For the most part, my mood was relaxed.

I freaked out a little bit and had a few post-traumatic stress disorder flashbacks of that fucking movie from yesterday. This is, to this point, the only thing the hospital did that was anything but top-shelf.

I will withhold their final grade until I get out of the hospital.

We spent the evening signing papers, packing for my hospital stay, and with me laughing at myself while I did one of the two pre-surgical scrubs that were required of me.

The instructions were simple:

1. Use half a bottle the night before and the other half the morning of surgery.
2. Scrub it on and leave it onn for ten to fifteen minutes.
   

Do I really need another shower with this stuff? It was over 70% alcohol. My skin felt like a rhino’s ass, and considering that I am delicate like a flower, sleeping after bathing with this stuff was like covering myself in hot sauce mixed with wood shavings. Nice.

Molly and I just sort of laid there alternating between watching TV and looking at each other. It’s a bizarre thing having a baby literally ready to pop and staring down the barrel at bypass surgery, which would involve stopping my heart for over two hours. As a friend of mine and I realized while talking, it’s “just” bypass when you are hearing about it happening to some dude on the news. When it’s you or someone close to you, it’s more like “HOLY SHIT I’M HAVING FUCKING BYPASS SURGERY WHERE THEY STOP YOUR HEART!!! THEY ACTUALLY STOP YOUR HEART!!!”

It shouldn’t be different, but it is…

I went to sleep around 11am and got a surprisingly good night's sleep, especially considering what lay ahead of us the next morning.