Say “Haaaaa!” Instead of “Maaaaa” or “Baaaaa!”
I had a massage yesterday. Delicious. However, as my massage therapist, Kate, began kneading my left thigh, I was struck with sadness. In two days, they will remove part of my body. This is mind-boggling. The idea of surgery, like the idea of war, is a commonplace and familiar one. The reality of blood and guts, bone and skin, pieces of oneself being replaced or shot off is not. Not acceptable, incomprehensible. It took two years for me to mourn the loss of my mitral valve. One day I was looking at the scar that divides my chest, and the enormity of what I had been through hit me. OMG. The gratitude and respect I feel for this scientific achievement does not alter the horror of having it done.
We went to the pre-op appointment, and it took four and one half hours to accomplish what could have been done in 120 minutes. Still, everyone was kind. Smile muscles in evidence everywhere. I should have brought my drawing pad in addition to my notebook. The result? I have too much information to sleep well until it’s over.
My body has been my ally for 64 years, and now its natural ingredients are being replaced with people-made materials of various sorts.
The injections started last night. Because I am on a blood thinner, I have to test my coagulation rate regularly, and when I have surgery or any procedure, I switch from a long acting anti-coagulant, in the form of a daily pill, to short acting injections, good for twelve hours each. That amounts to one shot in the belly, twice a day until the day of surgery.
Brave Robert performs this dastardly deed while I scream, “Haaaaaaaa!” Good old yoga breath. Scares the injector, but is a boon to the injectee.
“Who needs a nurse? The last time we were faced with these injections, we decided that since Robert was such a pro at injecting our goats and sheep, why not moi? Simply substitute “Haaaaa” for “Maaaaa or “Baaaaa!”
4:50 AM • 2 days to go
We just delivered my friend Anne to the airport. She has been a guest for three nights, visiting from Boston - an annual ritual. She played the piano and I sang French songs. We staged a celebrative dinner party, sipped tea on the lawn, watched the Koi kanoodle in the pond, dozed in front of Lord Peter Wimsey and talked of love, life, death and the good old days in Hollywood. We have known each other forever.
I am alone in the house. R. went to the gym. Now there are no more distractions. Nothing between me and the knife. I take that back. I have the sunshine today and the love of my family and friends and words to arrange on the page. I did learn that my dog Mumbles is not supposed to sleep with me the night prior to my surgery and for two weeks thereafter. It’s a germ thing. Everyone is extremely preoccupied with germs and possible infections. I am trying not to get paranoid, but actually considered putting on latex gloves before filling the bird feeders. Quick, anesthetize me before I go completely potty.
No dog in my bed for two whole weeks? (Maybe if he doesn’t get under the sheets, it will be okay.) However, I am allowed to bring my stuffed bear, Belisha. So says the nurse practitioner, Monique. What’s up with that?
Belisha’s nose is orange and squeaks. I can make a real nuisance of myself at the hospital. Just kidding, I am a model patient.
Or will I be? Perhaps I have come into my own enough to act out just a wee bit.
Loose ends to tie up: Mutiny is the winner of the name-the-cane-contest. The art stickers came unstuck, so Mutiny remains naked, but not unabashed. I am not misplacing her as often as I used to. An intensifying pain level has seen to that.
On Tuesday, my friend, Lizbeth, is driving down from Lincoln City to lend a paw. She will be the perfect complement to my recovery. Robert is a hero but can use some help. I adore Lizbeth. She is creative and funny, efficient and just lovingly bossy enough to keep me doing what I need to do and not doing what is forbidden. We laugh together. She is a great cook, lovely to look at and can make a mean cup of tea. So important. Also the dogs are crazy about her; she has endless patience when it comes to the flinging of slobbery tennis balls.
My prevailing current worry is not whether I’ll die under the anesthesia, bleed internally, have a stroke or form a blood clot, but will I be able to defecate after twelve hours of fasting? I am a fish who loves English tea and H2O. I drink tons of water. Monday is going to be a very thirsty day. I won’t even allow myself to consider the impact that anesthesia and heavy-duty pain medication will have on my poor intestinal tract. Just put me under. I don’t want to know.
One more annoyance: I created a new greeting card about miracles and didn’t see the typo before I sent out a dozen copies. Some people turn to chocolate cake when they get anxious, I design a new greeting card. Oh well, in the scheme of things, ça ne fait rien. I’m sure my friends will understand.
Today we head out to the magic medical store cum party shoppe of old and select a raised toilet seat. My heart flutters in anticipation. You’re missing out on all the fun. Try to contain your envy.
Meanwhile, it’s time to feed the fish. Perhaps I will serenade them with a chorus of La Vie en Rose.
Embraces of lovingkindess to all of you loyal readers.
See you again after the event.
Your ever devoted,
Hipster
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