Going under the knife

Back in August, I was diagnosed as having a direct inguinal hernia. While not particularly serious (right now), it is periodically uncomfortable — especially with a groin-level child who doesn’t realise that hitting in the groin area can be painful with such an affliction (let alone the hits to the family jewels).

I was told at the time that it could "take a year" until I could get it fixed, but if I was willing to do things more ad hoc, they’d put me on a call list. On the call list I went ... and I waited. I finally got called about a month ago, which put me in surgery on 17 March — the day before Choo Choo’s 1st birthday. Recovering from surgery on such an important day was simply something I wasn’t willing to do, so I passed. Last week, they called again.

On 15 April, I’ll get to experience surgery for the first time, ever. And I gotta tell ya, I’m more than a bit apprehensive.

Yeah, okay, call me a "pansy" if you have to (Alex has several times, already; she can back that up with vast amounts of personal experience), but I’m not particularly thrilled with the prospect of surgery. Yes, I want to have surgery — I really don’t want this damn hernia anymore — but I’m also mildly afraid of it.

It’s the anesthetic, really. Sure, you can look at it as "insta-sleep" (and there’s certainly an appealing part to that). It’s not the passing out part that I’m worried about — it’s the waking up again. I’ve known people who ... well, didn’t.

It’s one of those moments when you realise that you’re not truly invulnerable anymore, and you’re facing potential mortality in a way you hadn’t previously thought about in any great quantity. And by "you", I do of course mean "myself".

So, one week. It’s a day surgery, so I’ll be home that night. But I won’t be able to do much at first, and I can’t pick up my kids for at least two weeks, and as much as a month (I believe). We shall see, I guess.


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