Well, it is. Really it is.
I shall await the reaction from some of those who have gone before: not least Liz, who seems to regard me (and treat me, on occasion), most endearingly, as a slightly naïve teenager. Which in some respects, of course, I am.
Still, though, something happened over the holiday to the way I think about THE OP.
It suddenly got a whole lot smaller. And no: for once I am not going for the rather obvious double entendre.
Rather: the last year or so has all been about the big one, the big decision, the big surgical intervention. Everything I do, every move I’ve made has been focussed, one way or another, on THAT question. Will she, won’t she?
Its been a subtle shift. Maybe the subtlety is why it took me a while to notice it had happened. Because suddenly, it doesn’t seem so important.
Oh? So she’s NOT going to go thru with it?
Er, no. The exact opposite.
I still understand just how big a procedure it is. I still fear, with a vengeance, it going wrong: the corrective surgery that may follow. All the rest besides. Bu-ut…the idea that what I am contemplating is somehow major, life altering…
I don’t attach any importance at all to what I still have, except in this respect: that my physiology now is just inconvenient. It gets in the way of being as much a woman as I can. It gets in the way of clothes, of swimming, of intimacy.
It just gets in the way…
Well, we knew that? Yes. The difference, I guess, lies in the difference between those who still ask, in almost hushed tones, how will you feel when…you know…when you have “it” removed. As though I still view it as something valuable. My precious! So to speak.
Between that reverential question and the shrug with which I can now reply. Like, so what? The sooner its gone, the better. Because the sooner its gone, the sooner I can start to recuperate. End of.
Which makes the decision still a biggish one in terms of risk. But as far as life-change goes? Tis maybe the least of the decisions I will have to make in the up and coming twelve months.