Survival Skills

I had a letter from my orthopedic surgeon’s office waiting for me Friday when I got home from work: my final instructions for surgery. It reiterated the ban on any food or drink after the midnight before the procedure, told me to call the evening before to get an exact arrival time and told me to quit taking any blooding-thinning medication. Those include just about every over-the-counter pain reliever available.

A couple of months ago, the surgeon asked me if I needed narcotics. I told him that whether or not I needed was immaterial. I didn’t want them. That I needed to function, and I’d like to explore other options first. That option was huge doses of naproxin and aceteminophen. It didn’t totally get rid of the pain, but it was better than nothing.

I don’t have even that any more. The irony is that I didn’t know the pills I was taking were doing anything. Now that I don’t have them, I hurt all over. I would kill for a Tylenol or a Motrin or a naproxin right now, but I can’t take any. Doing so would jeopardize the surgery.

The only good side of this whole experience has been that I’ve found out who is really my friend. The real ones are reaching out and trying to help me in any way they can. Some times, simply being able to tell someone that I’m scared is enough.

And I am scared. I haven’t had surgery since my tonsils and adenoids came out when I was 5. I have no idea what to expect or how I’m going to take care of myself afterward. I know I’m going to be incapacitated, but I don’t know to what degree.

By the same token, I don’t want too many people interfering with my life. Anyone fussing over me too much will drive me up the wall. My mother will almost certainly approach that boundary. That’s how she is.

She wants to be here, and I’m starting to think that she might have the right idea. But that’s not possible. So I’ll work around it.

I’m not used to asking for help, and I’m even worse about accepting it. I’m a typical man who thinks he can conquer the world and get by on his own. But I can’t this time.

Storms scare me, always. I’ve known since I was a teenager to go the bed before one hits. Otherwise, I’ll be up until it passes. The wind and rain and thunder and lightning turn me into a child needing reassurance that the world isn’t ending.

This is a different storm, but it scares me in the same ways. Once they put me under, I have no control of anything. I don’t like that. That alone scares me.

I’m putting on a brave face for most people, but that’s all it is: a face. It’s a mask that tries to hide my fear. It works better at some times than others.

But I will man-up and face my fear. Head on. Take no prisoners. Do what I need to and go on with my life.

Somewhere, Donna Summer is either singing for me or should be. Because I’ll survive. I will survive. I’ve got all my life to live and all my love to give, and I’ll survive. I will survive.

I’ll either survive or wallow in self-pity, and I have no inention of doing the latter. I’m surviving.