This time tomorrow, my lovely triple-moon tramp stamp will have been sliced open so that a surgeon could mess about in my nerve roots and yank out a ruptured disc and some angrily deformed bone. I'll have a shiny new piece of bio-compatible plastic to space the L5 vertebra up from my tailbone. Then they'll fuse. Eventually. In a very long time. Dr. Orphanos is confident that I'll wake up with zero leg pain: No more stabbies. Of course, my surgical wound is going to be an evil sonofabitch, but it will be a finite evil that I can conquer.
And I shall awake, in the words of my clever Souster, Frankenspine.
The contest for the art calendar will wait a while, as I've failed to plan and will be just a nit busy this week. See you on the other side of anaesthesia. And I just can't let this go: my atheist brother is praying for me. Teehee. Well, he said, "We'll pray," so he probably meant, "Aunt P will pray and I will comfort myself with the probability that you'll improve greatly."