The Christmas Ovaries

I recently had to make another visit to The Land That Fashion Forgot. I was scheduled for an oophorectomy, which is a complicated medical term that means, "removal of the oophs." Knowing I would have to again wear the lovely post-operative footwear, this time I went with a retro '60's theme, sporting flared yoga pants and Birkenstocks.

Turns out there's a reason the mantra went, "Peace, love, and flower power," and not, "Peace, love, and compression hose."

Even the original hippies, who did so much LSD they can't even remember the entire decade, had enough sense not to wear anything like this.

Anyway. The Hubster was his usual compassionate self (and by compassionate, I mean putting his beer within easy reach in the fridge so I didn't have to bend over when I fetched it for him).

I had to have an electrocardiogram prior to surgery, and you can imagine my surprise when the test showed that I had suffered a heart attack at some point in the past. (This is not such great health news, but it is an excellent parenting tool for guilt inducement. "Are you TRYING to give me another heart attack?!") I should have known better to expect concern when I told Hubster about the test. His response to the news was to clutch his chest and yell, "Haht attaak!" a la the late Chris Farley's Saturday Night Live character, a Chicago sports fan having a major cardiac event.

And the tender loving care really kicked in postoperatively. When I put my hand over my lower abdominal incision to splint it for coughing, Hubster asked, "What's that, your Michael Jackson impression?"

My sister wasn't much better. She asked me if I had kept the removed parts for posterity, and that I should have had them bronzed.

No worries. The tradition of the Christmas Pickle is a lovely one, but you'll never come to our house and hear, "Hey, there's a special surprise for the first person who finds TC's ovaries on the tree!"