Trying to Keep It Real

A nasty little script editor I once worked with said that I use humour as a defence, as a way of not having to face the truth. Fuck it, I thought, better that than Crack Cocaine. But I have to admit, that last post I wrote was tremendously glib and evasive. Then again, if I told you I was terrified about O's next operation, I'd be lying. I'm numb, actually. It doesn't feel real. Maybe because my denial mechanism is tremendously well honed (you don’t get to be my weight without a brilliant ability to self-deceive), or maybe because O is not in any pain and it doesn’t seem to affect her in any way. True we have her on a cocktail of laxatives. True if we stopped them she’d be chronically constipated. But we’ve got into a comfortable routine which means we’re side stepping her physiological problem quite nicely thank you. So to be told she has to have the tiny muscles in her gut moved to a different position that may not even remedy the problem seems absurd.

Like any big decision, family politics are now starting to play a part. R’s father, a retired doctor, seems to think I haven’t been firm enough with the surgeon. As if I could bully him into rescinding his desire to operate again. A few firm words and I’m sure he’ll admit O is actually fine. My own father, a practicing gastroenterologist, has been amazing in mobilising for the Second Opinion. Only problem is, he’s found an alternative surgeon who practices at a hospital over an hour away. While this sounds unimportant, it means we would be very isolated during the operation. We would probably have to stay in a hospital dormitory and it would be difficult for people to visit O. I really relied on visitors last time to break the tedium of those endless neon-lit hospital days in which the outside world ceases to exist. Also, the current surgeon, Dr Saturday Night Fever, may be smug and evasive, but at least he knows O and her condition… Plus he can bust a mean move on the dance floor. Sorry, there I go again…

And there’s something else. Something secret that I’m not ready to write about yet. Something that impacts directly on all our decisions that I’m still back and forthing about. I feel like I’m in a mistaken identity film. I’m actually 17 and I got transported into a dystopic version of what my life could be if I don’t immediately mend my ways. Am realising, perhaps a bit slowly, that being a grown up isn’t all about getting to choose your own bed time and drink tequila…