I'm going to be taking a lot of sick days over the next month or two. My plan is to continue to write every night as usual, so that I never fall out of the habit. But a few times it may be little more than a check-in, just so you know I'm still alive. I have scheduled Phase One of the upcoming procedures, the scope that has to happen before the surgery (Phase Two) can happen. It's like that feeling when you have boarded the little boat for a water ride at an amusement park, and the kid running the ride has pushed you into the stream. Your boat and those around you jostle for positioning, and you bounce and rock, but you feel the inevitable pull of the current and you know there's no backing out at this point. That's how I feel about asking for surgery. I am fully committed now. I feel the rocking of the boat, I can smell the water, the petunias hanging in baskets at the loading dock, and the creosote-soaked timbers making the structure of the ride. It feels real. There will be some frightening moments to come, but I am not turning back. I hope that when the ride is over, I am happy and relaxed. I've been uncomfortable for a long time. I'd like this discomfort to stop.
I have a lot of friends who have offered endless kind words as I have gone through this. I am happy for their support. I'm not scared, per se, but I am nervous enough about the next several weeks that I won't turn down anyone's good vibes, whatever shape they take. I'm happy to have prayer warriors on my side, to have notes of comfort, or even good-natured teasing. Support is support and I accept it. I don't know how free I will be with the medical details, however I have written in the past that I refuse to pretend that mammograms are horrible for comedy's sake. I think the same goes for colonoscopies. (Don't be afraid, people. You sleep through it. It isn't traumatic. The worst part is the drink you have to take, that tastes beyond awful.) But saying I'm having it and describing it in detail are entirely different things. I'll play it by ear, how much I will tell.
I had many moments of doubt since I asked for the referrals to the specialists. It seems like such a drastic step, to have a big chunk of my large intestine removed. But then I have weeks like this, where I limp around and dip into the leftover pain pills. I spent most of the day on the couch, covered in cats (Zoe and Alfred sleeping so close they were touching!), and all of this infirmity is wearing away at my self-esteem. I ought to be up and at 'em in the Park, and I'm just not. Tuesday night I was driving home alone, swearing the worst words I know, at the top of my lungs, every time the car hit a little bump in the road. I can't pretend that medical intervention is optional. The boat is in the current, and the ride has begun. I hope it's fun.
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