Before getting to my regular post, I’d like to thank everyone who voted for WOLF IN THE NIGHT in AllRomance.com’s ‘Just One Bite’ contest. Your support means everything to me! I truly appreciate it! Now, on with the new!
Think everyone knows I’m having knee replacement surgery this Tuesday. I appreciate all the sympathetic noises and good wishes extended, because I’m having trouble pumping myself up to get this thing done.
Yes, I can’t get past my psychotic connection. That’s what Hubby calls it anyway. My hunches are usually eerily correct, and that’s what bothers me. Every time I’ve ignored one, I regretted it.
A little backstory justifies my qualms. The LAST time I had the knee replaced I nearly died. As in talking to dead relatives chasing me back to the here-and-now. Scariest thing I’ve ever experienced. And recovery was a bi-otch. A vicious one. She didn’t just visit; she freakin’ moved in for months.
So when it was determined that replacement failed, and the only recourse to have another put in, I started getting nervous. But I stepped into my big girl panties and scheduled surgery. It’s what has happened since then that’s been the problem.
Okay, in defense of my nervousness, last time they ended up attaching the eighth pint of blood to the IV. I’m sure that’s the source of this obstinate little doubt that keeps pecking at the back of my psyche, warning me to put this off. Rationally, I know my reluctance is simply a leftover from the horrors of the previous surgery; one that resulted in a second emergency surgery on the third day of recovery. Emergency enough they wouldn’t wait the ten minutes for Hubby to drive back to the hospital before they started. He had nightmares for months I was lost in the hospital and he couldn’t find me, all because he didn’t get to tell me he loved me before I went under. Gotta love a man like that.
The new Doc assured me he’d keep a close eye on me and wouldn’t let me bleed out. Or put the knee in incorrectly like this one. And be sure ALL the tendons were attached this time. I truly have confidence in this young man, but other things keep popping up that have me gritting my teeth. And they all play to my psychotic connection.
Example? Hubby had surgery a few weeks ago. We were teasing each other about taking turns being gimped up and my nervousness over my own surgery while waiting to register him at the hospital. Swear by all that’s holy he’d just remarked, “You’re going to be fine. You’ll come through surgery with flying colors.” The office person pushed the paperwork to him to sign. He got a funny look on his face, covered a section with his hand and said, “Don’t look!”
Of course I yanked his hand away. How was he listed on the paperwork? SINGLE! Cue Twilight Zone music. (Peck, peck.)
Originally I was supposed to have surgery the 5th, and it was postponed until the 12. Only I’m getting conflicting calls over the dates; nurses and personnel seem to have me scheduled for both dates! So am I being doubly taken care of? Or am I so anonymous they can’t differentiate between the Oct. 5th and Oct. 12th me? Of course my imagination took off. I’m dreaming I’ll get there the 12th and no extra preparations will be made and I’ll croak for sure this time. (Peck, peck, peck.) My heels really started digging in.
I took the final step of pre-registering at the hospital for my surgery despite my misgivings. Everyone gets a number to see the pre-op nurse. What number did they hand me? 13! I have to admit 13 is usually lucky for me. But there’s alway a first time, and tradition usually trumps the rare occasion. (Says my doubting psyche. Pecka-pecka-peck.)
I seemed to have been lost in the system on top of getting ‘that’ number. My appointment was for 10:30. At six minutes to one I was past fidgety. Was this another sign I needed to walk away from this? That doubt had ratcheted up to jackhammer proportion by now. Never should have worn the denim jacket. Hubby can keep too tight a grip on the back of the collar under my hair.
Hubby insists it’s any possible bad luck being brought out into the open for me to face and dispose of so it can’t touch me during actual surgery. Nyeh. I’m not convinced.
So . . . What do y’all think? Should I make a run for it?