What I Want to Say to the Surgeon

Tomorrow morning at 8:30 I have the pre-op appointment with the surgeon. This is what I'd like to say to him:

"Please take a good look at my cute, little belly. It's a beautiful belly. No folds of fat. No rippling cellulite. It's such a pretty, little belly. Please look at it. See how pretty it is.

"I'm asking you to go easy on it. Mangle it as little as possible. When you're done, I need to be able to look at it and say, 'Yes, some day a man will want to touch my belly, will want to rub it and say how pretty it is.'

"You need to give me some hope, some hope for the possibility, however remote, that I won't be a freak. Can you do that? Can you do that for me, please?"

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I just took some digital photos of my belly, and they aren't as cute as the real thing, so I'm not going to post them.

Make the Pain Go Away

I have been in pain for months. I have told the acupuncturist, the cardiologist, the nephrologist, and probably a few others about this many times. What I've basically been told is that this is the way that it is.

Sometimes it's a dull ache. Sometimes it's discomfort. Sometimes it's like knives going into my belly. Generally I say nothing and go about my business as if nothing is wrong. I smile. I make conversation. I laugh. I engage in polite conversation. Those who know the health challenges I'm facing tell me how good I look, as was the case yesterday with Susie. Or a few days ago with Tom and Daryl. Or a few weeks ago with Rachel and Matt. But I'm feeling lousy.

Today I woke up in pain, and the pain persisted all day without a let-up. It's going on 11 at night, and I've rubbed my entire mid-section with tiger balm, hoping for some relief. I sure wish it would come so that I could sleep. I have a big day ahead of me tomorrow.