Wednesday, August 3, 2011

The Doctor will see you now



Tomorrow at 6:15am (yikes) I will check into a surgery center where they will slice me open and sew my abs back together, in an attempt to allow me to do fun things like stand for more than 45 seconds. Or walk without looking like I should be delivering packages due to my snazzy back brace. Or go places without carrying my even snazzier little red pillow with the teddy bear under the Christmas tree embroidered on the front.

If only I were a trendsetter, and those things had caught on, I wouldn't have to do this.
Maybe if I had bedazzled the back brace?

Not allowed to consume after midnight, I'm eating my last meal of edamame which I was hoping would have survived the Great Defrost of 2011 but sadly did not and tastes like food from Maggie's play kitchen. Blech.

All week I have had this urgent sense that Armageddon is nigh and have been doing crazy things like clean the garage and organize the approximately 2,408 Legos and 2,232 little army men and 1,868 tiny plastic Risk figurines in Shep's room. I  tell you what, I have never before been so industrious without a dilated cervix and an induction date on the calendar in my whole life.

But when I do lie down at night, I've been entertaining myself with thoughts of all the horrible things that can go wrong in the surgery. I've never been under full-on anesthesia before - just that twilight business where you feel asleep but people tell you embarrassing things you said later. This, however, is the big time. This is hard core. And real anesthesia can lead to real problems, like coma, death, and...well, that's it. Coma. Death. Death. Coma. Coma. Death.

Dear Lord, I've prayed. Please keep me safe, give the doctor wisdom, and don't give me an anesthesiologist with a cocaine addiction. 

(I actually used to work with a woman whose husband lost his medical license for operating on people when he was totally on coke. I didn't just pull it out of the air. So adjust your neurotic scale accordingly.)

(Man, this second batch of edamame tastes just as nasty and I just bought it today at Costco! I feel like a prisoner on death row whose last meal was burned. I only have 29 minutes to cut off, people!!)

This morning after playing out an elaborate scenario of a tall, handsome man in scrubs snorting up in the hallway before he shakes my hand as I lie vulnerable on an operating table while the nurses exchange nervous glances, Eva Rose crept up to me with a very concerned look on her face. "Mommy, I'm so scared."

"Why? What's wrong baby?"

"I'm scared Osama bin Ladin isn't really dead! And he's coming back for us!"

So we've moved on from tornadoes, last week's Irrational Fear of the Week.
(So the neurotic nut doesn't fall very far from the neurotic tree.)

I pull her onto my lap. "He's dead sister, I promise. He's not coming back."

"But how do you knoooooooow? I just can't stop being scared." She buries her face in my shoulder.

"Well, what does the bible tell us about being scared?"

She shrugs.

"God says, "Do not fear, for I am with you, I will strengthen you and help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. God's got you in his hand! Jesus said, I am with you always and always! So how can you be scared when Jesus is right with you!"

She smiled. "Whenever I think about the bible I just feel better, right away."

"Me too." I kissed her, and she slid off my lap.
I watched her prance off, the weight of the world now off her shoulders.

And then it hit me.
"MAN God!" I prayed. "You're so SNEAKY!! Sheesh!! Alright already!!"

Indeed,
Osama bin Ladin is (very likely) dead.
Tornadoes (almost) never come to Houston.
My anesthesiologist (probably) does not have a cocaine addiction.
And God (definitely) upholds me with his righteous right hand.

And I only have nine more minutes to find something good to eat.

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