I Guess That's It, Then

The time has come. I go in for prostate cancer surgery tomorrow.

My doctor, who recently got his license back, says it'll be a breeze. A six-hour breeze.

I've always wondered why they have you get to the hospital at six o'clock in the morning the day of your surgery. I'm not worried about me getting there. I just hope the doctor got plenty of rest the night before. I don't want any dozing off while both his hands are inside me tearing my guts out.

He explained the surgery to me. It's called a robotic process and I wasn't kidding about the doctor getting his license back. It's the one he needs to do this type of surgery.

When I signed my pre-op papers the lady told me he was doing robotic surgeries that day. Good. I'm not the first.

The process involves six or seven "ports" in my abdomen, each about a half-inch long. Then they put tubes in and inflate my abdominal cavity so they can access my prostate. They insert a camera through a "port" just above my navel so they can see what they're doing. In Glorious Color. This port, the doctor told me, will also be the hole they extract my prostate through. I'm assuming they remove the camera first.

They also will "insert" the catheter while I'm under anesthesia. I'm going to ask them to take it out the same way.

I'm not worried about the surgery at all. If I live, I know where I am. If I die, I know where I'm going. And there will only be two types of people at my funeral when I do go. One group to see if there's a party, and one group to make sure I'm really dead.

The entire "procedure" will only cost around $40,000. Forty Thousand Dollars. FORTY. THOUSAND. DOLLARS.

Is the government offering a prostate bailout?