Wonderful News

I just spent the morning writing badly about yesterday.  I'm trashing that one, but now I am worn out with it and feel the need for brevity.  And so. . . . 

Yesterday I went back to the surgeon.  Oh. . . I had some descriptive, flowery descriptions that I've now deleted.  I was nervous.  The doc wasn't.  He unwrapped the wound.  I didn't look.  He said it looked great, put some salve on it, and wrapped it back up.  

"You can remove the bandages on Saturday and take a shower.  You don't need to wrap it up again.  Just cover it up with something so the dogs don't lick it.  I'll see you in a week."

What?!  This was great news, except for the part where I have to deal with it on Saturday.  I couldn't believe that I was going to be o.k. to shower then, and I certainly wasn't looking forward to seeing the thing itself.  Still. . . . 

He told me that I shouldn't run or jump or. . . surf.  He had a sense of humor it seemed, for his P.A. had asked me if I was a surfer when they came into the room.  Maybe he was human after all.  

"I had to cut two flaps to fold over to cover it, so I don't want you putting any pressure on it.  Otherwise, you can do normal things."

Jesus--cut two flaps. . . .  I was certain I didn't want to look at it on Saturday.  

Still, I was fairly elated as I crossed the parking lot to the car.  

Home, I decided I needed to start exercising.  Three weeks in chairs and beds and quiet rooms had turned me into a lumpfish, soft and gelatinous.  I got dressed and drove to the gym.  

Oy!  I had what amounted to fetal strength.  The gymroids had spread the word that I was out with some vicious STD but that I was still gay and the prognosis was good, so people had to come tell me.  All the motion after so long, though, was making me dizzy.  I stayed for about half an hour.  I didn't want to do too much.  

A tub bath, lunch, and a nap.  Life as I have known it was returning.  

In the late afternoon, I poured a Campari, and of course, I took a photo to send to my friends with the good news.  

"A Campari and the kabob I’m about to cook.  Coming back to the world."

There is much more to tell, but I told it poorly once and have no confidence I can do it better again, so I'll leave it at that.  As bad as things have seemed, it is all turning out as well as it could, I think.  

And so. . . there it is.  Selavy.