I have so far resisted the temptation to work out how many hours or minutes, though I suspect it won’t take much more than a long car journey and my mind will, inevitably turn to the first, if not the second of those tasks.
If all goes well, if no obstacles appear, if, if, if.. . if no-one does the medical equivalent of leaping up and down at the back of the church and yelling “I object”, then on Monday 11 July I will enter hospital.
And a day later I’ll be down for srs.
Its finally dawning on me how close I am and the excitement, the happiness is palpable. I want to dance. I want to shout. And at the same time, I’m filled with dread.
What? At the idea of making a mistake? Might I end up as the UK’s seventh regretter? Er, no! No way!
The dread surges in on the back of some fairly typical – for me, at any rate – pessimism. So many tests still to pass: so many barriers to cross. On 1 June, the electrolysist will hopefully declare the war against the hair is won and give the green light.
At some point later in the month, yet another psych will eye me up and presumably pronounce me Jane. Sorry, sane!
And at the back end of June, another slew of tests: mrsa screen; ecg; blood work.
Eeek! This is like finals, only worse: if I fail a single module, its back to square one and start again. Or at least, wait another month or two or three.
I can’t. I just can’t! Already, I feel my life beginning to shift over to hold. June will be a month of preparation. One last major piece of work to go and deliver early next week. Then, since such work is never done when its done, loads of ever-decreasing questions and revisions to do. A few small pieces to write. A journal to put to bed and then… and then….
I can sense, already that I am going to be a nervous wreck before the wait is over (and that’s even without all the impending hormone changes).