Now, lookit...

(You have to hear either my sister Jennifer or me say that title out loud, our mom used to start off everything warning and/or scolding with that. When she said it, she meant business.)

I just got back from the hospital for my pre-admission appointment. For the two or three people on the face of the planet that don't know, my screwed up ankle is being fused in a couple of weeks. That means Bone Doctor is removing my destroyed osteoarthritic ankle joint and replacing it with big screws and forcing all the bone to grow together. That results in a foot that has no range of motion and is permanently in a fixed position. Basically, I will always be physically ready to kick your ass.

Anyhow, they get all of the basics out of the way before the actual day, which is a good since I don't think I'll feel like doing this at my 6 a.m. surgery call on the actual day. Everything went swimmingly, got my vitals taken (their scale reads heavy, by the way.) and I was assured that my heart would not explode during surgery. That's always good to know. Very comforting.

Yes, everything was dandy except for the chat I had with Dr. Anesthesiologist. Second day on the job and there was a language barrier, but whatevs, I have complete faith in his abilities and he's very friendly. He wouldn't say anything that would throw me into a panic, right? Hmmm....

We were completely cool until he told me that they're going to do an epidural and a local anesthetic so I would actually be AWAKE during the surgery.

HAHAHAHAHHA, I said. NO.

I made him very aware that I do not want to hear, see or smell anything happening in that room that day. Mama said knock me out. Seriously. I woke up halfway through getting my wisdom teeth out and it scarred me for life.

He made a note that I can tell the sleep doctor that I want a general anesthetic on the day, and I can tell you, I will tell everyone I talk to that day that "MAMA SAID KNOCK ME OUT." I will dress up like LL Cool J if I have to in order to get my point across.

The promise of headphones and Propofol does not make me feel better. Give me the gas and tell me to count backwards from 100. Guaranteed I'll punk out at 96. I don't want to hear the conversations being had and bone doctor telling someone to pass him the mallet. I don't need to hear the bone drill and I CERTAINLY don't want to hear any part of me thunking onto any sort of tray so that it can be admired outside of my body.

My freak-out level has been elevated, I would suggest you all build some sort of rock solid shelter you can go hide in, because I'm 2 1/2 weeks away from the orthopedic shitshow and it's just gonna get worse leading up to the fusion bomb detonation.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

xo
LB