Tomorrow I’m going under the knife. Nothing serious. I’m having a
lipoma removed, a small, fatty mass I discovered about eight years ago
on my sternum. I decided a few weeks back to finally take care of it
because I’m sick and tired of feeling it and worrying that maybe, just
maybe, it’s something more serious. (There’s a statistically TINY chance
that a lipoma will develop into Cancer.)

Truth be told, I just want to get rid of it, be done with it for good.

So on Monday I went to the hospital for my  "pre-testing" appointment. A secretary took down information about me. Insurance. Address. Phone number. Allergies. Emergency contact. That
sort of thing.

Then it came time for the Health Care Proxy. On a small white card, I
had to appoint someone to be, in the words of the proxy, my health care
agent who will make all health decisions for me if I become unable to
decide for myself if my agent knows my wishes, decisions about
artifical nutrition and hydration. It said on the card that the proxy will remain in effect
indefinitely, unless I revoke it or state an expiration date.

Whoa. That was sobering. For the most part, I’d been downplaying this
minor surgical procedure. It’s an in and out kind of thing.  In at 8:30
a.m. out by 2 pm. What could go wrong? My surgeon comes highly respected.
Yada. Yada.

But sitting at the desk with that secretary, I knew I was making this
incredibly important, life and death decision. And it got me thinking
about all sorts of life and death stuff. And that just wasn’t what I wanted to be thinking about on Monday morning at 11:30.

But I got there real fast. I wrote my husband’s name on the white card
and started to  visualize him making important decisions for me when I
no longer could.

Hideous, awful, morbid thoughts floated through my mind. Never seeing
my children again.  My husband. My sister. My parents. Family. Friends.
My therapist.

Never again would I see Third Street, Northern California, Florence, Monhegan Island,  Riverside Drive, a painting by Cezanne, Rothko, a photograph by Irving Penn, Atget, Hugh Crawford.

Wouldn’t hear Billie Holiday sing, Suite Bergamasque by Debussy, Joni Mitchell’s Blue, Guys and Dolls, Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited, Schubert lieder…

As these thoughts passed through my mind, I casually filled out the
card like it was the most normal  thing in the world. A school form.
An application. A petition.

But there I was, deciding who would be my proxy if I was no longer,
unthinkably, able to make a decision.  Unable to think. Not conscious.
Not around…

Denial is a good thing. I just went about my business writing out our
address, phone number. "Do you want his cell phone number," I asked
cheerfully thinking that it might be useful if they needed to find my husband in an emergency. "No that won’t be necessary," she said.

It was as if I was talking about someone else. Someone else’s healthcare proxy, someone’s else’s…

Then I noticed the Organ and/or Tissue Donation Donation section and
suddenly I felt quite excited. A good friend of ours needs to have a
kidney transplant sometime in the next year or two. Excitedly, I
checked off the box that said: "any needed organs and/or tissues."
Below that there was a space to write specific instructions. I asked
the nurse if I could specifiy who I wanted to give my kidneys to. I
must say, she looked a little baffled. "No one’s ever asked me that
before," she said. She thought for a moment. "Sure go ahead," she said.

So I wrote down my friend’s name. Give my kidneys to __________  And underneath that I wrote his phone number.

It felt really clear. Name, phone number. All set. Suddenly I felt so much better about something
really awful happening to me when I go under the knife. I’d be able to
help a good friend out, that is, if  our blood types are compatible and
his body will accept my kidneys.

When I was done with the paperwork, a nurse took my blood. I winced a bit but didn’t  really mind having a needle stuck into my skin. When she put the
Band Aid on my arm, she asked, "Do you know how to get to Loehman’s on
Seventh Avenue?"

This took me by surprise and took my mind off the health care proxy and
Wednesday’s minor surgery. "Just take the number 6 train to Union
Sqaure. Walk over to Seventh Avenue or you can take a crosstown bus.
What are you shopping for at Loehmans…" I said.

Then my mind was elsewhere. Oh the small details of life that divert
and distract us from the bigger things from time to time.

Such a good thing. Really.