A Celestial Error

There must be some mistake. This is not supposed to happen to me. Maybe to the guy without a mask in the elevator. Maybe to the nasty lady in the front office of my apartment complex. She had my car towed. Twice. Maybe even to you, but not to me.
If it did happen to you, I would be full of compassion and sincerity; I’m good at that. I would check up with you by email and bring food over to your house, do your laundry and run your errands if you could not. I’m good at that, too.
But me? Me should not have to go through a fairly horrifying six-hour surgical procedure that will excise my bladder and prostate and other bits and pieces and rearrange my innards.
After a longish talk with my doctor, I found out the procedure has a two percent mortality rate, i.e., I croak on the table, which would be uncool but possibly painless. There’s a much higher chance of complications ranging from infection or puncturing the large intestine to catching Covid-19 at the hospital. There are ED issues which should not matter but do. I won’t be able to carry or lift heavy stuff for a couple of months, and a hopefully complete recuperation might take up to a year.
So it’s all greatly worrisome. I’m concerned with the painkillers I’ll be given. I had run-ins with drugs some decades ago and I know how easy it is to let that stuff get the better of you. I also know from recent experience that it takes a lot of drugs to make me truly comatose. On two occasions in the past, I’ve woken up during surgery. And then there’s the notion of having what is essentially a plastic faucet coming out of my guts. That’s just weird. What if it leaks? That would look really stupid.
Here’s an interesting bit. Within hours after writing my cancer blog a week ago, I began receiving ads on Facebook for the following:
1. Funeral insurance
2. Life insurance
3. Wheelchairs
4. Flomentum, a prostate health supplement
5. The Mayo Clinic

There were also announcements that I might benefit from the litigation against the Boy Scouts but I’m not sure if that was related.
What it comes down to is that I’m getting cold feet. This is one of those situations that’s scary either way—do something and hurt a lot; do nothing and probably die.
Like I said. This shouldn’t be happening to me.