I’m four days away from my foot surgery, and I feel very small. My husband and, surprisingly, my mother-in-law are fussing over what I’ll need, but my flesh and blood relatives don’t seem very interested. I really don’t want much. I hate having people around me when I’m recovering from something, in fact, but it sure would be nice for my sister or my kids to say, “I hope it goes well,” “Good luck,” or (at the very least) “Hope you don’t die.” I’m not a narcissist and know the world doesn’t revolve around me, and I’ll never say anything sarcastic like “Thanks for the well wishes. Your care and concern mean so much to me.” I’ll think it, but I’ll never say it. I know I’m just feeling sorry for myself. But am I allowed? Just a little?
The truth is, this whole thing is depressing me. I’ve tried to get out there a little and be social, but I’ve mostly stayed home by myself. I’m kind of scared and anxious, and I’m righteously pissed that the downtime will probably be significant. I’m missing out on hiking time, gym time, driving to Ross time—all the important things. I know I’m supposed to be doing this to improve my quality of life for a long time ahead, but why couldn’t my foot get fucked up after medicare hit? It’s just two and a half years away, and time goes so fast, right? Instead, this will cost about $17,000 out of pocket for me. My husband is putting it on his credit cards, but I feel like guilty because I can’t really afford that. I make $2100 a month on Social Secuity right now. I’m poor by any standard.
Getting back to my family, I told my sister and my older daughter that my surgery is on March 2, 2026, so it hasn’t happened yet. My sister said, “Oh no.” No follow up. I then sent them pictures of my crutches and knee scooter with a humorous caption that said: My transportation for the next few months. My daughter texted me separately and said, “How are you feeling?” I guess she forgot it hadn’t happened yet. And I guess if she thought I was having the surgery, she forgot to wish me luck beforehand. I feel special.
Coincidentally, my now semi-estranged daughter texted me from a new number, her new phone apparently beause she thought I was cutting off the old one. I will be, but I gave her a six-month warning, and it’s only been about two. I thought I might as well let her know that I was scheduled for surgery, and she said with her normal biting sarcasm, “What happened to your old lady foot?” We had a few exchanges and that was it for that chapter of conversation.
Then, I responded to the how are you feeling text to explain I was just preparing for the surgery and it hadn’t happened yet. She told me to take the time to learn how to sew. I told her that she’s the expert having had two knee surgeries (both of which I stayed with her to take care of her during her recuperation—because that’s what mothers do).
I’m ready to have the surgery; be in pain and on painkillers; be off my feet for weeks; move around with a boot, crutches, and a scooter thing; and be totally ignored by my family. Yay me.