Well I have my date for surgery. I go into hospital on the 27th (that’s Monday). If all goes well I’ll be going into surgery on Tuseday morning.
I should be rejoicing but actually there’s a part of me that’s convinced that I’m going to die. Not that this means anything. I’m like this every time I have to fly and both times I was pregnant.
I suppose what I’m really scared of is the certainty of change. Which sounds odd since the only certainty in life is change. But there are some changes that are more than superficial. To some extent I did die in labour. The me that existed before I had children no longer exists. I am a new version of myself. After the surgery I will again be a different person. I’m not sure that anyone else will notice the difference but I will.
Part of me fears this change so much that I’ve been looking for excuses not to go ahead with the surgery. And that is madness. There isn’t really any other choice. Well there is but they’re no sort of choices at all. If I want to get my children back or my fibromyalgia to get better or do anything truly useful with my life then I need to have the surgery. And if I die on the table then some might say my children will have a lucky escape. I might even agree with them.
But of course the chances of me actually dying are very low. The team opperating are all specialists and in the last year I’ve been loosing weight and I’ve been sticking to the pre-op diet. Also I have no heart problems and strong lungs. Now why doesn’t any of that sound convincing to me.