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February 26, 2004

Six Days

ItĖs six days before the surgery. Six days.

I have a GPS system. I played with it last night. It was fun. It led me to my destinations and came up with new ones. ThatĖs what GPS does.

Six days.

I drink only liquids right now, just like I will after the surgery. It helps clear the system, helps prepare me for what happens next. Instant breakfasts, Cream of Wheat, soy milk, powdered milk.

Six days.

There is a current of excitement as I push to get everything done and tied up at work. Things are tense here anyhow, but this adds a rush.

Six days.

I am elated.

Six days.

I am terrified.

Six days.

Seriously. Terrified. I alternate between excitement and terror. This is insanity. That it turns out it is the best possible thing I can do doesnĖt change the mind-numbing weirdness of the prospect. They are going in, and they are disabling healthy tissues and altering healthy organs, to make me healthy. Astounding.

Six days.

I drink a lot of water right now too. 48-64 ounces a day, accomplished by drinking a couple of quart jugs of water, plus a good amount of crystal light and sugar free kool aid. I feel odd, like maybe IĖll drain away. Well, that is the idea, isnĖt it?

Six days.

I have waited for this for so long.

Six days.

One out of two hundred. That doesnĖt sound as comforting as half of one percent, does it? One out of two hundred. There were three hundred people in the information meetings I attended. One and a half of the people there, by the odds, wouldnĖt make it. One out of two hundred. I play the lottery on a regular basis, with absolute certainty that IĖll win. Those odds of winning Powerball, statistically, are 1 in 120,526,770. One out of two hundred.

Six days.

I met a woman when I went for my preadmission physical. I also learned that Dartmouth Hitchcock Hospital uses a pneumatic tube delivery system. IsnĖt that the coolest thing? ItĖs like IĖm getting my surgery performed in 1930Ės New York. The womanĖs last name was Burns, just like mine, so she struck up a conversation with me. She was an attractive woman, with a nice figure. She was having some skin removed -- sheĖd had the gastric bypass in 2001, and was doing some followup. She lost 260 lbs. She looked fantastic and was cheerful.

Six days.

260 pounds would put me very close to goal weight. Very close. Astounding to consider. In the meantime, my legs and knees hurt a great deal. I canĖt take ibuprofin for a week before and six weeks after the surgery. ItĖs a blood thinner. Very dangerous. And tylenol... look, Tylenol means well, and always offers to participate and helps clean up after class, but itĖs just not knuckling down and performing, yĖknow?

Six days.

This is going to change my life. No matter what happens next, no one can ever claim I didnĖt try. I am making my leap of faith. I am stepping through today into tomorrow. I will walk. I will run. I will climb. I will learn to dance.

Six days.

I will learn to dance.

Six Days

ItĖs six days before the surgery. Six days.

I have a GPS system. I played with it last night. It was fun. It led me to my destinations and came up with new ones. ThatĖs what GPS does.

Six days.

I drink only liquids right now, just like I will after the surgery. It helps clear the system, helps prepare me for what happens next. Instant breakfasts, Cream of Wheat, soy milk, powdered milk.

Six days.

There is a current of excitement as I push to get everything done and tied up at work. Things are tense here anyhow, but this adds a rush.

Six days.

I am elated.

Six days.

I am terrified.

Six days.

Seriously. Terrified. I alternate between excitement and terror. This is insanity. That it turns out it is the best possible thing I can do doesnĖt change the mind-numbing weirdness of the prospect. They are going in, and they are disabling healthy tissues and altering healthy organs, to make me healthy. Astounding.

Six days.

I drink a lot of water right now too. 48-64 ounces a day, accomplished by drinking a couple of quart jugs of water, plus a good amount of crystal light and sugar free kool aid. I feel odd, like maybe IĖll drain away. Well, that is the idea, isnĖt it?

Six days.

I have waited for this for so long.

Six days.

