ablation |əˈblāSHən| noun. The removal of material from the surface of an object by vaporization, chipping, or other erosive processes. In medicine, the surgical removal of body tissue.
Today, I am going in for a nerve ablation. Interestingly, despite what the definition would have one believe, it is not a permanent fix. Apparently, either the nerve will grow back, or a new one will generate in its place. The key is, how long will that take? The egg timer turns over this morning at 8:45 AM. I don’t know how much sand is in it. I could get anywhere from 6 to 12 weeks of relief. Can I make enough headway, with the massage and physical therapies, to loosen the muscles and connective tissues that originally trapped the nerve to begin with? Can I finally—finally—start to heal?
I don’t know what I’m more afraid of: the idea that this won’t work, or the idea that it will. It’s taken me such a long time to adjust to my new state of being, with its curtailed motion, shrunken space, and streamlined action. My life, like my body and my sanity, has been stripped down to the bare bones; no more, no less. I only retain the exact minimum of what I need to do to live, to think, to be. How will I know what to add back in?
And if it doesn’t work, how will I handle that? There’s nothing left to cut away…except my hope. And that is what I cling to the hardest.