I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s surgery, with apprehension of course, but also with hope. This has not been a pleasant month, having blood drawn weekly and suffering from some rather unpleasant side effects of hormone therapy, but I’ve been fighting hard to make sure I’m ready for surgery tomorrow.
Despite the blood contributions and multiple doctor appointments, I have still managed to keep walking three to five miles a day for four to five days a week. My red blood cell count remained high despite warnings that giving blood weekly could lead to anemia. I’ve generally kept my spirits up, despite having to banish Leslie to her daughter’s house for the last five days after she was exposed to, and came down with, the stomach flu. I even managed one of my longer walks today.
On the other hand, I’m not so stupid that I’m not worried about the surgery. Any surgery that requires three to five hours and three to five days in the hospital is nothing to take lightly. Still, I’m younger and stronger than most who have to undergo it, so the odds should be with me.
I’m also apprehensive about the three to four week recovery period when I’ll have tubes sticking out of me. I’m not a good patient. Like Santiago in Old Man and the Sea, I take sickness as a personal failure. Not to mention, the long-term effects of the surgery and whether or not they’ll discover the cancer has spread beyond the prostate.
That said, I realize Skye needs me. Without me not only would he miss his daily walks, but if he keeps charging the fence and tracking mud throughout the house I’m the only thing standing between him and a return to the pound. Most of all, I worry about my beloved Gavin who worries far too much about his Pahtah and the fact that I keep trying to die. I’m not even letting him know I’m going to the hospital. No kid should have to think about death, and I’m determined to stay alive long enough that he will be ready to accept what I already accept, that you only live as long as you live, not a day longer. In the end that’s good enough for me. I’ll be more than happy if I manage to continue to stay alive as long as I’m living.
I’ve asked Leslie to post a comment on the site letting friends know how the surgery went. I’ve made it as simple as possible, but don’t automatically assume that I’ve died if you don’t hear anything until some time next week. Leslie’s NOT an internet person, and I’m sure she’ll have other things on her mind, including how crazed Skye becomes when he’s left home alone all day.
Finally, I’m closing comments later tonight because I don’t want to come home to a shit load of spam Sunday, Monday, or, Tuesday. I’m not sure my heart could take that.