Doctors live in an absolute world of procedures and practices, but recovering patients do not. From the moment my surgeon told me I could not pick up a camera  – or anything weighting more than three pounds – for three months, I began looking for a reasonable and acceptable way around this, and this week, I’ve found it. I put away my new IDX for now, dug out my Canon 5D. I took off the battery pack and chose my lighter lenses. I weighed it on my new scale – 5 lbs on the button.

I also talked to the cardiologist and he suggested I brace the camera with one arm, which I have been doing. There is no strain on my heart or chest, no pain or discomfort. So this morning I started taking photos again, this one is my first. It is a photo of the Gratitude Urn I bought for Maria, taken with a 100 mm macro lens. I accept what my doctors tell me, but not blindly. They don’t really care if I take photos or not, it is just easier to say don’t do it for months, but I do care and taking photos is essential to my healing and recovery. When I see my excellent surgeon, I’ll bring the camera and will run through the whole thing with her.

Recovery is about acceptance, but is is also about dignity and independence. In order to stop my heart and fix it, I was stripped of much of my idea of human dignity. I had no freedom of movement, undressed, denied freedom of movement and sleep, I was stuck and poked and violated constantly and most of my bodily functions ceased to work well. One by one, we get these things back. This, I understand, was all necessary. I am careful, I rest, I think about what I am doing. But I am always thinking of moving forward, of moving my body, of trying something different, of gaining my life back one step at a time, one day at a time, one bit of dignity at a time.

I am taking photos again (not too many), a big step towards my recovery. When I see the surgeon, I will suggest that next time she says “don’t pick up  your camera again until you show me you have figured out a way to do it.”