Just got back from the hospital, and all systems are go for surgery next Monday.
I was fine with that, before today. But now I'm nervous too. When the surgery was initially scheduled, I was actually looking forward to it, if you can believe that.
See, the thing I fear the most is the oblivion that may or may not follow death. Going into the dark under anesthesia, well, it feels like a dress rehearsal. My heart will be monitored. I won't be breathing on my own. That's...slightly dead...isn't it?
I've been thinking about it, trying to understand my own mixed excitement and fear. And I think it is this. I will be placed into the hands of the thing I dread – for safekeeping – and then pulled back out again, like a rabbit from a hat.
There is an erotic component to it, I'll not deny. But isn't that the natural reaction to death? Fuck or be lost forever. Nature's life insurance policy.
Anyway, I have a little hole in my arm where the phlebot found an unscarred patch of vein. I have my paperwork, I have the continuing reassurance that it's Dr. S. who's performing the procedure (even the pre-admission RN's eyes glazed over for a minute when she read his name, and we exchanged that little smile. She was under his care too before he went strictly into infertility. And to pull your mind back out of the gutter I put it into, he's very professional, and at the same time very warm and caring Makes a girl feel safe).
So. My mom gets here next Saturday. And I might be in a little trouble with her, if something doesn't happen the way it should. I'll tell you about it next time. I think you'll laugh. I did, just before the overwhelming guilt kicked in...