like a surgeon (hey!)

On Monday, I had my follow up appointment with Dr. S, my surgeon.  He's a genial sort who looks like an Aryan John Ritter and prone to making goofy jokes ("Hey, you ready for another operation?"), but I like him.

When I sat down, I said, "I really wish I had kept my gallstones."

"Oops...did you ask me to save them and I forgot?"

"No, I'm the one who forgot.  My boyfriend got really squicked out by the idea, but I thought it would be cool to keep them because they were like my body's pearls."

Dr. S blinked at me, momentarily at a loss for words, and then he burst into laughter.  "I'm going to remember that one!  Okay, so I'm guessing you're not easily grossed out?"

"Not really."

"Wanna see your innards?"

I nodded, and he flipped open a folder with a flourish and passed me two sheets of glossy photographs.  "I gotta say, you have a gorgeous liver."  He pointed at the picture, which was indeed a pretty liver as far as livers go, and said, "That is a TEXTBOOK liver.  You obviously take good care of yourself..."

(Here I mentally chortled, remembering mac 'n' cheeseburgers of days gone by)

"...and you were easy to operate on because you're so skinny.  Not a lot of fat to move around."

DR. S I LOVE YOU MARRY ME PLZ

Anyway, so everything looked good: no signs of cancer in the gallbladder or surrounding area, incisions healing nicely with no signs of infection.  "If the surgical glue is bothering you, you can pick it off, or you can just let it fall off naturally."

"Yeah, I'm going with the latter option."

"And if you see a stitch coming out of your navel, just pull it out."

Okay, I retract what I said about not being easily grossed out because

Noticing my look of horror, Dr. S said, "Or you could come in and I'll do it for you, but it'll be like picking a loose thread off a shirt."

(dear god please stop I retract my marriage proposal)

"And if it won't come out easily, then you need to come see me."

He signed the form authorizing me to go back to work on Tuesday, and I sadly bid adieu to my week of recuperation.  No more epic naps or reading five books in one week or computer mah jongg marathons.  No more lounging around the house in my ugly but super comfortable nightgown with no decisions to make other than whether I should nap on the couch or in bed.  Back to a constantly ringing phone and irritating coworkers and paperwork coming out my ass and shifting every two seconds because sitting down for long periods of time makes the waistband of my jeans rub against my navel incision and that's a fat cup of ow.

Le sigh.