The Broken Soldier

My surgery is this Thursday.  They are going through my side.  I’m nervous.

In talking with “Doc Grue,” I’m feeling a bit better about things, but not much better.  The injuries are a bit worse than I had understood them to be - extrusion rather than protrusion, for example, but the methods of fixing them - fusion, for example, have slightly better success rates than the lit review led me to believe.  We’ll see.

Though remote, there is a chance I could die on the table or from complications.  This past week I’ve devoted a lot of time to tying up loose ends.  Big things like finishing up the editing and rewriting on my buddy’s book, to much smaller matters like arranging to have the grass cut, straightening up the house, and changing the oil in our car.  Still haven’t performed the uncomfortable, not quite perfunctory but close, “I love you guys” discussion with my family and friends.  I think they know.  Well, they should know at least.

This is likely to be the last post for a little while.  Meaning I’ll have to do without the minor ego-boost I get from weekly Google Analytics.  If you don’t hear from me again, I’ll be on the express bus to Purgatory to start my infinity x infinity term.  I imagine it as me sitting in the middle of an Al Franken and Rush Limbaugh discussion.  Both clinging to their political affiliations’ talking points rather than addressing the real matters they’re discussing.  Enya bumping in the background, loud enough to annoy, but not loud enough to drown out the discussion.  Toll-house demons stuffing mushrooms and Maxwell House coffee in my mouth and commenting on how much weight I’ve gained.  Actually, that sounds more like Hell.  Hopefully getting the ethereal zip code wrong isn’t part of the re-worked Deadly Sins.