In 9 hours, I say sayonara to the two strep-throat houses that live in the back of my throat. I’m not too sad about it. It will be nice to have a school year where I don’t fear strep like the… well… like the plague.

The doctor is also doing a larynxogolocyolyogy- Ok, that’s not the real word. I just can’t remember it. Pretty much he is looking to see if there is a reason for my “husky voice”. Ouch, dude. Hit a lady where it hurts. I know my voice knocks on the low register, but I do the best I can. And I am very loud- it’s one of the advantages of the man-voice I apparently have. Anyways, he’s gonna check that out.

I believe it is Brad who is convinced I will exit surgery with a British accent (I originally wrote the word “accident”- I hope I don’t have a British accident, I don’t even know what that means). He’s a type of doctor, so he should know. What type of doctor, you ask? It’s way too complicated to understand here, so I won’t try to explain it. But if you don’t already, start calling him Doc Willoughby. Not Dr. Willoughby. Doc. He prefers that.

The downside to this whole process is the recovery. So far, survivors have used words like “brutal”, “horrible”, and “extremely painful”. Sweet.

Just say a quick prayer tomorrow. Everything will be fine, but it never hurts to throw one up for a sista under anesthesia.

Being that I’m not allowed to TALK for an ENTIRE weekend (a nightmare in itself), I plan on typing much. And sleeping much. But hopefully I’ll blog at least once while I’m hopped up on big drugs. That should make you happy.