There are certain things/procedures I swore I would never voluntarily choose to undergo and this one definitely tops the list. Things happen though. Time has a way of passing us by in a flash until all we are left with are memories of youthful days gone by. Days when little to no maintenance was required to simply just be. Like many ignorant souls before me, I took that for granted. I now have to pay the price. As I sit her typing this very sentence, I reflect on my decision to move forward and examine the process that led to my current state of swollenness and regret, accompanied only by a lingering and diffuse pain so widely disproportionate to the site specific problem area that nothing in the world makes sense to me anymore.
Call it a sixth sense or whatever, but I had a feeling going into it that it would be bad. Who comes up with this stuff anyway? Regardless, I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t the kid with baby soft skin and three pimples playing dress-up in a white coat and the cascade of emotions that immediately followed our introduction. He couldn’t possibly be ready for something like this! Someone else was surely coming in. Where was his mother? Why was he asking me to verify my birthday? That’s none of his damn business. It’s Tuesday. He should be in school!
Then it hit me, like 41 bolts of lightning into the chair I was reclined and lying defenseless in below. No one else was coming. Furthermore, that overly confident toddler over there sharpening his tools was my surgeon and I am old enough to be his mother. In one fell swoop, the world as I knew it and my place within it seemed implausible and foreign. Newsflash granny! He’s not young. You’re old. Not old old, but old enough to now require routine procedures performed by a kid half your age designed to fix problem areas that have simply worn out because of the aging process alone. Ugh.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I go above and beyond with daily routine practice to specifically avoid shit like this. Furthermore, I refuse to be the exception to the rule unless it involves lottery tickets or extended family gatherings. Here’s a random idea! Why don’t we all take turns side swiping each other with one of grandma’s old cast iron frying pans. You know, the ones you can’t even buy anymore without some sort of special permit because they double as weapons. At least in that scenario I’d have an outside mark to account for my pain. It’s definitely a stretch, but maybe in that instance if I were to desperately plead to my children to refrain from behavior that would require me to raise my voice because mommy’s face hurts so unbelievably bad when she speaks they would actually listen to me because well, I would have a visible welt and maybe (God willing) a gaping wound to show for it and not just be standing there like an idiot with a bruised ego and face that could double as half a chipmunk.
It hurts to talk. The involved postoperative tissue stretches out when I open my mouth, even just a little bit, and this is very uncomfortable. Furthermore, the intensity of discomfort directly correlates to my voice volume. I explained this to them in no uncertain terms. I just don’t want to yell. Is that too much to ask? In the whole scheme of life, I don’t think so. The only expectation is to behave in a manner that doesn’t warrant yelling from an outside party. They don’t have to be perfect. I am capable of restraint and gentle reminders. I am not a monster. But repeated poor behavior at some point leads to yelling. It’s simple math. Do they like it when I yell? Do they want to be the direct cause of my pain? Why can’t they exist in the same space for five minutes without an on-call crisis intervention unit awaiting in the wings? It’s not that they don’t care about me. They are not monsters. They just don’t all care about me at the same time. With three of them, this leaves room for multiple scenarios of non-caring and poor judgment and thus more yelling.
I really shouldn’t be taking this out on them. They are not programmed to give a shit yet about much of anything besides their own immediate gratification and/or whose turn it is to pick out the next new box of band aids. I get it. Someday their concern for my well-being will be sincere. They will ask me how my day was and genuinely care that I found it quite bothersome that the man-child who I swear was playing the clarinet at my daughter’s middle school band concert last week just performed minor senior citizen surgery on me like a goddamn champ. He was so professional and caring and only a tiny bit condescending…
“Are you sure you still feel that? It’s unusual to still feel it at this point.”
And I was like, “Yep. That’s why I jumped off the table just there.”
And he was like, “Oh I’m so sorry, do you need a break? Maybe we should reschedule?”
And I was like, “I’ve had 3 kids okay? One almost without an epidural.”
And he was like, “Okay, well, uh, are you sure ma’am? I haven’t had to do this in a while.”
And I was like, “You’re ten years old.”
And then I was like, “O.M.G. He thinks I’m a fragile old person!”
And he was like, “You’re doing a great job.”
And I was like, “I’m so proud of you.”
Extreme pain and shock kicked in shortly thereafter.
There will definitely be a bill. I was also promised a crown in a couple of weeks for good behavior. My kids will be so jealous.
Geriatric or not, I’m going to be a queen. Nothing else matters.