Brigid breaks it down with bacon. I don't eat a lot of real bacon, so I'm pretending it's turkey bacon.
What xkcd said.
I'm almost to the end of year four without incident, myself. Different body part; same emotions. There were no signs of metastatis at the time of treatment, so the chances are really good I'll stay in that far left lane for the rest of my life, just like 7 out of 8 people on this planet.
Most days it takes something like this to make me think about it. I've gotten used to seeing the scars on my stomach, the way you get used to a tattoo or a mole. After a while they stop meaning "something happened" and start being something that just is.
The positives: Each day is a gift, and all that blabbity blab. We're having pizza for lunch at work. Right now, that's good enough for me.
The Hard Day’s Luck slipped into the dock without a ripple, stealthy, practiced and without fuss. The wake of a passing barge caught the stern at the last second, and the prow bumped up against the wooden pier. “Dangit,” Harvey muttered, and cut the engine. “Kid, get up here and tie us off, wouldja?”
Tucker was aft, stripping paint. He placed the scraper carefully on the sun-heated deck and got to his feet, passed Harvey without a word and climbed out, rope in hand. Harvey leaned on the wheel and watched him tie the knot, then stand back and smile a little when it held. “Toldja you’d get the hang of it,” Harvey called. Tucker averted his eyes and hurried back to his scraping.
“Harvey Fischer, what’re you doin’ up here?” The question, loud and teasing, brought him up short. It came from the pier, from a young woman with red hair, broad hips and a broader smile. She jumped down into the boat. “Last I heard, you were in NOLA.”
(Video features Doctor Barber from "The Marvelous Misadventures of Flapjack".)
So, this past Wednesday, I went and saw my doctor and we discussed what he plans to do based on the MRI taken a week ago. So far, he wants to use a scope to investigate the inside of the ankle; clean out any torn tissue or bone chips; and repair the talo-fibular tendon (same as they did on the right ankle). He might also repair the tendon that wraps around the ankle bone and runs up into the leg, although he might have to take part of that tendon to repair the talo-fibular tendon, and I don't remember much of the rest of the discussion because I kind of tuned out and went to my happy place after he said that. (My happy place is awesome. It has robots and ponies, and also cake.)
I do remember that he wants me off the ankle for four weeks instead of two, like last time, which means I will probably be off work for a solid month. (It's not just avoiding weight and pressure, it's also keeping it elevated to prevent swelling.) I'll be having the procedure at a different hospital than the last one, but it'll be closer to home so that's a plus. Right now I'm waiting for them to call so we can set up the actual surgery date. Yay for limbo! All that's left now is to gradually stock up on comfort foods, get a copy of TV Guide and some light reading, and make my apartment crutch-accessible. Whooooo-hoo-hoo-hoo. Ah heh. Heh. Heh.
Still don't wanna. :-P
Tomorrow after work, I go in for an MRI on my left ankle. I will then discuss said MRI results with my physician, who will decide just how much slicing and dicing I need. In step-one-step-two terms, it's pretty much the same thing I did last year. In how-does-that-make-you-feel terms, it's completely different. For one thing, I already know just how badly this experience is going to suck, and what a pain in my increasingly toned ass (I've been walking!) it's going to be. I also know that there's a good chance this will be a more invasive surgery, requiring longer to heal and to recover from. (It also might not, but that thought never seems to help much.) I also know that it's a choice between a few weeks/months of suckage now, and constant pain and inconvenience later in life, but again, that thought doesn't help much. The plain fact is that I don't want to do this. I will, because it's the correct course of action and if I put it off, well, I'm just putting it off. But it's not fun and I'm not looking forward to it. PLUS they goofed scheduling the MRI, so I've already had to reschedule a couple things for later than I was hoping for. The one good spot is that another thing shifted, schedule-wise, freeing up the actual date I hoped to use for the surgery. We'll see if I get it. Meantime, I'm grouchy and caught in a full-blown case of the pouts, and it probably won't improve until after, when I get the "hooray I'm back on my feet" rush.
If this goes well and I treat my feet right, I may never again (barring incident) have to use crutches.
Still don't wanna.