Rackotomy Day is here!

So we haven’t even gone in yet, and Dr. Fine’s nurses already think that Cori and I are a couple of crazy psycho stalkers. How did we manage this? Well, Cori and I know each other from the YSC message board, and when we figured out that we had the same doc, were having the same procedure, in about the same time frame, we figured hey, let’s have them on the same day! So she’s going in today as well, and we’ve been emailing to find out who has what information. Thus, when she was told she’d be at Prentice initially, and me at the Galt, we both started calling the doctor’s office to find out what the deal was.

Of course, I sounded a bit silly when I called, saying something along the lines of “Yes, I wanted to know if Cori and I are going to be in the same building, as we have all sorts of hijinks planned. Yes, Cori – you know....umm.....Ringosmommy?”

That was when I realized that duh, I had no idea what Cori’s actual last name was, as opposed to her screen name. Oops! We’ve resolved that little issue by now, so now we’ll just be stalking each other in our respective recovery rooms. See you in NewBoobLand, Cori! Muah!

I’m also going in with freshly made brownies for the nursing staff, as I figure it doesn’t hurt to have them on your side, especially when you a) need heavy psychotropic drugs, and b) are wanting to sneak out for real coffee. I’m just sayin.’

On another note entirely – I was going to title this section “Morbid or Practical?” – because it concerns the fact that I don’t have a will. I know, I know, it’s not like this is a dangerous surgery or anything, and clearly nothing bad will happen, because then I’ll be really really pissed off, and I think even the Fates don’t want to deal with that kind of anger. But this has been a thought of mine, that what if I get hit by that proverbial killer bus one day, and then all my money will go to my mom, which is fine, who then in her grief decides to make a huge donation to the Todd Stroger Re-Election Fund or something? Obviously we can’t let that happen.

But then the question becomes – a formal will, huh? I guess I could write something up, but my mom would never find it on my computer, and to have something floating around on my desk that says “Last Will and Testament” – that would just be depressing. Hence, I’m throwing it out here on my blog, for all posterity, just in case. If I were truly being morbid, I’d parcel out all my worldly possessions, but that would be silly. And morbid. And I don’t really care who gets my stuff. Seriously, someone dies and people are fighting over teacups? What the hell, folks, what the hell.

Now, I’m sure some of you are thinking this: “But Miss Tasha, you is po’! What money you be talkin’ about?”

And this is true, I am po.’ But once when I wasn’t po,’ I paid off a lot of my house, so I have a shitload of equity in it, even with the crappy housing prices these days. Several hundred thousand dollars at least. So here are the basics:

1) Kona should be kept in the style to which he’s accustomed. ‘Nuff said. Whatever that takes.
2) IDR, the Doberman Rescue people, get a big chunk of money. This is an amazing organization, amazing bunch of people who run it and volunteer and who’ve saved countless Dobies and other animals. They rock.
3) My brother Andrew gets the other big chunk, to start up his winery, which has long been a dream of his. Or to do whatever he wants with it, but the winery is an option.

And of course, some should go to the NRDC and the Save-a-Manatee organizations. And Laura and Tessie can have all my jewelry, because I know they’d have fun with it. And I’m done with this topic, because damn, this is depressing. Practical, but depressing. Now I know why people never do this stuff and then things wind up so sticky and messy after they’re gone. Because it’s fucking depressing.

So, to not end on that note, I’ll close with something I’ve learned, and which I’m passing along to all of you, my elevens of readers, and that is this: if you’re ever going in for surgery, make sure that you have a brain injury and are on heavy doses of Oxycontin beforehand. Because that was the situation with me before my cancer/collarbone surgeries, and man, I was chipper as can be! At least I think I was – I don’t even remember going to the hospital. So I’d say it’s a pretty good bet that I wasn’t the least bit nervous beforehand. Brain injury and Oxycontin - see, another useful tip from Miss Tasha.

One final thought – I have ONE GOAL for tomorrow’s surgery, and that is to remember the witty banter. You see, for the last surgery, they snuck something into my IV – “to help you relax” - such that the last thing I remembered was them putting the little cap on my head to cover my hair, and then poof, I was waking up from surgery. And boy, was I pissed off! Dr. Jeruss mentioned that afterwards when she was checking up on me, I kept babbling “What happened? How could I have already had my surgery? What the hell?” Apparently I was pretty outraged, which a nurse chalked up to someone of my fine athletic physique being more affected by the anesthesia than most people. Umm, yeah, I sure glommed onto that explanation.

But this time? I want my witty banter as I’m rolled into the operating room, dammit. I will report back, after I have fought the good fight on behalf of all of the banter-loving folk out there. Again, I say - courage.