Patchwork.

One week today I will be on my way into an operating room for some fixing. After sustaining multiple sports related injuries over many years, my knee isn't working so well. The doctor has a good history and certainly does enough of these fixes that I should be calm.

But I am not. I'm nervous. I'm worried. I'm scared. I haven't been able to say these things out loud. Somehow it seems that giving voice to these thoughts will give them substance, something which I continue to refuse. I continue to struggle with understanding why. In fact, I busy myself with other thoughts to deny this one any attention. But rather than diminish, this worry continues to percolate like a rich dark roast. Drip. Drip. Drip.

I'm hoping recovery will be quick with nothing unusual to report. I'm putting together a rehabilitation plan that involves recovery time and some awesome physio. I'm pretending that focusing on the recovery will mask the worry of the actual procedure.