So, I have the second half of my pelvic pouch surgery tomorrow, where all my fears and hopes of the past year will be realized, the real work of recovery to begin. Today I consume only fluids in preparation, to slow my digestion and keep my insides clear. How much more misery must I endure, must I weather, before I learn how near I return to normalcy? I cannot help but contemplate the sequence of events that led here, and what, if anything, could have been done differently. I say this because I continue to believe that the outcome I fell into could have been avoided.
Which is not to say I blame any one individual, or even any single event. Sure, my troublesome journey seemed to have begun with my taking of naproxen for my knee, prescribed by the sports fitness surgeon. And perhaps, as my Colitis ramped up, I should’ve made my worries more pronounced, demanded greater intervention, from my gastroenterologist, who in turn could’ve ordered more accurate tests sooner. How much responsibility can I place on those emergency ward doctors, who wanted to help when I came to them crying in agony, who eased my pain but little else, for fear of working against my specialist? So you see the blame, the responsibility, is much diluted. I feel no ill towards anyone but do hope to perform better in seeking timely solutions.
Well, we shall see. How mad, how close to wits end will I approach, how near utmost despair shall I go? At least I have that brief sleep to look forward to, that moment’s respite in limbo, between not knowing and knowing. Were that I could inhabit it forever.