The Living Donor Lady got a nasty shock when she phoned me on my mobile this lunchtime; my microwave beeped at her.
Would you like to move the operation to an earlier date?
Um … I nervously laughed and stuttered something about being psychologically ready for the eighteenth of October. She laughed back and told me she knew I’d say that, but she had to offer us the opportunity anyway. Apparently there’s the option of having it done in September, the same day as another couple go for it, but the likelihood of it being cancelled at the last minute for cadaveric transplant is quite high. If that happened it would just get put back to the eighteenth of October again.
I rang Blokey afterwards to make sure I’d made the right decision by not taking the offer. He was happy.
Obviously it would be brilliant to get it out of the way a month earlier than expected. But I don’t think I’ll be ready for it. I realise that may sound completely and utterly ridiculous, but my mind and body are tuned into a certain date and by moving the goalposts now I’ll feel bewildered and fluttery. I feel fluttery just thinking about it.
Have we made the right decision?
There’s too much to think about … the cats need to go into a cattery, I have my kidneykake on order for a specific date, everybody else is tuned into the eighteenth of October too, we’re booked to take my MiL to Belgium for her ciggy-rettes just after the newly-offered date …
And to be blunt, I just don’t want it done earlier, perhaps selfishly.
Dora is sitting on my desk watching my fingers as they move quickly over the keyboard. This is amusing me, and making me think of Wilfred (the dog, in Wilfred) and the laser.
I’m suddenly nervous.
Last night I had a dream; it was (unexpectedly) the day of the operation and I wasn’t ready at all. More to the point, I hadn’t tidied up my bikini area. Is this becoming a recurrent theme in this blog? The idea of having (highly trained, seen it all before) nurses poking around down there must be subconsciously affecting me. It’s this whole catheter business. It’s the only aspect of the whole shebangles which makes me shudder on a daily basis. Cut me open? Fill me with anaesthetic? Hospital food? Boredom? Miniscule likelihood of death or other major complication?