Tomorrow one of two things will happen.
I will not post at all. Or. I will post, and it will be a whacked out, drug addled mess of incoherent thoughts.
I’m hoping for option A.
This time tomorrow they will be rolling me into an operating room to repair my accordion of a septum, and to remove my excess turbonites, which are blocking a significant portion of my nasal passages and making breathing difficult. I, by the way, am not a mouth breather. At all. I end up breathing through my nose anyway, sucking air through the tiny space, and the result is that when I breathe, I sound like Tony Soprano.
Anyway, it’s all very weird. Six months ago I would have sworn a turbonite was something that belonged in a car engine, and now I’m having those bitches cut out. Actually, I was supposed to have this done at the end of last summer and chickened out several days beforehand. Even though I know the doctor is excellent, I kept thinking, what if he sneezes while he’s working on me? Or what if he confuses me with someone else, and instead of repairing the inside of my face, I wake up with a Jackson-esque nose?
I finally decided to suck it up and go through with it. So, tomorrow I will be good and drugged up, and have instructed my husband to keep me away from the computer. Chances are I’ll sleep most of the day, but you never know. If you will recall, last time I had surgery, the only thing I clearly remember was the nurse telling me my skin was yellow, and that I needed to get it checked out right away. That, of course, never happened. I have no idea where it came from, unless I was worried about what I looked like under the harsh hospital lights, or some such ridiculous thing.
I don’t really remember what happened after I woke, though my husband told me I fixated on a topic, and asked the same question repeatedly. This time, I want to get out of the recovery room as soon as possible, and told him he needs to get me to focus so we can get the hell out of dodge. A few days ago I read an article in which the author had eye surgery, and she said her husband told her the first thing she said upon waking was, “Did they shave off my pubic hair?” So my new fear, rather than focusing on what could go wrong during the procedure, is what might come out of my mouth when I wake up.
Wait, where was I going with this? Oh, right, posting. Tomorrow my husband has two tasks, 1) to make sure I don’t talk about pubic hair at the hospital, and 2) to keep me away from the computer. However, when I am determined to do something, he usually opts to let me. Plus, with his sense of humor, I’m sure he’d let me post just to see what I write.
Happy Monday folks.