Preop Jitters

So, I had my preop visit today. Surgery scheduled for the crack of dawn on Friday. I wasn’t too terribly nervous about it until they handed me the sheaf of paper to sign with all the possible complications, and then when I asked the doctor about how long recovery was going to take and he said 3 months, I almost fell off the chair.

Bugger. 3 months? Bugger! So, it’ll be a couple of days of ice and keeping it elevated, 2-4 weeks on crutches, another 4 weeks in the walking boot and cane, and then rehab for a month before I’ll be walking around without prosthetics. Man. I mean, on the upside, it’ll be over in time for sandal weather, but on the downside, WTF mate? Could someone have warned me about that before I forked over the comma worth of copay?

I mean, I guess my other option is to just continue to be in pain for the rest of my life, but there’s no guarantee that breaking a bunch of bones and putting metal screws all over the place is likely to feel good, either. (I keep telling medical people to not tell me what they’re going to do. If I don’t know, I’m happier. Tell me about snapping bones like twigs and stuffing me full of metal accessories and I get a little wiggy.)

Bugger, bugger, bugger. Now I don’t want to do it. I’ll just wear ugly shoes forever. They make drugs that dull pain. I’ll take up crack or something. At least crack has the upside of dramatic weight loss. (Of course it makes your hair look awful, and we all know I’m a freak about my hair.) Three months? What. The. Hell.

I think I need a xanax. And a new body. I need a brain transplant into a healthy 20 year old Brazilian supermodel please. (Because in my mind I’m tall and thin and devastating beautiful, that’s why. Also, Brazilian = the hawt, and it’s my understanding that they come prewaxed, so that’s a time saver.)

Bugger.

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