I don't know how deep the cut will be, Mr. Stewart

But it also won't be my first. I wrote a little something about a year ago and mentioned that when I was four years old, I had a tonsillectomy. Until...well, sometime relatively soon, that's the only surgery I've had the unfortunate pleasure of experiencing.

A few weeks ago, after noticing what appears to be a baseball hiding in my thigh, I went to my awesome primary doctor who referred me for an ultrasound to confirm her suspicion that it's a common, entirely benign bump in the road, so to speak. After the ultrasound, the Radiologist, who I swear to Hippocrates, was no older than Doogie Howser (okay, he probably was but he was amazingly fucking young-looking), told me he couldn't confirm that diagnosis but "don't worry, don't worry," which was promptly disregarded because finding a large mass in one's body that can't immediately be confirmed as benign is pretty much all you need to start worrying. Thankfully, one of my co-workers is fantastic beyond belief and sent me to his cousin's MRI practice, where I received a freebie, which is a savings of approximately a metric assload. To any of you readers contemplating opening your own MRI practice, I'd like to take this opportunity to offer you a tip:

- They can be scary tests, I know. And cheery, upbeat music is a delightful and appreciated gesture. But during MRIs, one is supposed to stay as still as humanly possible and when your playlist is full of the most awesomest songs to ever come out of the 80s, it's likely to leave your patient wanting to do nothing but shake her ass. It's maddening!

I did, however, manage to fight the dancing fever and made it through the hour-and-a-half (!!!) test and a few days later, got the results that it "looks" like what we thought it was but doesn't necessarily "act" like it. Apparently, there are subtypes that aren't cancerous but aren't entirely benign. I always kind of hated science because it's all so black and white and I'm a firm believer that ain't nothin' that black and white. But when push comes to shove and I'm being told that it looks like one thing but acts like another, I immediately *want* things to be black and white. If it has atypical characteristics of something, in my mind, that ought to mean it's *not* that particular something. But in the medical world? Not so. While it's...reassuring to be reminded that there are inconsistencies even in the precise world of medicine, it's the opposite of reassuring to be told by my primary doc, "I'd like to send you to an oncological surgeon." Do I have cancer? We're all about 99.9% certain I don't. But because of that possibility that it looks like one thing but is really something else, someone who really knows their shit needs to address it.

So, I have an appointment with the surgeon next week, he'll look at my films, book an OR, and off I'll go. Initially, we had thought I would just have a little local anesthesia but because of its size and the fact that it's apparently growing around and under muscle, I'll be rendered completely unconsciousness, which...well, is the part that scares me.

The act of having surgery doesn't really bother me and I realize it takes far more for surgeons to be certified and handed a scalpel than successfully removing the plastic funny bone from Cavity Sam without his little red nose buzzing. I'm not sure I would necessarily put myself in the "general pessimist" camp but I do put myself firmly into the "realist" column. Shit happens, I know this. And most of the time, you never know when that shit is gonna happen. I just don't like the idea of being completely oblivious to the world around me while someone slices up my thigh...hoping for the best. It's not exactly the world's most difficult surgery but we're talking about bones and fat and muscle and blood vessels. Essential pieces that help legs function properly. If I could watch him do it, I'd feel worlds better. I liken it to my desire to be fully awake and looking out the window watching along, should I ever be in a plane crash. If I wind up on a crazy, time-shifting island with my limbs still attached and blood still pumping through my body, I want that memory of what I was just equally lucky enough and badass enough to live through. And if I wind up dead as a doornail, I don't want to have closed my eyes while plummeting to my death in an attempt to pretend it's not happening. I want the very last thing I *am* in the world to be...frighteningly awake.

And that's simply not an option this time around. I don't think fairly simple surgery is the same as an ugly plane crash and I don't think I'm going to wind up dead from a few cuts in my thigh. But still. Shit is just easier when you're four years old.

Then again, I didn't have things like this to listen to when I was four years old either.