Tomorrow I’m going in for a procedure I didn’t see coming, and wish I didn’t have to do.
It feels like a test somehow, like pushing back against all the anxiety and the resistance to medical attention I saw in my mother. It’s low-risk, but it’s not no-risk, and I’m struggling with it off and on, depending on the hour, minute or day (the middle of the night is the worst).
Additionally, assuming all goes well, I’ll be sidelined for a month or even two. I can’t think of a period of more than a week in my life when I haven’t been involved in some kind of exercise or physical activity. And I worry all the strength is going to drain out of me. It’s messing with the healthy, active image I have of myself.
Anyway, I’ll get out of my head soon, I’m sure. But I’ve got to be honest, there are moments when I’m pretty terrified of the unknown.
In 18 hours I should feel better in ways that count, though worse in ways that are hopefully temporary.
And in three months, I’m hoping I look back at this and scoff: No Big Deal.
Here we go…