If My Body Were A Pop Stand
I just received a call from a nurse who informed me of my surgery date. You know, for that hysterectamathingamajigger, the carninomic cervical snafu.
If all goes according to plan and some schmuck doesn't need emergency lady parts surgery, my laparoscopic uterine extraction will take place at 1:00 p.m. on Tuesday, July 3rd.
And how do I feel? Discombobulated. That seems like the right word, because whenever I hear it I envision a person made of shapes bouncing along on all its parts until its head just bounces out of range. BOOM. Off you go, head. Blow that pop stand. Notice that my head is purple from falling off so often.
My nose is bleeding, but this is completely unrelated.
The second person I told about the surgery date said that the timing was inconvenient. That person has a short time span within which she or he can redeem themselves by saying something supportive like I am here if you need to talk or I think those glasses you are wearing are really keen.
In between the bleeding nose and being a terrible inconvenience, I went for a walk with That Girl. You don't know her. While That Girl and I were walking, my right sandal took a turn for the worse and sort of fell apart from the inside. If you know about how sea cucumbers expel their internal organs when attacked, then you can imagine what the heel of my sandal did. I spent the rest of our walk moving like I had just crawled off a horse. I am going to spend the rest of my day like that, too, because I am meeting a friend that I haven't seen in a year after work and have no time to buy a new pair.
Hello, I am going to say. Since we last saw each other, I have taken to having cancer and walking like a bow-legged cowboy. You?
My poor, purple head. It's lost all focus. Let me go procure myself some truly awful Folgers. And then a package from the post office! And then maybe some shoes that don't have the tendency to self-eviscerate.
Later, I will snuffle drunkenly over some spirituous liquid and snap pictures of my friends while embarrassing myself with lines like Oh, one day you'll look at these and know we were all so young once!, because discombobulation can cause disorderly and inappropriate displays of chronologically misplaced nostalgia.