Cut Me Up (Alternate Title: Jawbreaker)

I have my first major surgery on Sept. 19 and I am absolutely terrified. When I say "terrified," I mean that I'm scared enough to puke in my mouth every time I think about being cut open but not so scared to stop joking about dying on the table. (For some reason, Gideon's a real killjoy and never plays along with these jokes. My mother, on the other hand, just laughed and said, "Samantha, you're not going to die." She gets me.)

 I wish I could tell you the operation is some elective plastic surgery, preferably a nose job. I love my dad's family, but I definitely have the Jones nose and I am not pleased with this at all. Unfortunately, my surgery is a run-of-the-mill cyst removal. I have had a cyst, which is currently the size of a golf ball, growing under my jaw line for a while now. Since I know you're all super worried about my welfare, I can confidently tell you to relax.

It is likely benign, or, as my doctor said, "50 percent of the time these tumors are not cancer." Even though I could have cancer, I am not freaking out. Even though the doctor could nick a nerve and forever paralyze my jaw muscles, I am not freaking out. No, I'm fine. On one hand, I could die. On the other hand, I got this rad sonogram of the tumor:

I really abused this poor sonogram. I have been keeping it in my purse, and any time I see someone I haven't shown it to, I exclaim, "Look what I've been growing this summer!" and then thrust the sonogram in their face. People love it. I think. (On a related note, I am going to be the most annoying pregnant woman on the planet. No, Mom, I'm not pregnant. No, Gideon's mom, I'm not pregnant. But when I am someday, I know I will be totally obnoxious about it.)

Where was I? Oh, yes. I'm being cut open in two weeks. I would ask you all to keep me in your thoughts, but you should probably think more about my poor mother and Gideon, who I plan to whine at every minute of every day during my recovery.