look like I'm out having lunch, walking around town, and getting back to normal, the truth is that every ounce of energy is still being redirected toward healing.

Some days that means I can do a little more. Other days, like this one, it means my body collects the bill afterward.

My body is fighting infection, rebuilding tissue, recovering from two surgeries, and doing an incredible amount of work behind the scenes.

The truth is, healing is still happening.

I'm still tired.

I'm still recovering.

I still have a road ahead of me.

But today reminded me of something important.

Joy doesn't always arrive with fireworks.

Sometimes it arrives as a good doctor's appointment.

A husband who loves you enough to celebrate the small victories.

A quirky little town tucked into the mountains.

A good lunch.

A walk down an old street.

And a nap that leaves you wondering what day it is.

After everything that's happened over the last several weeks, I'll gladly take that kind of joy.

Because for the first time in a long time, I wasn't just recovering.

I was living.

And that felt pretty wonderful.

— Deb Deaton

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