I'm not a fatalist. Nor prone to drama. But what's wrong with a bit of realism? Nothing, right? Things happen; we should be prepared -- mentally, emotionally, physically, spiritually. Entertaining a worst-case scenario doesn't mean I want it to happen. I'm not saying, "Hey! Hi, there. Come on in and pull up a chair. May I offer you a cup of Guatemalan cold brew? A pastry, perhaps?" No-o-o. But ignoring the very real fact that things can, and do, go wrong, seems foolhardy. Burying one's head in the sand merely ensures that you can't see the boot if it drops. Personally, I'd rather see it coming and have my hardhat firmly in place.
So, why all this talk about reality and boots falling from above? Well, for only the second time in my life, I'm having a bit of surgery which requires anesthesia and involves parts of my reproductive system. Eighteen years ago, during the course of tying off my fallopian tubes to thwart those pesky little eggs from crossing the channel, the doc had to knock me out after the spinal block (or whatever that was) failed to keep my nerves from registering the gentle pressure of a scalpel.
Today, at noon-thirty, my overactive uterus will be tamed into submission so as to allow me the option of keeping it firmly affixed within my abdomen. In my head, where visual imagination and wordplay reign supreme, I see cooked meat. But in kinder layman terms, the endometrium -- the lining of my uterus -- will be scraped and cauterized. Thus, halting the process which results in labor-like cramping every 21-25 days for yours truly. This, however, can actually be performed in a doctor's office without sedation. The surgical aspect of my deeper foray into better female health involves a visual search of the external surface of my uterus and structures around it for scarring from endometriosis -- a condition which seems to be more common than once realized whereby the tissue of the uterine lining grows outside said organ. Often the culprit for intense pain, this disease is also capable of severely damaging the fallopian tubes, ovaries, and even other organs, to the point of leaving a woman unable to reproduce as her body should. Should any scarring or cysts be detected, whatever can be safely burned away will be. Hopefully, my life, my schedule, my body AND my family will all experience a freedom not hitherto fully realized in more than a decade. Being held hostage by one's period is not cool. I endured it far too long, entertaining real and imagined fears which blocked me from moving past my set pattern of being laid up with copious amounts of ibuprofen (which have damaged my stomach after more than a decade of regular use), double heating pads and bed rest. We won't revisit the PMS/PMDD issues as those have been addressed before now in this blog.
All in all, this procedure ranks low on the totem pole of seriousness. And boy! am I grateful for that. I'm fit, healthy and of sound mind (hold your tongue). But with any surgery, however minor, there are risks. Patients sign waivers listing said risks: nicks, cuts, perforations, unexpected complications or discoveries. It's enough to give pause. Using anesthesia also carries it's own small cadre of unknowns which vary from patient to patient. I'll be listening intently when the anesthesiologist chats with me later this morning. The outcome I'm desiring involves an amusing video of my witless mumbles captured on my husband's phone and shared with the Facebook community. ANYTHING for a bit of attention and a good laugh!
Just in case the good Lord decides I'm needed elsewhere, I'd like to remind each and every one of my loved ones, family, friends, pets, that we are cool. There's no anger. Nothing unforgiven. And I love you with a ferocity and generousness which never fails to astound me. The ability of my heart to expand and allow entry of new affections, and the continued growth of my present affections, fills me with a gladness which I could never fully express. Even with all of those wonderful words and concepts at my keyboarding fingertips. For my children, Coob, Sarah Ami, Zacker-Macker, my legacy is one of faith in Christ, integrity, compassion and family. For my husband, I would expect a period of intense mourning to rival the power of the sun . . . and then start dating and find yourself another gal. It's all right! (However, if you get rid of Hankie Mutt and Gracie Helen, I will haunt you AND your gal!) For my mom, thanks for the stew and Jello and showing me how to love my fellow human beings beyond the confines of my own self . . . and don't ever stop being the Brazen Hussy that you are! (hee) My Earth Divas know where they stand: my gratitude for our special friendship runs like a vein of gold through the cavernous mines of my life. Dear Ethel to my Lucy, I'll save you a seat. Wifey, stay true to your inner compass; your boys will be more than fine. LG, GL asks that you work on her life story screenplay with Sarah Ekmanis, who has come into her own with her writing skills. Michael Lynch, would you edit said screenplay with your keen eye for detail and love of a well-told story? Sister Reba, you can collect my Oscar for me. Laurie-Laurel is in charge of planning a grand party with the other sibs to celebrate the win. And, of course, post all the dress-up pics on Facebook. Gary and John, talk amongst yourselves about my quirks and endearing qualities, and laugh together. Often. I'll be checking in. Somehow. Someway. As far as funereal services go, it's either Rodney Edwards officiating or no one. Because regardless of what he says about me, I know he'll cry. Uncle Zopie, as difficult as this may be, I would request 'Amazing Grace' and the song you wrote for me as a little girl.
But enough of all that. I plan on returning from the MMC surgi-center ready to conquer a new chapter in my existence. Be ready! My son just suggested I enter the surgical suite with Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" blasting through my earbuds. Ain't he smart.
That's all, folks. Ciao for now. XOXOXO Peace out, as my baby bro likes to say.
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