All my bags are packed; I'm ready to go.

My hospital bag is packed with two pairs of jammies, three pairs of socks, three pairs of underwear (why "pairs of underwear" when it's just one?), and ALL the technology.

Half of the Fearsome Foursome, my friends Ed and his Lovely Wife, came over with an iPod Touch with text-to-speech capability and something called a Boogie Board. The Boogie Board is like an electronic magic slate: you can write on it (or the cats can leave paw prints on it; it's surprisingly sensitive) and then press a button and have everything disappear.

The iPod is a nice thing. The preloaded voice is plummy and British and says things like, "If you ask me how I feel one more time, I will punch you in the balls."

The Other Jo sent me a Kindle. She's just as big a nerd--or maybe bigger, in different fields--as I am, so this was an incredibly thoughtful gift. I asked her why she didn't just provide me with a bleach kit for my works, as everything I've ever been meaning to get around to reading is provided free on Amazon for the Kindle. I have the distinct feeling that I'm going to end up reading stuff like "Northanger Abbey" on the Kindle when I ought to be working. Dammit, Jo!

I am leaving the Awesome Blankie of Win here, for two reasons: first, the boys would be very upset if I took away their new snuggle spot. Second, I want it here and MRSA-free when I come back, so I can lie on the couch in it and watch "Dirty Dancing" (the very first movie in my Netflix queue) the minute I get home.

And, finally, Brother In Beer came up this weekend and took me out for barbecue. It was lovely. We had no beer with our barbecue, but plenty of black eyed peas (almost as good as the ones he makes) and lots of laughing and kidding around.

It's been a good weekend. Except, you know, for when work called me today and BossMan asked if I wanted to work this week. "Dude," I said, "You know I'm going in for tests tomorrow and surgery on Wednesday, right?"

"Well," he replied, "I figured we could give you a couple hours off tomorrow for testing. We're kind of short-staffed."

I put this down to his general flitterygibbertness in the face of everybody getting pregnant and having CAN-SUHHHH.

Despite all the worries that go along with having general anesthesia and being intubated and having half your mouth cut away, I'm not scared. Strangely. Maybe it's because I know that codes in the OR are astoundingly rare, and that the residents in the room do everything they can to make sure you're still alive at the end of the case. Maybe it's because I know and trust everybody who'll be taking care of me. (Staying alone in a hospital room does sort of worry me, but Friend Pens the Lotion Slut assures me that she'll stay if need be.)

Maybe it's just that I'm so damned glad to get this monkey on the street, you know? The last several weeks have been a weird combination of rollercoaster and limbo. I can finally say that Yes, I Am A Patient, and I Am Doing Something About This, even if that Something involves lying supine on an operating table, getting gassed.

At the same time, I'm just as superstitious as any other nurse (and we're a superstitious lot). I worry about saying things like "easy" and "complete cure" and The Dreaded Q Word. If I write a see-you-in-a-while post for my blog (after six!!! years!), does that mean that The While will be Judgement Day? Am I, by talking about it, going to die on the table?

Fate and God and The Universe would not let me die without having appropriate last words. Of that I am sure. Therefore, I leave you with these words prior to surgery on Wednesday, secure in the knowledge that they won't be my last:

BIG. HAIRY. BUTTHOLES.