Before Wolf’s surgery, the doctors pointed out a few landmarks in the healing process.
The first 24 hours was critical. In effect, they go in with science and technique and swap out parts, and then cross their fingers and solemnly wish that the mysterious essence of ‘life’ will work its magic and, for its own ineffable reasons, simply continue. At least the landmark here was clear: they’d take the breathing tube out as soon as he could do without it, which happened a bit earlier than expected.
The next landmark was expected around 3 weeks, but it was rather vague and neither of us can remember exactly what it was supposed to be. Perhaps an absolute minimum amount of time off work? If you had a very sedentary job, you could conceivably go back to work. I suppose. What Wolf does is sedentary, sure, but it requires clever thinking and his brain wasn’t 100% online again yet. Or maybe 3 weeks was the amount of time he could be certain to feel like shit.
As I recall, we were told that after 6 weeks his sternum would be healed, and maybe it was, but Wolf’s research suggests that 6 weeks is a bare minimum. Regardless, his center is holding together well enough that he’s able to drive again. (He’s now able to get himself to his weekly blood test. Um, hooray? His ability to go on his own to pick up Indian food is a lot more fun.)
He has now cleared 7 weeks, and he’ll probably be able to start doing rehab soon to rebuild the muscles that have atrophied — mostly arms and torso, from what I can tell. The scar down his center is still livid.
The doctors’ landmarks are averages meant to help you manage your expectations and identify when there may be a problem. There have also been some personal landmarks, which are more objective and in some ways more significant.
2½ weeks – first blowjob
3 weeks – first PIV sex
1 month – first time he could finger-fuck me
6 weeks – first time he could cuddle me in a spooning position
6½ weeks – we had sex three days in a row
He still feels “not himself”, and it’s going to be a while before he does (or at least gets used to the new normal). But sexual excitement is good, and a rush of endorphins is highly distracting and makes everything seem right with the world (or at least the bedroom), if ever so briefly. And his male sexual pride should be preening in light of his renewed ability to thoroughly get me off.
I had had a significant drought during which my libido responded by cooling dramatically and then, thanks to my hormone cycle, had reheated to a smoulder that lasted for two frustrating days. But my frustration got resolved in a deeply satisfying way. Finally! It wasn’t quite a screaming orgasm — I wasn’t so vocally abandoned as that — but I was yelping, in a good way.
The next day, I woke up feeling satisfied and remained so for, oh, about an hour, but I soon started to get wound up again and continued to feel aroused all day. So that was rather distracting. That night, as he worked me to my climax, the sensation on the way up was particularly delicious, and the noises I made were more of the savoring and appreciative sort: throaty moans and groans, developing into contralto “oh god”s and “oh fuck”s, as my legs began to straighten and my toes to point. (It wasn’t “toe-curling”, but close enough: it seems that I point rather than curl. That’s probably the dancer in me.)
On the third day, what was most notable wasn’t the noises and the sensations, but rather the feeling afterward of being utterly spent and wrung out.
It’ll be a while yet before he’s fully recovered, but he’s definitely on the mend.