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In order to figure out how bad my newly acquired hernia was, my doctor recommended a CT scan of my abdomen. Luckily, there’s a place to get one right in my building, so I was able to schedule it without missing more than 15 minutes of work. There was a required drink to prep for the procedure, a thick orange flavored milkshake like thing, infused with barium or something, to provide contrast against the backdrop of my organs. I’d have to consume more there, I would learn, which was all I could have after lunch that day.

The procedure itself was painless, which entailed having to lay still on a table and periodically hold my breath while this machine whirred around me, taking detailed pictures of my inner minutiae. The next day, the doctor’s office called to tell me that the hernia was small, less than 3 centimeters in length and that, fortunately none of my organs were popping through, only a little subcutaneous fat. I was told that I could let it go unless it began to bother me, at which point, minor surgery would be needed to correct it.

I thought about it for a few days, then called to schedule the surgery. Although it didn’t hurt or bother me much, it was uncomfortable to push in the extruded fat back into my stomach cavity. I feared it would get worse, and not knowing how long that would take, I’d rather take my chances with a small scar and known risks than waiting. I met with a surgeon who I’d previously assisted with something in my professional life. He’d given me a small gift for my car obsessed son, and was incredibly kind and knowledgeable about what I wanted done. We discussed our timeline and put the procedure off until the fall, after our travel was done, so that I would be able to lift the boys as needed. At the time this post goes live, my surgery will be done in a week or so. Update will follow, as long as I don’t die.

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