Under the knife

I’m having surgery early Thursday morning at Cedars Sinai. An ENT surgeon is going up my nose to remove a nasal polyp. He’s also straightening out my deviated septum to get to the polyp, so I’m getting two surgeries for the price of one.

I’m told it’s pretty routine.

May the gods bless Bill Carroll for saying, “It’s an ENT procedure! What could possibly go wrong?”

I have to sign a lot of forms, and some of them detail some of the things that could go wrong.

There’s a possibility of damage to my vocal cords from the breathing tube.

I could die. Yes, that’s one of the possibilities. 

There’s also the possibility of brain death, but I’m told this wouldn’t preclude me from anchoring the news.

Rimshot.

Actually, all kidding aside, if something were to happen to my brain and I’m not coming all the way out of this, and it turns out machines are needed to keep me alive, PLEASE UNPLUG THE MACHINES. Don’t let them keep my body alive and turn me into a protracted news story. 

I’m totally serious. If my brain is turning to oatmeal and I’m no longer responding to stimuli, turn the damn machines off and let me go.

Back to  kidding mode… I have pre-approved the doctor taking a selfie with me while I’m out. Actually, I’m not kidding. I really did pre-approve a doctor selfie.

And just in case, I’m readying some jokes to tell when I meet Joan Rivers.

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