I’ve cleared all the tests and obstacles to my surgery next week.

The final meetings were this morning, a jarring walk-through in the podiatrist’s office, a final series of tests in primary care, more blood to draw,  pages and pages of things to sign, warnings, and possibilities to sit through.

We have lists of medicines I can’t take and what medications I should take and when.

No insulin or blood thinners on surgery day. I can’t wear a wedding ring or any necklace. I have to wear sweatpants that can fit over surgical boots. I will need them for days.

The morning left me understandably tense, a feeling I had all day. Maria is exhausted; there is a lot to process.

It also made me feel that I had made a good decision; I have never wavered from it.

My biggest question is how I’m supposed to get out of the car and into our house with a leg I’m not supposed to walk on or move on for two days.

I cannot let the left leg get wet under any circumstances; the disinfectant wipes are stacked up in the bathroom. We got a bar of surgical soap to use on my foot on the day of the surgery.

And yes, I wondered about the bathroom too.  How will I get there? Dr. Daly says we will work it out.  Doctor Daly is my Surgery Goddess. I believe what she says.

But many people have done it, and I will do it.

(Above, Amy Eldgridge, my primary care nurse.)

Dr. Daly sensed my concern and said I would be given detailed instructions and a walker to move on when I needed to move around safely.

But, she added, it was essential that I not fall or bang my foot into anything. The enemy, she said, was an infection.  That’s the focus; that’s the job.

I’ve got to be super vigilant – ice, elevations, no showers, painkillers, possibly for weeks, and four visits to her office are scheduled for an examination and re-bandaging in the weeks following the surgery. This calls for more discipline than I sometimes have; I can’t let up until the stitches are out and the danger of infection is over. Only then will my recovery be over.

I’m going to write that out and paste it on my computer.

No shortcuts.

We went over every possible problem, including the bandages weakening or coming off.

Dr. Daly is ordering extra strong bandages and splints to keep the surgical boot on my foot day and night for weeks (the boots often come off when I thrash around at night, which I do.)

We’ve covered all the ground, given blood, laid down for x-rays, heard all the warnings, and signed all the legal documents swearing that I understand I might die and that the surgery may not work. There was a list of about 80 things that could go wrong. I signed all of it.

The good news to me is that all of my tests showed an older man who is healthy – my diabetes was well under control, my heart was beating strongly, my organs and liver and kidney in excellent shape, and my blood pressure was a little high,  and no signs anywhere of anything resembling cancer. My circulation is good, especially given my diabetes.

I heal quickly from wounds.

The Covid symptoms are losing their grip.

Amy is pleased with my progress. I’ve even lost a good deal of weight.

“You look good,” she said.

This was sweet to hear for many reasons, given that people have been approaching me or messaging me for weeks as if I was about to drop dead momentarily.  I appreciate good wishes and concern; I recoil from pity.  I have old burdens to bear.

I could never thank Amy enough for being such an excellent doctor and friend, patient and stern with me. When I get my back up, she says, “Oh, is this the resistant Jon?,” and just pushes right past me. She always wins. She’s always right.

She told me this morning that the best thing to do is not to resist another blood test or complain about it. The wisest thing to do is go and get it. She looked at Maria when she said this and Maria looked at me.

We went right to the lab for a blood test. If I am fortunate to have a doctor like Amy, I am even more fortunate to have a wife, friend, and partner like Maria. Trusting someone so wholly and loving her so deeply is a gift. This week, I will lean on her.

Still, something like this often makes me feel somewhat disassociated from the wider world, and this is because I am. When people feel sorry for me, I start to feel sorry for myself or wonder if I should. I grew up with so much drama I am allergic to it.

In recent years, I’ve split into at least two parts – physical and spiritual. It’s a constructive way to be older.

The physical part is an older man suffering from aging man things – heart trouble, diabetes, sore knees, a kidney stone, a nasty big toe,  and sleep apnea. In a way, they are all serious. In a way, they are almost normal.

The physical me believes that losing my big toe is life, not a crisis. I am not as upset about it, and I sometimes think people expect me to be. When people ask me how I am, I always refer to the spiritual self and answer honestly, “I am fine.” Yet that is not what a lot of people wish to hear.

The spiritual me seems happier than ever, deeply engaged in my life, deeply in love, and content on my farm with my blog and photography.

The physical me has surgery next week and another – the kidney stone – a month later. The spiritual half really is excellent and increasingly healthy.

People my age are no strangers to doctors or hospitals. An ever-enterprising medical world has something for everybody, even long past the time when it is healthy or rational.

It’s up to me to keep that in check and under a lot of thought and scrutiny. I have no concerns about the toe and will be more mobile, safer, and healthier when it is gone.

So, all in all, I’m ready. The preparations are over. I thank everyone for all of the good and sincere wishes. They do mean something to me.

We postponed our shopping trip until tomorrow; we were too drained. I have a dozen calls to return in the morning, more things to sign, more dots to cross, more details to absorb, and more preparations to make.

It’s all good.

The truth is, I love life, and I can’t help it.

And getting my toe chopped off is life personified.