So long, little invader

My brother called me on the way home from the hospital to ask "So, was it your long-lost twin?"

To which I replied: "Yes. Poor Aron (I meant Jesse Garon, but heck, I just had surgery). I will bury him next to the swimming pool."

When you are born into a medical family, a dark sense of humor isn't unusual. I find the same is true of police detectives. My brother, sister-in-law, husband and I once spent a magical day in Memphis (before any children arrived in our lives), where we managed to go to one of Al Green's church services, see the Peabody ducks, eat brunch at Sun Studios, dance to an old-school soul quartet that wore pink jackets on Beale Street and visit Graceland - all within 24 hours. I remember Elvis' family graves looking remarkably like they are next to a swimming pool. Oh, the places you'll go (or revisit) thanks to "twilight sedation."

So, I am home after a gob of something has been removed from my body, with a bar of lovely franken-stitches on my leg and a bottle of Vicodin. Whee.

The something was larger than the surgeon expected, but he seemed unconcerned that it was any kind of super baddie after eyeballing it. Of course, I won't be at ease until the pathology reports come in next week with the all clear.

Meanwhile, thanks for all of the good vibes, prayers and Jedi mind tricks. They really helped put me at ease.