Cutting -- Not the Crafty Kind

I don’t much like the idea of surgery.

On Friday (today) we’ll be waiting, as our 22-year-old resident artist and ace-kid has his second cancer surgery in seven months (if you don’t count the surgical biopsy -- that would make it three).

I don't get angry about a lot of things -- even things I probably should. There's no percentage in it. But how they botched his first surgery just breaks my heart and yes, angers me.

I am deeply distressed anyone has to go through this, much less a kid. And a good kid, at that. And while I'll periodically ask, "Why?" the fact is, we never know why; we just have to have faith that in some way this is helping us be better, stronger people; helping us learn to ask the right questions the first time and remind us of how very valuable and fragile life can be.

Please keep us in your thoughts (along with the ideas of “no complications,” “got it all” and “excellent prognosis.”)

In another month, we get to do it again – this time with me, as they’ll fix a torn rotator cuff.

And bone spurs at the shoulder. Bye bye, Artiscape. I’m glad it’s an annual event.

Yes, it's the hand I write with. Do art with. My lovely left. I won't be able to do what the fellow above is for awhile.

I was odd sitting in the surgeon’s waiting room today. He’s part of the sports medicine unit, and if you didn’t know that before, you’d get the idea in the waiting room. The first clue was enormous, wall-mounted HD-TV with the Big Ten channel playing sporting events – far too large and lifelike. I saw chunks of wrestling, basketball and part of a documentary about a coach I didn’t know. (It was a long wait.) All these warriors and all I want to do is knit and cut things out and glue them back together in different ways!

The enormous photos of sports activities were another clue. As were the string of younger-mostly-men patients waiting – some limping, some in slings, some with crutches.

No images of pan flute players. Or actors. Or artists. Or book-readers.

Only the lovely fountain seemed un-sporty, and the only sign of “relaxation" in the room.

I felt “I don’t belong here.”

I was relieved that the doc had at least a little gray in his hair, given that he looked pretty young. He was kind, smart, answered everything, didn’t rush me. Kind of cute in an "ER" or "Gray's Anatomy" sort of way. I hope he knows how to do surgery.

I’ve known this was likely to be coming for a few weeks. I’d even started practicing writing with my right hand and driving with my arm stuck to my side, as though it was in a sling. I had trouble cleaning the litter box one-handed, folding laundry was a joke and opening things is still hard. At least I have a few weeks to practice.

I'll be off a day or so while we're in Ann Arbor with Greg, but thanking you in advance for all the good vibes and wishes.