Today at Oh-God-Thirty, I am off to be anesthesia-d and sinus surgeried. I have avoided looking up anything whatsoever, so I don't even know what the hell they're going to do. (You may find this entirely uncharacteristic. It is.) I more or less trust the doctor/surgeon fellow (a friend's husband). Also I have worked my way down the entire list in my favorite long boring review of 'what to do in case of sinusitis' (antihistamines, check; nasal steroids, check; immune modifiers, check; lots and lots of antibiotics, check; CT scan showing total blockage of one sinus, CHECK). I have also had a stabbing sensation in my cheekbone and ear for FIVE months. Someone, please make it stop.
I have made elaborate arrangements for other people to take care of my children so that Dr. S can drive back and forth in a highly boring fashion. I have, hopefully, prepared a couple meals in advance for everyone. (Dr. S can cook quite well, but is not fantastically talented at cooking with a background chorus of screaming children.)
So, until the narcotics, sedatives, and/or benzodiazepenes wear off, you can probably assume that I'm not dead yet, but I may be wishing for it.
(P.S. These past 12 months are getting marked in my mental calendar as "The Year My Immune System Got Fucked The Hell Up.")
Update: I aten't dead. But I think I need to go take some more narcotics now. I don't feel NEARLY high enough.
(I would also like to add that I had to repeat the childcare logistics to Dr. S not once, not twice, but SIX times. Especially impressive as his part amounted to: 1) take me to surgery; 2) drop off the kids at home; 3) get me from surgery; 4) be home at 2:30. The End, Everything Else Is Arranged. I'm very fond of him, but some days I wonder if I should tape notes to his forehead.)