Prepping

Peeps, since our last little chat, I finally got my surgery scheduled.
Isn't that a nasty word? "Surgery." It sounds like something slicing away. We always associate it with some sharp, some dire situation.
I have to stress the word MINOR when I have to explain why I'll be missing from group activities and Bible study on Wednesday. Otherwise, people look at me like I'm preparing to light my own funeral pyre. Not that I don't understand--if someone said, to me, that she were going into surgery, I might look at her the same way--surprised, concerned, care, all of those things decent humans feel for the other facing pain, but it's a bit embarrassing to be on the receiving end.  They tell me that I will WALK out of the hospital the same day I'm admitted, that I won't even need stitches. No, they're going to glue me back together like bits of paper. Tiny incisions, I won't even have battle scars, really, though they warned me there may be nasty bruising some time later.

I'll go under, the scope will go in, they make a small incision in my side, and cut out my little dermoid, then I'm glued back together, wake up, and I leave. It's as simple as that, they tell me.

Well, and, you know, the "bowel prep" the day before--today. Doesn't that just sound awful? Basically, I can have nothing--absolutely NOTHING--but fluids until midnight tonight, after which I may consume nothing at all. it makes sense--it really does. But golly . . . I really really REALLY want the homemade soup I have in the fridge. Or the leftover pizza. Or just . . . . you know, food.
Food IS good people. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise because, if ANYONE says food is bad, they're mentally unstable. I mean, really, mad to the maddest degree.

Food is awesome.

I miss food. It's been nineteen hours since I saw you last. Mmmmm food. We need to get back together sometime. Hopefully soon. REALLY soon.

In other news, Downton Abbey is kind of perfect for days like this. Mostly because you know they're preparing and eating food, but you can't really see it. Every time I watch something like Supernatural, I want a cheeseburger. Darn it, Dean! YOU AND YOUR DELICIOUS CHEESEBURGERS!!!! -_-

If for some bizarre reason I don't come out of this alive, I want this to be the image people remember.
Or, you know, maybe not but . . . yeah, maybe this one.
And I request a Viking-style funeral.
Unless, you know, I come out of this alive and unscathed, which they tell me is very, VERY likely.
So much for an adventurous surgery, right? 

 UPDATE:

I just got off the phone with my doctor and, apparently, there was an issue with a blood test result. Again, NOTHING MAJOR, they say, but they don't want to operate and want to send me to a specialist.  Basically this means that, again, my life has been put on hold.
As it has been since the miscarriage in June.
This was our last step, our final step, to being fully physically recovered, the last phase before the greenlight.
And now we're waiting again.
I know there's a purpose and a reason in all of this, but I would be lying to you if I said I weren't crying or filled with disappointment. I suppose it's better than a mess on an operating table, but part of me wants to call the doctor back and scream, "I"m willing to risk it! Just, please, finish this so I can move on with my life!"
But I can't because they won't.

She tried to perk me up by saying, "Well, you can eat now."
I don't have the appetite.
Not only am I filled with laxatives, but now I just feel sick in spirit. And no pints of my favorite ice cream can fix that. Not right now. Maybe tomorrow.

TMI or "Why My Uterus Hates Me"

"I'm not feeling very well - I need a doctor immediately. Ring the nearest golf course."
--Groucho Marx

I'm just going to warn you up front: if you don't have ovaries, you probably don't want to read this.
Actually, even if you have ovaries, you might not want to read this.
Because I'm going to be be honest here, folks.
REALLY HONEST.
Also, I'm going to whine. I hate whining, but I love ranting. So maybe this is more of that. Strap yourselves in.
Or flee in terror.
Either one works.

Because, sometimes, being female just stinks. Not only are there all of our insecurity issues, our weird methods of communication, our reading into everything, our penchant for drama, and the presence of high heels, there's this bloody little hormone called estrogen, and, my golly, is it a party pooper or WHAT?!

I'm also warning you because I think medical stuff is fascinating. I mean, I was that student who went out and researched the Bubonic Plague because I wanted to know EXACTLY what it did to you that made it so terrible.
Besides, you know, KILL you.
FYI I still remember the major symptoms and all that jazz, so if you're worried you've contracted the black death, give me a ring. I'll help you out. ;]
So, medical weirdness, bizarre science, I LOVE IT. 
In fact, Chris and I have pretty much decided that, when I'm old and senile, I'm going to be a female version of Fringe's Walter Bishop--random amazement, too many wacky facts, love of the bizarre, and random food fixations. I'm going to be a ball in the nursing home, folks.

source
And, um, for just a second can we talk about how AMAZING Fringe was??? I mean, REALLY. SO. GOOD.
If you haven't watched it, go to Netflix, and watch it ALL.
I think I need a rewatch because I need more Walter Bishop in my life.
Rant over.
For now.

Anyways, back to the point.
The problems all started with our miscarriage back in June. I try not to think about it, but the truth is, it has left a PHYSICAL mark, not just an emotional scar. The emotional wounds continue to slowly heal. The physical ones . . . The just keep coming.
I mean, really, my uterus is not giving me a break.
Thank you SO MUCH uterus. You're a pal.