Four months ago, I made an appointment to get my teeth cleaned. Two and a half months ago, I made an appointment to see a specialist about a hernia. What are the odds that they would land on the same day? Knowing me, pretty much even. The good news (if news about dentistry and a hernia can be said to be good) is that the appointments were sufficiently separated in time that I could make both.
Oh, yay.
The specialist outlined the operation to deal with the hernia (apparently, it involves a mesh closing a hole somehow – I wasn’t really paying attention after he said the word “operation”). He allowed that, since the hernia wasn’t causing me any pain (it just bloated a part of my anatomy close to my groin), I could avoid the operation if I chose, although if the bloating continued, the bloat could end up the size of a basketball. A basketball, he said! I decided to have the operation; it was either that, or have all of my pants let out! (Although I may have to anyway: because of a backlog, an operation could only be scheduled for six months to a year from now. Tempting as it is, I doubt I could bill OHIP for letting out my slacks.)
Growing old is not for the faint of heart.