It’s a Long Way to Tipperary

Okay, it’s time for true confessions.
The craziness that was me the morning of Friday, 21 November 2014.Besides, it might be good to share some coping skills for the next time you’re facing surgery or some other procedure that might not be your first choice.”I hurt.”
This two-word sentence was repeated numerous times.
I think I was trying to tell myself the reason I was there.
It might have also been so that when I came out of the OR I would remember why I agreed to go into it.
Or maybe it was so the people around me would be extra gentle.

“I don’t want to do this.”
This six-word sentence was repeated numerous times as well.
I was working hard to express my feelings out loud since I couldn’t give into them and run out the door.
I might have been hoping somebody would hear and rescue me.

“I don’t want to put my clothes in a plastic bag.”
This sentence was only said a few times at one particular point.
I was expressing my feelings since once again I couldn’t do anything about them.
I didn’t like it that my ‘worldly goods’ were being reduced to a few items in a plastic drawstring bag.
I might have been hoping a smiling somebody would pop up with a velour clutch and help me nestle my clothes neatly inside.

“I wonder how long they’ll wait if I don’t crack the door.”
This sentence was a last ditch effort to avoid the whole thing.
I figured that if I just sat and waited maybe nobody would notice I hadn’t signaled I was dressed in the dreaded johnny coat.
I might have been hoping they would just move on to the next patient and I’d be free to go home – through no fault of my own, of course.

“This has to be the second biggest cultural lie.”
(right after the ‘Agree’ click on the computer)
That’s when they offered me the Consent Form and held out a PEN.
They actually expected me to write my name in ink saying I understood what was going to happen and all the possibilities that might arise AND I gave them permission to do whatever needed to be done.
How sick is that?
WHO could ever read the entire document and comprehend what the words meant while the medical world is swirling around preparing you for the dastardly deed?

Thankfully the medical team realized my humor was part of my coping mechanism.
Before she handed me the pen, Dr. Wiley’s assistant Jenna looked me serious eyeball to serious eyeball and asked if I was prepared to go ahead with the procedure.

In my most confident voice I said, “Yes.”
And the rest, as is said, is history.

You may wonder where the title of this post came from. I’m not exactly sure why the tune popped into my head when we went into that prep room, but it did. Perhaps it’s because I felt as if I were heading off to war and I wasn’t sure what would happen. That’s the title God gave me that day so I held onto it.

No confident walk through Bible verses this week.
No clever points about how to handle a conflict or confusion.
Just the real me in real life.

The only thing I can say about dealing with an upcoming STRESS is
FACE IT.

I can confirm that God was very close to me through my time at Concord Hospital. He’s also with me at home where I’m getting ready to graduate to a cane. How cool is that?

Some of you may wonder how I retained all these details. It’s because my Honey was my scribe. Thanks, Honey.

And as for that above photo? It was taken a couple of years ago as a spoof for a friend’s birthday. Everyone was dressing up like old ladies to make her feel better. Since I couldn’t be there, I sent along a photo of myself in similar costume. Now that I’ve posted it on the internet myself I trust I’ve cancelled all threats to blackmail. Right, Aunt Becky?

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