So, my surgery is scheduled for this coming Wednesday. On the one hand, after months of waiting I am so beyond ready to get the show on the road. On the other, I still have 9 million things on my “Surgery Preparation” to-do list, and now I’m running out of time.
Probably, I mean. I am probably running out of time. I am so traumatized by the postponement of this whole thing two months ago that I have a hard time believing it is actually going to happen. I keep thinking of things that would screw it up. Yesterday, for example, I stumbled over a curb and nearly fell off my cute wedges, and my immediate thought was “If I break my ankle, I can’t have my surgery.”
On the third hand, I feel like I am making far too big a deal out of this whole thing and I should just get over myself. I worry that this stupid surgery is all I talk about and that everyone is tired of hearing about it. (So what do I do? Blog about it. Again.) I also feel an immense amount of pressure (completely self-induced, btw) to bounce back right away. A few days ago I started researching post-op exercise plans, trying to determine how I can get back into shape asap.
That particular google search led me to an article about just how many internal stitches and clamps and staples and paperclips are involved in total abdominal hysterectomies and what exactly can happen if one tears, and let me just say it is not pretty.
But! The good news is that in just a few short days, you won’t have to hear me drone on and on about my upcoming hysterectomy. By that point, I will have moved on to being self-absorbed about my recovery. And then menopause.
I do wonder what that will be like – menopause. I mean, what if after going from estrogen-overload to complete estrogen deprivation, my personality completely changes? (Not that it’s ever been particularly sparkling, so maybe that would be a good thing). I could become No Filter Emily and say whatever comes to mind. Basically then I’d just say everything that I now only text to Jenny, and though I might make a whole lot of enemies, it would be quite entertaining. Or I could become Mean Emily. Ergh, I am pretty sure that’s already happened. If I come out of this more grumpy and irritable, my husband and kids will probably be on the next bus out of town.
Or absolutely nothing will change and I will have to come to terms with the fact that there’s not a surgery or medication or diet that will make me any different from what I am. And what then?
