One day, a long, long time ago, Chuck and I took a walk on his friend's jetty. I was wearing flip-flops. I was drunk. I slid off one of the rocks and practically lost my big toe. Chuck carried me back to his friend's house, where they stitched me up with fishing line.
I told you I was drunk.
When I sobered up and looked at my toe, I fainted—and not because they'd turned me into Frankentoe. But because I have no stomach for body goop. None. Nada. Zip.
You can understand then why Chuck has forbidden me from Googling "scheduled C-section." He can't take anymore "Oh, gross [wretch...wretch] nooooooooooooo"s. He doesn't want me to have any more nightmares. I can't stop myself, of course. It's like telling someone who has a bulbous lump growing on her forehead not to Google "I think I'm dying."
So here I am the night before: well read on every aspect of the operation. And I do mean every. I've also got fond memories of my C-section with Junior, which included me asking the nurse if I was still alive because I couldn't feel my ribcage moving, thanks to the anesthesia.
Talk about freaky.
Having said all that, could you say a little prayer for me? Even if it's a silly, gobblygook prayer and your higher power is your kitchen drain.
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