Let the Anxiety Begin

I have a dentist appointment on Thursday.  The folks at my dentist office are actually very nice people, but I still cringe every time I think of them.

Of course I'll attempt to trick them into thinking that I'm an avid flossing fanatic; I'll floss a few times a day between now and then in order to make them think that I've been doing this religiously the last six months.  But they'll see right through that, and she'll whack away at my teeth with that pointy little spear thing of hers.

Mrs. Smoot often wonders what would happen to me if I ever faced an actual, serious medical situation.  I'd probably explode in flames out of pure fear, that's what would happen.  When we watch TV shows that feature blood and stuff, I always ask Mrs. Smoot to add things to the list of stuff I don't want to have done to me.

For example, we love to watch House, but I really get antsy about the stuff that happens under the care of their doctors.  Like the season finale where House had to amputate a woman's leg while she was pinned in a building.  I have had bad dreams about that one for a month or so now.

There was an article in the newspaper a few weeks ago about this great new surgery that allowed doctors to remove brain tumors by going in behind the eye socket.  They were ecstatic about how non-invasive the surgery was, because they could go back there, suck the tumor out, and never have to go through the scalp to get to it.  Cosmetically, it's supposed to be just wonderful, and the healing time is supposed to improve dramatically.

Sounds great, until you realize that they have to pop your eyeball out of your freakin' head, and drill a hole back there, and then say a little prayer that you'll actually be able to regain your vision when they stick your eye back in place.  No thank you.

I know a guy who had to have some sort of horrible, horrible surgery where they had to pop his eyeball out WHILE HE WAS AWAKE.  Just imagine that your vision is being controlled by someone who is pointing your eyeball in different directions for you, and you can't do a thing about it.  And maybe while they're working, they leave your eyeball dangling there and you have no choice but to stare at your own nostril while they do whatever it is they're doing.

And now I have to be even more worried, now that I know that I am apparently the only person who operates my knife and fork with the wrong hands.  Clearly I am lucky to have gone this long without major spleen damage.