The Dreaded Follow Up.

I have my next visit to the hospital tomorrow for my operation ‘follow up.’ I’m nervous because I don’t know what a ‘follow up’ is. I hope that he will say ‘You’re doing fine. Go away and never darken our hallowed corridors again.’ What I fear is that he might want to consign me to a regime of three-monthly visits to screen for this and test for that and consider the possibility of such and such.

That wouldn’t suit me at all. The road ahead would no longer be a blank canvas, but a tainted thing spattered with unsightly ink blots comprising screens and tests and procedures. I would feel that I was being tethered to one of those expanding dog leads which give the animal the delusion of freedom until its human decides to reel it in. I would become a fish being constantly caught and thrown back, caught and thrown back. That would not sit at all well with my need of freedom.

And then, of course, there is also the issue of the new condition which I will need to tell him about and hopefully receive a diagnosis which won't make me want to die. What will he tell me, I wonder. Dark possibilities loom menacingly in my imagination and make me a little more than uneasy. Time will tell, no doubt, and no doubt I will reveal whatever is within the bounds of propriety to reveal in due course.