Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Time to Go

(The next few entries are back-dated because I had only time and means to write them in my head and am now putting them down here).

It's the morning of my surgery, and I'm having a mild serious panic attack.  Freaking out.  My aunt just called to tell me she will be here in half an hour to pick me up.  But I haven't finished my laundry.  My kitchen floor is filthy.  My house is not nearly in order.  My sister demanded last night that I give up trying to finish the bullshit tasks and just relax. "Get some sleep," she said.  "You want to be rested for this."  And so I tried.

But I didn't.  I tossed and turned, keeping one eye on the clock.  How many more hours?  Maybe I should get up and do some more laundry.  Shit.  The tub is dirty, too.  All kinds of thoughts raced through my head quicker than the protein shakes had been running through my body.  Absolute craziness, and still a nagging feeling that this wasn't at all real, that it wasn't actually going to happen, that I would get to the hospital and they'd tell me there had been an error and I wasn't having the surgery after all.  But this is ridiculous.  Of course it's happening. 

My bag is packed with a pair of comfortable pajamas, my toothbrush, and a robe.  My pillow, which I am told is a necessity to relieve pain on the ride home, is tucked neatly inside the loop of my bag's handle.  I'm showered, dressed in the trusty black cotton skirt, a loose-fitting t-shirt, and a hoodie.

I say goodbye to my cats and my rats, promise them I'll be home tomorrow, and walk out the front door, locking it behind me.  I stand on the porch with my little polka-dot overnight bag and watch my breath curl into the early morning air. Within two minutes the headlights of my aunt's car appear at the top of my street and my heart leaps up into my throat.

It's time.

I'm ready.

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