Going into my first surgery was scary and lonely, even if it was just to get my tonsils out. I’d been putting it off for months. So, I did what any woman who’d spent her childhood writing in diaries would do: I wrote myself a letter.
My plan was to read it after surgery, when I expected to be blackly depressed from the anesthesia. Remember, this dark feeling won’t last forever. I was a little embarrassed by my sentiment, but I was going into the operation already feeling low. I had just returned from an ill-fated trip to England to see if a friend and I could start a romance. While there, I came down with my umpteenth infection, finally accepted that I needed to have my tonsils cauterized, and painfully absorbed another romantic disappointment.