The Final Countdown

Thanks to the omnipresent Let's Dance IV in our house,  I've had Europe's The Final Countdown blasting in my brain non-stop. That means turning over at night only to have that godforesaken song click on like one of those damn musical birthday cards that screeches the Star Wars theme every time you shuffle it trying to clear off the cluttered table top.

But as I lie here waiting for the Lorazepam to kick in, I'm giggling at that song for all of its schmaltzy lyrics. I'm finally on the final countdown,  damn it. One last surgery starting tomorrow morning. No more anxiety dreams about procedures not being done or bad outcomes. One last time under the knife (I hope ). If I were really out there,  I'd post up photos of the crazy writing all over my body. One boob says "this size" while the other has "fat" to mark the spot that needs a little filing in. Whorls and swirls describe various spaces to consider and different procedures to be done.
The map of my body looks like an aboriginal painting, a naked solstice parader's cloaking for a wild ride through Seattle, like God took a big marker to an ikea easel after eating mushrooms. I'm the prototype Eve on second iteration, VanGogh's starry night traced on his lover's skin with a drunken finger, a Spirograph gone out of its frame.

Damn, this Lorazepam is good.

What I will wake up to tomorrow?  Who really knows. My nurse tells me it will take months for my body to completely heal. No yoga for four weeks,  swelling for long after. This is not the body you are looking for all filed with fluid to make it all work.

But it's the last of these. And while I'll be grateful that is over, I'm so much more grateful for the chance to be made this whole again.

So wish me dreams of starry skies and warm embraces and my surgeon a steady hand tomorrow.

Love to you all.