Tomorrow is Pre-Op, and I Love You

Tomorrow is my pre-op visit with the doctor, where I get to ask all of the questions that I want to know about my surgery, and also where I beg him to give me a horizontal incision rather than vertical.  Not sure if that's going to fly, but I've decided that the idea of having a vertical incision and having the equivalent of two butts (one in the front and the other in the back), makes me want to shoot myself.

(

My dirty little secret is that I always think I'm going to die whenever I have surgery. Normally I know that it's a ridiculous prospect, given that most of ,my surgeries have either been knee surgeries, or relatively minor quick fixes -- usually in extremities.  My last surgery was a few years ago, and it was on my hand.  Very stupid.  Very minor.  But surgery, nonetheless, so I thought I was going to die.  

It was for that reason that I decided to tell my boyfriend of five months that I loved him.  It was the first time either of us had ever uttered those words to one another.  My plan wasn't to tell him until he told me.  I was having surgery on his birthday, so on the night before the surgery (before my cut-off time to eat or drink), I came upstairs wearing the backpack that I got him for his birthday, carrying a tray with a special dessert and champagne.  I leaned over and whispered it in his ear -- as though I didn't want to hear myself say it -- and leaned in close enough so that I didn't have to see his reaction.  I wasn't sure if he'd reciprocate.

But he said that he felt the same way, but he was waiting for me to say it first.  This annoyed me for some reason.  

Years later, we're not really "I love you" people.  We tried it on for size for a while, and then the occasions for which we expressed our love dwindled.  We had an argument one day, and we each accused each other of not meaning it.  Since then, that phrase has meant very little to me.  I don't initiate; I reciprocate.  When we say it, it's because one of us is getting on a flight or traveling.  Or having surgery.  Basically, situations where if the other of us should die, we would feel guilty if our last conversation didn't include an expression of love.  

Essentially, we're right back to the origin of why we began saying it in the first place.  

It's not because he has an aversion to uttering those three words.  He says it every single time he speaks with the women of signficance in his life.  I, on the other hand, say it very rarely.  To anyone, really.  I haven't told my father that I love him in several years, and I can't recall whether or not I managed to make sure my mother knew I loved her before she died.  These are things that make me a horrible person. But really?  I'd rather show them.  And to my credit, it isn't as though my parents were big on the "I love you" statements with me.  Unless they were delivering tough messages, like "Now, you know your father and I love you . . "   It's almost like we felt weird saying it to each other.  Not that we didn't show it, but sometimes gestures aren't accurate representations of how we feel.  

I wonder if my life would have been different if someone had been there to tell me, every day, that they loved me.  I wonder if my relationship would be different if those words naturally rolled off of our tongues every day.  Guess I'll never know.

What I do know is that I have a laundry list of things to discuss with the doctor to prepare for my surgery, and that on my checklist of things to do that day will be to tell my boyfriend that I love him.