Up until recently, I've honestly never thought about surgeries in terms of success and failure. When you hear about surgeries from friends/acquaintances, its always a matter of fact kind of thing. Yes it happened, and that was that, done and dusted. Only now that reality is staring me straight into my eyes am I slowly beginning to understand.

It's absolutely wild to me that I was asked to designate and authorize someone to make decisions regarding my personal and medical wellbeing. I mean, in an ideal world, shouldn't I always be the one in control? To make the decisions for myself? It's clear to my naive self now that there are situations that this isn't possible.

You always assume doctors will do their utmost best, and it's a perfectly fine and dandy world when this is the case. It's a matter of course. Doctors prioritize their patients, police protect its citizens (pfft), leaders of countries will have the capability and intelligence to effectively govern (kekekekeke). But how do you REALLY know? Like REALLY REALLY know. Honestly sit there and think about it, really really think about it. I've had a shitton of time to think, and it ain't pretty. There's morality, there's conscience, there's duty etc.. But at the end of the day, they have no personal stake in it. It's not their child that's on the operating table, their spouse, their loved ones. Fuck maybe I'm being too morbid, but I guess that's what happens when you're asked to give a name that can decide your life and death.

So.. what can I do? To tip the scales in my favour so to speak. Stack the deck. Rig the dice. You get the point.

It dawned on me. A personal stake. A true and honest incentive.

So... that's what I did. Today when we were getting through all the legalities of everything. Consent, waivers etc. It was the Doctor and myself. He's always been incredibly reassuring, "trust him", "trust his support staff", "trust our skill" etc.. he's honestly incredibly charming and lowkey dilf attractive. Or maybe I'm just victim to the suspension bridge effect, who the fuck knows at this point.

Anyways, getting sidetracked here. Not to toot my own horn, but I'm attractive. I know I'm attractive. When we were talking and he was doing his final bouts of reassurance, I surprised him by placing one hand on his forearm, squeezing it ever so slightly. He was very evasive and flighty (inappropriate as all hell probably), but I clasped my other palm in his, and told him "I believe you. I'll do it (the surgery). I know it'll be a success, and I'll be here to personally thank you again on the other side." I just looked him in the eyes, never breaking my gaze and trying (and likely failing since I've never done anything close to this before? Ahahahahaha) to give my best fuck me eyes impression. So.. yeah. I didn't explicitly say anything, but I did palm him a small little note with my number scribbled on it (which he obviously already has access to) and an adequate number (4 to be precise) of hearts. Hopefully that gets the message across. And maybe (?) he'll text me on his personal phone.. if he does, 100% I'll be giving him nudes I have stored on my phone as a down payment.

As for the message itself.. uhh. I'll be honest and say I'm not entirely sure how far I'm willing to go. The current me? Pretty fucking far. Me after surgery? We'll see.

Sooo.. yeah. That's my shitty plan that desperate powerless me has cooked up after being stuck in a hospital room for god knows how long alone with my thoughts.

Promise to fuck the doctor operating on me if and after the surgery is successfully completed.

God I'm so cooked. I blame that thing in my brain for all this shit.

As an update, surgery has been successful and no contact has been made yet.