June 4, 2014 Trying

     I'm still of two minds about going ahead with the surgery, but I'm going along as if I will go through with it.  Very few have asked what I planned to do after my first surgery, an entire year ago.   And this is by no means an attempt to lay a guilt  trip on anyone.  During the long cold difficult winter past, I came to the realization of that which I already knew, that as time goes by, the more I must rely on myself to decide about myself.  I feel as if my life is like the cosmetic racks at drug stores.  A tube of lipstick or makeup is removed from the little tray, and the other tubes, all waiting invisibly behind, rush forward to claim its space.  There is no room for the removed tube to find its way back.  It is true  that nature abhors a vacuum, and apparently even the threat of one.   The ousted tube may find itself squeezed in above its former home, or else laid loose on the shelf beneath.  It can't go home again. 
       I too have lost my place, in many ways.  Children, friends, jobs, social commitments all take on directions of their own, as aging proceeds at its own inexorable pace. 
       Anyway, I feel, almost, a sense of guilt to be so interested in myself as to contemplate anything major.  All my attempts to spark  conversation about my own deteriorating condition, and whether it's worth salvaging, have fallen on mostly deaf ears.  Yes, that is undeniably true.  It is one of the disillusionments of my life that I am almost completely without conversation. 
......Anyway, out of the wallowing and back to my original purpose of documenting the course of what may be a surgical procedure.  I paid my annual right-knee visit to the orthopedist, and based only on his objective assessment, said I would schedule a second surgery.  Everything was to be the same as last year.  I would need to have pre-surgical clearances from (1) my primary doctor and (2) the cardiologist I see once a year to track my blood pressure. 
     I put off scheduling those 2 clearance visits because of uncertainty as to whether to have the surgery or not. A million things could happen before then.  But today, I decided I would call the cardiologist's office, a good idea anyway, I thought.  The receptionist had no sooner answered the phone and taken my name and purpose for the call when I had another call come in.  Normally, I don't take such calls, but call them back later.  But this call was from the orthopedist's office.  I excused myself and took the call:   the call was to tell me that my surgery (real or fantasy) would be not at Samaritan but at St. Peter's.  After June 30, Dr. Congiusta will no longer perform surgery at Samaritan.  Now I'm really out of my comfort zone.  I must consult with my inner self.