Saturday, March 3, 2012

Plant a Garden

I'm struggling. I screwed up today, rooted around up there and found the mass. It's big. It's so much bigger and more substantial and REAL than I imagined. I cried and cried. Then I got angry. How on EARTH does a NATIONALLY RENOWNED urogynecologist, a stinking FACOG, for hell's sake, MISS that? It's UNMISSABLE. It is so absolutely obvious, and that silly creature dug around up there and proclaimed me MASS-FREE.

I'm scared. Terrified. I'm worried about my arrhythmia and the general anesthesia. I'm worried about my metoprolol and general, too. Apparently, there's some controversy over whether or not metoprolol should be withheld when administering general. My doctor seems to think it's not a problem. And hey, according to the hospital, he's "very, very good."

As good as my FACOG urogynecologist? She's famous, she's been on TV! He's famous, too--he's been voted one of the top ten docs in DC for a few years running.

I don't feel reassured.

I find myself feeling, suddenly, that time is moving VERY fast, and that I'm not going to get things done. Things I promised Sean, things I wanted to tell him or show him or write down for him. Pictures I haven't labeled, family portraits we've never had done. I've flipped into short-time, and I'm scared to death. But one thing I did tell him? To plant flowers every year. If I'm here, if I'm not, either way, plant flowers for me. Because there isn't much that makes me happier, both in practice and in my heart.

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