One out of two hundred. That doesnĖt sound as comforting as half of one percent, does it? One out of two hundred. There were three hundred people in the information meetings I attended. One and a half of the people there, by the odds, wouldnĖt make it. One out of two hundred. I play the lottery on a regular basis, with absolute certainty that IĖll win. Those odds of winning Powerball, statistically, are 1 in 120,526,770. One out of two hundred.

Six days.

I met a woman when I went for my preadmission physical. I also learned that Dartmouth Hitchcock Hospital uses a pneumatic tube delivery system. IsnĖt that the coolest thing? ItĖs like IĖm getting my surgery performed in 1930Ės New York. The womanĖs last name was Burns, just like mine, so she struck up a conversation with me. She was an attractive woman, with a nice figure. She was having some skin removed -- sheĖd had the gastric bypass in 2001, and was doing some followup. She lost 260 lbs. She looked fantastic and was cheerful.

Six days.

260 pounds would put me very close to goal weight. Very close. Astounding to consider. In the meantime, my legs and knees hurt a great deal. I canĖt take ibuprofin for a week before and six weeks after the surgery. ItĖs a blood thinner. Very dangerous. And tylenol... look, Tylenol means well, and always offers to participate and helps clean up after class, but itĖs just not knuckling down and performing, yĖknow?

Six days.

This is going to change my life. No matter what happens next, no one can ever claim I didnĖt try. I am making my leap of faith. I am stepping through today into tomorrow. I will walk. I will run. I will climb. I will learn to dance.

Six days.

I will learn to dance.

Six Days

ItĖs six days before the surgery. Six days.

I have a GPS system. I played with it last night. It was fun. It led me to my destinations and came up with new ones. ThatĖs what GPS does.

Six days.

I drink only liquids right now, just like I will after the surgery. It helps clear the system, helps prepare me for what happens next. Instant breakfasts, Cream of Wheat, soy milk, powdered milk.

Six days.

There is a current of excitement as I push to get everything done and tied up at work. Things are tense here anyhow, but this adds a rush.

Six days.

I am elated.

Six days.

I am terrified.

Six days.

Seriously. Terrified. I alternate between excitement and terror. This is insanity. That it turns out it is the best possible thing I can do doesnĖt change the mind-numbing weirdness of the prospect. They are going in, and they are disabling healthy tissues and altering healthy organs, to make me healthy. Astounding.

Six days.

I drink a lot of water right now too. 48-64 ounces a day, accomplished by drinking a couple of quart jugs of water, plus a good amount of crystal light and sugar free kool aid. I feel odd, like maybe IĖll drain away. Well, that is the idea, isnĖt it?

Six days.

I have waited for this for so long.

Six days.

One out of two hundred. That doesnĖt sound as comforting as half of one percent, does it? One out of two hundred. There were three hundred people in the information meetings I attended. One and a half of the people there, by the odds, wouldnĖt make it. One out of two hundred. I play the lottery on a regular basis, with absolute certainty that IĖll win. Those odds of winning Powerball, statistically, are 1 in 120,526,770. One out of two hundred.

Six days.

I met a woman when I went for my preadmission physical. I also learned that Dartmouth Hitchcock Hospital uses a pneumatic tube delivery system. IsnĖt that the coolest thing? ItĖs like IĖm getting my surgery performed in 1930Ės New York. The womanĖs last name was Burns, just like mine, so she struck up a conversation with me. She was an attractive woman, with a nice figure. She was having some skin removed -- sheĖd had the gastric bypass in 2001, and was doing some followup. She lost 260 lbs. She looked fantastic and was cheerful.

Six days.

260 pounds would put me very close to goal weight. Very close. Astounding to consider. In the meantime, my legs and knees hurt a great deal. I canĖt take ibuprofin for a week before and six weeks after the surgery. ItĖs a blood thinner. Very dangerous. And tylenol... look, Tylenol means well, and always offers to participate and helps clean up after class, but itĖs just not knuckling down and performing, yĖknow?

Six days.

This is going to change my life. No matter what happens next, no one can ever claim I didnĖt try. I am making my leap of faith. I am stepping through today into tomorrow. I will walk. I will run. I will climb. I will learn to dance.

Six days.

I will learn to dance.