I remember when it hit 30. I thought that was crazy because it meant the surgery was only a month away. I remember when it went under 20. Today, as I searched for another app on my phone, I came across the little red dot. In it was the number 6.
Whaaaaaaat
We're down to less than a week, folks.
Remember in my last post how I talked about the trip I'm going on and how it doesn't involve packing bags weeks beforehand because it's not exciting? Weeeeeeelllllllllll...my bag for the hospital may or may not have been mostly packed by last weekend.
All of my crazy coping skills have come into play over the past week. For example, my big exciting plans for Friday night involve me planning out my schedule for the next five days to ensure that I'm completely ready for the hospital, for surgery, and for the month I'll be home.
Work has been rough. I've relinquished my caseload to the interim case manager. I have full faith in her and I know she'll do a great job. But it's quite boring for me (selfish, I know). My boys are hit and miss. One of them threw a teenage tantrum because he didn't want me to leave. Another is extremely concerned that I won't be there for an important meeting next week (I'll be there). Yet another thought I had left without saying goodbye because I wasn't in his particular session that day. They definitely aren't helping with the guilt trip, but I just try to validate, acknowledge, and work through it with them. I try to make them realize that I'm human and that this is hard for me too.
I'm currently trying to determine if all this yuck I'm feeling about leaving work is just my anxiety about the surgery being channeled into something else. The counselor in me wants to know. The patient in me doesn't really care. The human being in me is just ready for all of this to be done and over with.
Only six more days until that can start.
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