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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