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Saturday, March 31, 2012

let's not talk about my organs

When you move to a new country, what do you do? Explore? Shop? Have surgery? Same.

I had surgery this month and not on my boobs. Long story fragmented: shattered kneecap in Los Angeles three years ago, wired back together, life went on, hardware broke in New Zealand right before we moved to Sydney, and ouch.  As much as I hated the thought of surgery, the reality of being shredded from the inside out with every step from poke-y broken wire bits was worse. So I found the surgeon with the best Australian accent and a date was set. That was that.

And then the public service announcements began.

These public service announcements.

It was Donate Life Week in Australia and the loved one I lived with didn’t know diddly about my wishes.  Not because I’m mean or an organ hoarder or all rotten inside, but because I never wanted to put that sort of thing out there.  Into the universe.  Where it could accidentally manifest itself into reality like things you put out in the universe always end up doing.  But I was about to have surgery.  And we’ve all seen Grey’s Anatomy.  What if the surgeon with the best Australian accent wasn’t actually a doctor but a nut job who couldn’t cut a cake and things didn’t work out so well for me and I ended up with the brain activity of a carrot?  Then what?

This thought haunted me.

Then came date night.  In our living room because I have no idea where they keep the sitters around here.  My husband and I were watching the most genius show e-ver.  Homeland.  Is he a terrorist? Is he not? We don’t know! When all of a sudden that PSA came on.  Again.  With all the questions.  And the music.  And the oh so sad faces.  I couldn’t take it anymore.  Without giving it a second thought, I turned to my loved one and gave him a look.  A look that pretty much said it all.  

A look that said this: 

Listen up, Loved One.  I'm only going to not say this once.  If something bad goes down and I can’t make decisions for myself, you know what to do. You know you know what to do.  SAVE ME!  Find the best doctors in the best hospitals, shake them by their doctor coats, and tell them to SAVE ME!  Send home the slackers.  Weed out the weak.  SAVE ME!  Make sure no one gives up.  No scratching heads wondering what to do next.  No talking about topics other than me or the saving of me.  SAVE ME!  I want baseball caps turned backwards, sleeves rolled up, dream teams assembled.  If Patrick Dempsey is free, get him in there because he or his handsome character might have a solution.  Don’t mock me.  SAVE ME!  Heroic efforts, out-of-box thinking, throw money at the problem, whatever it takes.  I’m going to need everyone to come together for this one goal, one purpose, one moment, and SAVE ME!  But.  Sigh.  If after all of that, there is absolutely no chance that I can be saved and I have a carrot for a brain and this has been confirmed by no less than five doctors and Patrick Dempsey, then you know what to do. Scoop me out like a cantaloupe and save the others.  Save them.

My husband's look in response said this:


And Homeland was back on.  As Carrie went bonkers from being off her bi-polar meds and my loved one reached for my hand, I knew.  He had heard everything I didn't say.  And this, my friends, is one of the many reasons why I married my husband instead of Patrick Dempsey.