I have had almost as many surgeries as I have toes, and before each and every one of them I observe this little tradition that began before my very first operation, back when I was a wee girl of eleven. However, this will be the first time I have ever made mention of this tradition – it wasn’t ever anything serious enough to warrant attention, and as a child I always felt a bit morbid about it. I feared that any mention of it would make me appear far too macabre, and for some reason that seemed potentially shameful or embarrassing. Now, however, I honesty don’t give a flying monkey’s behind what people think of it, since in a way I suppose it is rather practical.

    Before my very first operation I laid in bed and looked out across my room filled with toys, trinkets, and playthings. I realized that if should the worst come to pass, no one would know what my final wishes were regarding my earthly possessions. So I quickly scrambled out of bed, pulled out pen and paper, and jotted down my last will and testament. I still remember that night, thinking carefully about what I would like to give to whom. I bequeathed my mammoth Barbie collection to my friends Katie and Elise, and I was going to give my cartoon ducky pajamas to my dear friend David in England (that was a long and silly story; the gift would kind of act as a ridiculous punchline.) I also had separate gifts planned out for each of my brothers, but I don’t remember the exact details. All I remember is that Steven was supposed to get my stuffed animals, because he was always so good at making them dance.

    After I finished my list of wishes, I climbed back in bed with a very pleased sense of maturity washing over me. It wasn’t until this point that I realized how incredibly morbid the whole exercise had been, but I assuaged those worries with the fact that I was being purely practical about the whole thing, and I left it at that.

    The next few operations came along and the ritual continued – the night before I’d write my list of posthumous presents, neatly label it “In the event of my death”, and then go into the operation with it all cleared from my mind.

    But the tradition changed a bit unexpectedly when I was 16 years old and I was facing the amputation of my left toe. I don’t know what sparked this feeling, but for weeks I had this overwhelming sense that I wouldn’t make it through the amputation. Some mistake would be made and that would be that, poof, I’d be gone. So rather than waste my words on simple tallies of who got what, I instead wrote short notes to the people I cared about, and a few that I rather hated. It got to be quite emotional, and really brought home the sense that the things written in these notes shouldn’t be left until it’s too late. But some things spill out so much easier when you know you won’t be around for the reaction. It’s an interesting line in the sand of emotional logic, one very difficult to toe. But at that point, I figured it was pointless to think that way since I’d be gone the next day, so I went ahead and wrote the notes while I still could. Better late than never.

    Obviously my feelings of impending doom were wrong, as I’m quite clearly still here. But ever since that night before the amputation, the adjustment to the tradition has stuck. Now the focus is less about who gets what and more about who needs to hear what from me.

    I decided to go ahead and start writing the list tonight, but I didn’t get very far. It’s a somewhat difficult thing to deal with, these last finite words. What would you say to someone if you could only say one more thing? What would you say to your best friend? Your parents? Your siblings? If you had to boil it down to only a few short sentences, what would you say and how?

    As morbid as this may appear, I love this bizarre little tradition that my eleven year old brain cooked up a decade ago. Getting all of this off my chest, summing up my life and the people who have had such a vast impact on it, helps me to go into a dangerous situation with a clean slate. I’ve spoken my peace, I’ve done my best; should it end, it will end well. It will be as complete as I can make it. And if I am lucky enough to be spared, I will come out with a greater appreciation not only for life, but for the people I love and have choosen to share my precious time with. I’ll have made it to the other side knowing exactly what I need to tell each and every one of them when I see them again.