Tomorrow is the day; 7:00 is the hour. I am first on the surgeon’s schedule, which means we have to leave here at 4:00 a.m. I shudder as I type that. I should go to bed right now. He said he takes the “skinny people” first. I’m flattered, I think.
I have read all the hospital’s material about procedures and risks. I have watched the DVD. Lots of things can go wrong, and I know about every one of them. Fortunately, I’m not a worrier when it comes to health issues, so I’m not freaking out. Maybe tomorrow, but not yet. The most interesting part of the preparation is taking two anti-bacterial showers—one tonight and one in the morning. If nothing else, I will be very clean.
The plan is to be up and about the first day, three days in the hospital, ten to fourteen days in rehab, then six weeks of out-patient physical therapy. Therapy is important. “You gotta do the work,” I’m told. I’ve been told a lot of other things as well, mostly about pain. The doctor assures me that he will prescribe adequate pain medicine; I choose to believe him.
So, today is my last day with an absurdly crooked leg. Tomorrow is the first day of my life as a marathoner.