Yay! Surgery! -frets-

Yep. I've officially been torn between running around chaotically and sitting in a numbed fear. Thursday, 7:30 AM, I go under for gallbladder removal. I have high hopes that this surgery will mean an end to the constant "toxic" feeling and the marked decrease in mobility.
In Fate's usual sense of humor, I received the phone call to set up the requisite appointments while I was on the way to the emergency room to deal with the damage done to psyche and body by the passing of a stone from gallbladder to intestine via a very thin tube that seemed unnecessarily long. I was astonished to realise how LONG I've had gallstones! Several times in the past, oh, fifteen years, I've experienced this pain. Due to the way the human body reacts to it, you don't generally go "Oooo.. I hurt right where my gallbladder is." I've been told it was a pinched nerve in my back or arm, bursitis in my shoulder, even that I slept in the wrong position.
To find your gallbladder, feel the right half of your ribcage, starting at the chest. When you hit the peak, where your ribs curve to the bottom point. Your gallbladder should be right below, possibly to the right, of that curve. When a stone is lodged or passing, you feel ill. Then (in my case) my shoulder starts to ache. The ache builds until I could swear there's a ping-pong ball wedged between my shoulder blade and my ribs, forcing the scapula out and away from my back. The pain radiates clear down to my fingers, and in an odd transference, even the slightest jostling of my right arm causes me to want to scream. Eventually (if you already know something is wrong with the gallbladder) you realise that your back is inflamed, but only in one clear, red, raised band. This is a strip of the back that matches exactly where the gallbladder can be felt in the front (if it's abnormal or filled with stones).
After a short trip through the emergency room, an IV of morphine and fluids, and a scan of my blood to confirm the organ hadn't burst or otherwise become dastardly dangerous, I was sent home. The pain wasn't gone, mind you, but I was far too happy to care.
Now, about two weeks later, I'm finishing up a "recovery ward" nest, obsessively vacuuming every square inch of floor (and kickboard), and writing out letters to my family. The letters are meant to be a Just In Case item. Should something go wrong Thursday, they will reach relevant members. Mostly, they're a preemptive good-bye. The hope is, having written them, I will find I don't need them. Of course, there is the realisation that hit today that none of this will matter to me if something does go wrong.
As a last hurrah, I joined friends on a trip to the Northern California Renaissance Faire. A day or two before we were due to leave, The Box (our car) was stolen. Stolen from a busy parking lot at a mall. Inside were several personal items, including GRIM's most beloved Donald Duck snuggle. We were all gutted. We loved that car. GRIM loved that doll. Who knew what else was in there? How many times had we said "Let's clean out the car today" and failed to do it? Why didn't I go with my gut that I go along? We were fortunate to be able to borrow a car, since the trip was not only a fun time but also a catering job for Blue.
I bought a fancy new fox tail and wandered around in street-clothes with a vintage black parasol - a dearly loved gift from The Gypsy in happier times. I had been thinking quite a bit about The Gypsy. Debating whether to break the silence between us with a call or a letter, wondering if he would understand. The last he knew of me, I was planning to have moved out by month's end. That was in late April. Now, my prospective date is to be out by the first of the year.
While out roving the Faire, I found I had a text message. The Gypsy. "Are you ok?"
...Our first contact in months and I have to bite the bullet and give him the honest answer. Surgery upcoming, and still living here.
He didn't text another word.
He was hurt, I knew. The four of us have an old, long, and painful history; together and apart.
So that was a lovely night. Blue and I hurting on the drive home, while Silly dozed in the back seat. We talked a lot, but everything still felt unresolved by the time we pulled into town and went to pick up GRIM.
Once we had her tucked into her carseat beside Silly, she railed at us for leaving her behind. So, we did what any parents do.. we drove. Took freeways, quiet streets, lazed around in wide tracks. And then.. Silly saw something. In the parking lot across the street from where the car was taken, a car identical to The Box. We pulled closer. I immediately flipped out, recognising part of the license plate. OH. My. God. The Beloved Box had returned to us. I felt kind of bad for griping every time I got in and out of the low-slung sedan we'd borrowed. "I hate this car. I hate this car!" became my constant refrain. And, though I never said it, I was afraid of trying to lower myself into that car right after surgery.
This post is... well.. kind of all over the place. Mostly because my mind - right now - is all over the place.
I want to go back. I want to change some spending choices I made while we were out of town. I want to not have let the missing car so taint my last kicking up of heels before the surgery. And I really.. really.. want to be called "kitten", just once more, by that beautiful voice.