On the eve ...

Those of you who have been following here long enough may have noted
that I haven't written the usual survivor's guilt post. The reason is
very simple, I don't consider myself a survivor yet.

On the eve of the Insider's appointed birth day, I feel very much like
I'm a contestant in one of those '80s game shows. Lot's of glitter
and gold on the set, the host has a bad toupée, his lovely assistent
is showing plenty of cleavage and pearly white toothy smile and the
male voice-over Speaks With an Odd IntonatioooooN!!!

I've made it through to the finals and am now standing in front of the
Door With The Prize (the door with the blinking lights around it). But
there's no telling what is behind it (not the washer-dryer combo,
please!). It could be Cloud Number Nine. But it could also be the Deep
Dark Pit of Despair. Most likely it will be some combination of both,
usually with more of the former than of the latter.

The only way to find out is to open the door and walk through. You'll
understand my palms are getting a bit sweaty as I eye the handle.
Though I am nervous (and so is DH) there is also a great sense of
excitement and fortune at having made it this far.

The C-section is supposed to take place tomorrow afternoon, we weren't
given an exact time. I'm pretty sure the hospital doesn't offer
internet yet, so I'll be off line for my entire stay, probably a week.
I will send word to Nina by text message, though don't expect news too
early in the day. We may temporarily forget how to operate one of
those cordless distance talking contraptions.

Thank you for all the well wishes and see you on the other side.