Waiting

Pippin: "It's so quiet."

Gandalf: "It's the deep breath before the plunge."

Pippin: "I don't want to be in a battle, but waiting on the edge of one I can't escape is even worse!"

Here I am, at this moment that is all too familiar. Tomorrow afternoon I will be having yet another surgery to try to fix my leg. Another attempt. But right now I am just waiting. Just waiting... saying it like that makes it seem like nothing is happening at all, but that's not true.

I've known with certainty that this surgery would be happening since last September when I sat in the fracture clinic signing the consent form. Since then, I've had five months of waiting, and I can tell you that more than nothing is happening.

The first months went by as if, indeed, nothing were happening. You tell your friends and family; you make sure not to book anything too major or too far in advance; maybe you do a couple special things to treat yourself, thinking "Hey, I'm having surgery so I should be kind to myself. I deserve it!" As time goes by you slowly start preparing yourself for the big event but, for the most part, life goes on as usual. Time goes by at its regular speed.

Then you get a letter or a call from the hospital informing you exactly when the big event will be. At that point, the inevitable surgery becomes a bit more real; not just an afterthought or a vague point in the future that you think about occasionally as you get on with your daily life. All of a sudden, you have to start making preparations - you have to e-mail your boss or manager to request time off work; there is blood work to be done and there are pre-op appointments to attend; maybe you need to buy some medical equipment or rearrange parts of your house for ease of access during the recovery period after surgery; perhaps you clean your home so it's lovely and fresh while you recover (I do before every surgery); you plan some meals that are easy to make when you are in pain and/or bed bound. At this stage, time slips through your fingers. You'd give anything for it to slow down so you could avoid the inevitable surgery. It's going to hurt. You're going to be uncomfortable. The comfortable routine you've established in your life if going to be disrupted with both uncertainty and a mountain of boredom as you recover and wait to resume your usual routine. If only you could avoid it altogether.

And then it's nearly there - you're facing the last few days or hours until it happens. Now time is slow. I think Pippin is right - if something it inevitable, it's not the thing itself that is hardest to face, but the inescapable moments or days beforehand. When all you can do is watch it coming, looming over you. But it hasn't fully engulfed you yet. You're either as prepared or unprepared as you're going to be. Either way, it's going to happen. It's not quite there yet, but you're too close to be able to think about anything else. All you can think is "It's going to happen..." but the point is that it hasn't happened and that leaves you with what feels like all the time in the world to think about it and worry. You'd give anything to just hurry up and get it over with.

It's at that moment where I am right now - waiting; waiting and knowing what's going to happen next but not quite there yet. There is so much happening. So much anticipation. But also hesitation. Worry. Both hope and fear. All bundled into one buzzing, restless, living thing inside of me. The surgery itself is the easy part. I get put under general anesthesia and my surgeon does all the work. It's getting myself to walk into the operating room, willing myself to let it happen, that is the hard part. Both knowing and not knowing what's going to happen. Knowing what happens when you go in for surgery: patient registration, going up to same day surgery to be prepared for the operating room, what happens to you when you enter the operating room, waking up in the recovery room, being transferred to an inpatient ward. I've done it all nine times before. I know what will happen. But then there's the not knowing: Will the surgery be successful? Will the surgeon find anything unexpected? Just exactly how badly is it going to hurt? How long will it be before I get back to normal? Both knowing and not knowing....

At this point, I would really just like to get it over with. Time feels like it is standing still, and all I can think is "Let me take the plunge". Let me get it over with so that I can have something, anything, other than surgery on my horizon.

The conversation between Gandalf and Pippin didn't end after Pippin mentioned waiting on the edge of battle. Pippin going on to ask Gandalf a question:

Pippin: "Is there any hope, Gandalf? For Frodo and Sam?"

Gandalf: "There never was much hope. Just a fool's hope."

Do I have a fool's hope that this surgery will fix me? I don't know... We're on to surgery number ten to fix the same issue. I feel like I've run an entire marathon only to end up right back where I started. It's just not the good kind of marathon that you celebrate finishing. I started with a badly broken leg that wouldn't heal, and after all the treatment and surgeries to fix it, I'm still stuck with a broken leg that won't heal. We -my surgeon, family, and I- have approached each surgery the same way: this should be the last one, this one will fix it, it gets better from here. Yet here we are, nine surgeries down and standing on the threshold of number ten. Will this one really fix things? Or are there more down the road...? 

After me previous relationship ended, I found it difficult to get back out there and start dating again. I thought I had the rest of my life planned out, and then it all kind of crumbled and fell apart. Recently I've been, however, on a couple of dates with a really lovely man. We're not at the point of a relationship, but I hope I can go on some more dates with him and see where things go from there. Yesterday evening he sent me an e-mail. He wants to know if there is anything that I would really love to do once surgery is over and I have recovered from it. If possible, he wants to make it happen. His message, the kind intent behind it alone, is incredibly touching and thoughtful. His hope for my recovery wants me to have hope.

The thing is, I have absolutely no clue what to tell him. I've never gotten to the point of recovering from surgery and being all better. I used to hope that I would be, and even dreamed about it, but that hope hasn't happened in a long time. Truth be told, I'm not sure what I'm actually expecting of this surgery, or if I'm expecting anything at all. I've been living with the issues with my leg, and all the accompanying pain and discomfort, for so long, that it's hard to imagine a life in which I'm completely healthy and normal, let alone to believe that such a life could actually happen. I've been through so many struggles and surgeries that this all just feels normal. There have been so many surgeries in the past; there is another one tomorrow; and part of me feels like it wouldn't be crazy to think that there will be more to come in the future. 

With all this in mind, "What do you want to do once surgery is over and you've recovered from it?" doesn't feel like a question that should exist in my little corner of the world. Do I dare to hope or, to echo Gandalf's words, is it a fool's hope? The only way to find out is to go through with the surgery. But I don't just want to hope. I don't want all the expectations only to have the same let down I have had with all the previous surgeries. I would rather go in expecting nothing, only to be pleasantly surprised and given the world than to go in hoping for the world only to have it torn away from me. Maybe the middle road is best. Maybe I need to have what my surgeon and infectious disease specialist mentioned all those years ago when we thought the bone infection was gone the first time. Maybe the best thing to do is to be cautiously optimistic. I don't want to be a fool, hoping for something that will never happen, but maybe being a fool, hopeful and optimistic despite all signs contrary to what you are hoping for, is better than accepting that it will always be this way. Without hope, what reason is there to actually go through with the surgery? Without hope, wouldn't it be easier to just accept that my leg is how it is, painful and uncomfortable, and get on with life with all the limitations my leg will impose on it? Right now I might feel like my leg won't get better, but deep down there is the faintest hope. I have to believe that there is hope. The very fact that I am going through with the surgery is proof of that. I wouldn't go through with all this happening, all this nervous dread and anticipation, if I didn't believe that there was hope. There is always hope. There has to be. 

I will play the fool. 

There is so much happening before surgery. It's not just waiting. Hopefully (there's that word again) this post sheds some light on some of the feelings running through my head. I think they're all too common to anybody facing chronic medical problems and/or surgeries. Even blogging about the surgery and how I feel about it is something happening. I don't know what the purpose of posting about it is exactly, but it makes me feel a bit better about the surgery looming ahead and it ate up a couple of hours to type it all out. And, most importantly, it made me feel like I was doing something. I was typing - something was happening. I wasn't just waiting for the inevitable tomorrow afternoon. That, along with foolish hope, has got to count for something, right?

*The irony of referring to everything I have been through with my leg as a marathon is not lost on my. I promise you that I've made my peace with the fact that I will never be able to run a marathon. XD