Hernia Update

The ultrasound yesterday confirmed what my doc suspected: a lateral tear, about six inches across, no doubt a fairly straightforward mechanical fix. A decent vet could probably do the job with a few strands of horse tail. However, I want The Best, and The Best in this city seems to be Dr. J. Everyone agrees that when it comes to hernia repair, she's The Bomb. She is particularly sensitive about women's aesthetic concerns, and tries hard to minimize scarring. Since my torso is already resembling a Road Map To The Stars, this can only be to the good.


The ultrasound tech is quite beautiful, with wide-set blue eyes, high cheekbones, and porcelain skin. (I want to tell her so, but I'm afraid she'll think I'm making a pass.) She's also exceedingly kind, and seems to know precisely what she's looking for. In short, she's the perfect blend of cool competence and warm reassurance. While she peers into the monitor, adjusts for resolution, and glides the probe across my belly, I can't help but notice that she has hands uncannily like my own.


You see, I have always been very self-conscious about my hands, which really resemble bear cub paws. Like Donald Trump, I'm a "short-fingered vulgarian." I have stronger hands than any female I have ever met. "Those aren't thumbs, those are drumsticks," a boyfriend once exclaimed while we were making love. My hands are so muscular that I blew out the joints during my massage therapy stint -- the muscle literally began to pull off the bone.

But this woman, whose facial features are so fine, has hands like mine, and that thrills me. It's like in some science fiction movie where one Alien identifies Another by a stray and subtle physical trait... Of course I don't share this with her either, because she would think I was even more eccentric than I am.

Today I call Dr. J.'s office, but she's booked solid until mid-August. (Summer must be "hernia season" around here.) That means I will have to postpone the surgery, perhaps until Christmas. It's uncomfortable, more psychologically than physically, but not life-threatening. The opening is too large to strangulate a stray loop of intestine. I've ordered an "abdominal binder" and hope that will keep me more or less together. Yes, Gentle Reader, like some portly Edwardian gent, I am now wearing a truss.

My wardrobe of "support" garments is growing. Between my sagging tits and my protruding gut, will I ever completely disrobe again outside the bath tub?