May 16, 2011
I’m pretty sure I have a hernia.
Because it makes sense.
Because I have nothing else going on in my life currently.
Nothing on the calendar.
Why, I would LOVE to stop everything and have surgery!
(She says sarcasmically)
Wait, sarcasmically isn’t a word. But it should be, I think it would make a lovely word. Let’s enter it into the dictionary. How do you do that? Do you just mail them a letter?
sar·cas’mi·cal-ly adv. word mash of sarcastically and cosmically. Suggests a sharp taunting and often cynical tone, also denoting a cosmic reference, because galaxies and cosmos are cool. Cool like lasers and dinosaurs are cool. Like if dinosaurs had lasers beams and shot each other. Um, hello, I just solved dinosaur extinction. You’re welcome very much.
How about you mail that sucker in to Webster and Merriam, because that’s practically a gold mine, and I’ll stay here and continue to freak out about my possible hernia? Mmm-kay?
I’m so good at delegating.
So, I think I have a hernia because this knot of skin sticks out of my belly button area. And it didn’t used to do that.
Plus I can squish it back in, and when I do it makes this smashie–bubbly noise. Like if you had a ziploc bag filled with chocolate buttercream frosting and you mashed it all around in your hands.
Ooooh chocolate frosting…
But I’ve had it for about a year, and haven’t done anything about it. Even though every time I mention it to someone, they’re like, “GO TO THE DOCTOR!”
I told my friend Dena about it and she practically called the doctor for me, and then offered to drive me, and she even told me that if I went she’d bake me a cake with chocolate frosting…
But I’m in denial.
It doesn’t really hurt. And I’m afraid that if I go to the doctor they’re going to tell me that I need to have surgery. And I can’t deal with that right now. I have stuff to do.
Plus, who’s going to watch my kids when I have to recover?
They can’t really watch themselves yet.
I know, I’ve tried.
And, surgery hurts.
And doctors can leave gauze or a turkey sandwich in your insides.
But I’m jumping to conclusions. Maybe it’s nothing.
Maybe it’s a impacted turd that just won’t move along.
Maybe it’s scar tissue from my 16 year-old decision to get my belly button pierced.
Gosh, I was cool.
Maybe it has something to do with the two pregnancies that I’ve had.
Maybe it’s all in my head and it’s absolutely nothing at all.
Writing this post is freaking me out just enough to finally call the doctor, and I just made an appointment for later today.
I’ll let you know…
Ooh, thrilling right?
Nothing like a good cliff hanger.
Since all of you are all sitting on the edge of your seats, I can tell, by the way, by the overwhelming amount of comments I’ve received (which is ZERO!), It’s fine. It’s not like I keep track of those things or anything, and it’s not like I read your comments at 4 am when I should be sleeping, and it’s not like I print them off and hang them on my bathroom mirror so I can see them every morning when I brush my teeth and pop my zits, it’s no big deal, seriously.
So, MOVING ON.
I will not keep you waiting anymore.
I saw a doctor today, he said, “Congratulations, it’s a hernia.”
After we smoked a celebratory cigar together, he gave me a referral to a surgeon.
And then the surgeon will decide if he wants to cut me open or not.
But seriously, what surgeon passes on a chance to cut people?
Maybe I can convince them that duct taping a quarter to my belly button will do the trick.