Under the knife.
That’s where I’m headed right about the time the link for this post is shared on Facebook.
It’s not my first rodeo riding bucking forceps and scalpels. I once made it 7.4 seconds on a wild oxygen mask named Cowboy Impaler, but I have never made it the full 8 seconds.
Counting down, that is. They tell you to count down from ten while they put you under. I never remember anything past 7 or 6. Also, I may be injecting a fake memory in there of counting down at all after binge watching every season of Nip/Tuck.
Anyway, after a week of a whole lot of trips to and from the ER, the hospital, and the surgeon’s office, as well as <ahem> procedures that I don’t really want to talk about because I’m afraid of making my butt weep fresh traumatic tears… Come to find out I have a nifty difty fistula, an abscess who calls itself “Giant Jim,” and some extra exciting fissures to ice that cake all pretty-like. Triple whammy.
I thought falling on my butt at Mudder caused the beginning of all this pain. But, no. I was wrong. Too bad, too, because that would have been so much more glorious. If it had anything to do with it at all, that fall was simply the equivalent of throwing water on a Gremlin, unleashing internal evil that has been lingering in dark corners for some years based on other health history now factored in. In fact, lots of my health problems in past years might have been symptomatic of this lingering problem that I didn’t know was, well, lingering.
Anyway, it might take one surgery. Might take two. I don’t even know what they’re doing exactly. My surgeon tried to explain but I was too doped up to notice anything but the My Little Ponies dancing the rumba on the other side of the room. What I do remember is that he said it should fix this problem, permanently. I think more of his exact words were, “you’re probably going to be hurting like you wouldn’t believe for about a week, then you should be so much better.”
Well, I don’t know how it could be worse than it was the last week, so bring it on, Doc. I like me a good challenge. We’ll pretend this is another Tough Mudder, and I’ll call this obstacle, “Butt Hurt.” Participants must be knocked unconscious, sliced, diced, stretched, and pinched. They will then have large, giant, metal, weird-looking objects shoved where sun was never supposed to shine, and then if they make it past all that, they have to come back to the land of the living, remember that life is not always sunshine and tulips, and make best friends with their plastic donut.
Anyway, I’m obviously just nervous-typing now.
Every time I’m going under the knife (I think this is my fourth or fifth time now?), I get this weird feeling that this time I’m going to die. It has never been anything but a weird feeling though, and I know this time will be no different.
Still, acting on that weird feeling, I decided to make myself a really good dinner, and use real dishes, and I even went to the store and bought myself some ice cream for the first time in YEARS. Sounds silly, but I kept thinking. What if this really is my last meal? Hahaha.
Ugh. I hate surgery. All joking aside. I hate it. Not a lot scares me in this world. Surgery is one of those things.
For the record, if I do for some reason die, I want to be cremated. And I want my remains to be spread over my computer keyboard so that nobody dares touch this machine and learns what a real weirdo I am. Also, I would like to give my bed to whomever tells the best story involving it. And my car goes to whoever wants to take over the lease. In fact, that offer goes whether or not I die on the operating table.
Oh, geez. I won’t die. I know that. Still. Surgery scares me.
I’ll see you on the other side.
I have no idea if I’ll be in so much pain that you won’t hear from me for a week, or if I’ll be so bored out of my mind that I just hook my computer straight into my brain and never give you a break while I recover. Either way, there will be lots of drugs, lots of weird thinking, and not a dang thing I can predict about it.
Dan Pearce, Single Dad Laughing
PS. Caption contest for that stock photo above, and this particular surgery of mine. Here it is again…
My caption is, “Dear God I know I chose to be a surgeon, but they never said we might see something like this!”