Courtesy of the thoughtfully-filled, individualised goody bags at the MAD awards (about which I never got around to telling you: I didn’t win, Shannon didn’t win, we fell in love with Bumbling and held her captive in our bedroom drinking until the wee hours, The Hiccupy End) I am now the proud owner of a Phillips epilator – an item that essentially contravenes the contractual terms of this blog.
It has sat upstairs, unused, since September, given that we’re not too bothered by fur at Hairy Towers, and also not too big on extraneous pain. I have very dark, thick (or, as John once called it, ‘coarse’. He was referring to strand diameter as opposed to texture, and still struggles to comprehend my mortal taking-of-umbrage) hair; plenty of it, too. In all the usual… locations.
It’s generally all Live And Let Live vis-à-vis furry pelts around here, but my pelt is coming under operating-theatre scrutiny tomorrow morning, and I felt it incumbent on me to tidy things up a little.
I managed to muffle my screams, as I am a Big Girl, but I’m a bit… ouchy. I also have a bright red aureole of newly-plucked, angry skin surrounding what, for the purposes of this communication, we will call my undercarriage. It’s my own fault: I put it off all weekend and the slash and burn agriculture effect hasn’t had time to wear off. I have no aloe vera, but there IS snow on the ground outside, so perhaps I should perch my bum on the car bonnet, as it has refused to start this evening – or initially, to even open its doors – due to the cold snap, and we’re due to leave here at 6.50am.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t
vaguely troubled, a little concerned, mildly mithered, faintly fretful, ahh, who’m I kidding? I’m shitting bricks. The top five things I would like not to happen are as follows:
1) Have heart attack on table.
2) Be woken up to be told am borked beyond repair, and there will be No More Babies.
3) Be sent home for still being too fat.
4) Post-operative nausea.
5) Shoulder pain.
Number 1 is, I’m reassured, pretty unlikely. I have a healthy heart, albeit a benignly arrhythmic one. My reason for dwelling on it is that I had a couple of unprecedented upsurges of premature beats a couple of days back, which I couldn’t attribute to hormones, although stress and caffeine may have been factors. Suddenly going from 40-odd cardiac misfires a month to 80+ an hour was… unpleasant. Worrying. Terrifying, actually. I found I could face the prospect of my own mortality reasonably calmly when it got right down to it, but the thought of not being there for Harry has become a dark subliminal disquiet, if the fact that I’ve caught myself gazing at him, trying to etch his features a little further into my mind, is any clue. And I am choosing to stop this paragraph here, because that way madness lies.
Number 2. I dunno what the odds are on Number 2. I’m thinking: fair. And I do not want to wake up without choices.
Number 3. Well, I have nothing but shrugged shoulders and a shamed expression for you here. I am a round 14 stone on my bathroom scales, which are 3-4lb kinder than many. I was told to get to at least 13st 12oz. Got there. Lost motivation. Went away again. I can pinpoint the moment when I stopped caring: I was curled up on the bed, drugged to the legal max, and wondering if my uteri were actually imploding, and if so, if going in there myself with a carving knife might help. I became Angry, and I decided that exploratory surgery was no longer a frivolity, an elective survey of reproductive damage and capability that I should be in decent shape for, but something that desperately needed to happen, and soon, and that I shouldn’t have to jump through fucking hoops to have it. I decided that the increasing severity of my pain entitled me to be bloody well fat if I wanted to be.
I am embarrassed at the fundamental illogicality of this thought process, given that an obese patient is a more at-risk patient – and see 1) above – but there you are. They (‘they’ are two excellent physicians, btw, one of them Exceedingly Senior and a particularly talented minimal-access gynae surgeon) might well decide that my ample fat-padding is not conducive to laparoscopy.
Number 4. I’ve been under general anaesthesia a number of times, but never for as long as I expect to be out cold for tomorrow, and I abhore – really, really hate – feeling sick. The thought of actually vomiting with a (I assume) really rather tender belly is worrisome, and I shall be bleating specifically for anti-nausea drugs if possible.
Number 5, I hope may not happen. I’m not too concerned about actual abdominal pain, per se – I feel I own every available t-shirt and could write the proverbial Belly Pain book if pressed – but I am wary of encountering any new enemies.
So. That’s where I am. Nervous Nelly, with a soupçon of Extra Added Terror. If you have any nice, cardiac-strengthening thoughts going spare tomorrow – and despite the nil-by-mouth 7.30am roll-call 30 miles away, I have no idea what time of actual day they might be useful – do please send them my way.
I’m always asking you for things.