Control what I can control. Because I am, admittedly, a bit of a control person.

So here are the things I can control.

• The food I put in my body.
• The music that sets my mood.
• My preparation.
• My attitude.
• My daydreams.

I am visualizing walking into the hospital on Wednesday and saying, “Let’s go.” Or something much wittier. I am far better with clever humor in the moment, so I am confident something brilliantly hilarious will surface right on cue.

Then the daydream continues.

An easy IV. Happy drugs. The surgeon drawing smiley faces on my boobs so she knows what she is cutting off. I say this because all of my previous surgeries involved a pre-surgical Sharpie session where the surgeon marked a big X like a treasure map. But since I only have two and they are both clearly saying “see ya later,” I am guessing she will not need her marker this time.

In my mind, I wake up from surgery pampered like a princess. Fed Jell-O. My doting husband delivering whatever I request on demand. The drains are a non-issue. The pain is minimal. The expanders look normal. The pathology comes back all clear.

This is where my head lives.

It is the fake-it-till-you-make-it scenario. I visualize where I want to be and gently sidestep some of the stickier details that I know will spiral me if I stare at them too long.

The doting husband, thankfully, is not a daydream.

I also try to control my nighttime thoughts. I am not an anxious person by nature. It is not really in my DNA. But when the day quiets down and my brain has free reign, that is when it tries to wander into places I do not want it to go.

So in my mind, I fly. Kind of like Soarin’ at Epcot.

I literally picture myself gliding over every place I have ever loved. The top of Mauna Kea in Hawaii. The sparkling lights of the Eiffel Tower. The cobbled steps of Florence eating my favorite pistachio gelato. The canals of Amsterdam. My favorite jerk chicken shack in Jamaica. I revisit them one by one until my body relaxes and sleep finds me.

That is probably where I will be mentally as I drift into an IV-induced sleep on the OR table.

But I am as prepared as I can be.

The recliner is ready – the super cool kind that lifts me completely up like I’m in a senior home. The blankets are stacked – exceptionally fuzzy ones that my amazing hubby sourced for me. Friends and family have sent goodies and prayers. Wednesday is just two days away.

I am holding it together. Until someone asks me in person how I am doing.

Then… waterworks. As long as we avoid that question, I am aces.

My husband has his “to call” list ready so he can text everyone who loves me once I am out. My boys know the plan. They are first on the update list and they will be the first call I make once I’m out of my anesthesia stupor.

My therapist asked if I wanted to write my boobs a letter, thanking them for all the ways they have provided over the years. I declined. She is full of amazing suggestions. This one did not quite land.

However, I have been telling them goodbye out loud before I get into the shower for months now. So I suppose that is my version of a love letter. Simple. Efficient. Very on brand.

I do slightly regret not spending the last few days in full self-care mode. I definitely missed the boat on a spa day, a massage, a facial, or some dramatic retail therapy.

Instead, I have spent it exactly how I always do. Breakfast with my family. Debating the merits of the many varieties of jellybeans that exist in the world today. Watching reruns of Schitt’s Creek and Survivor.

Super normal. Super me.

While the world will not stop on Wednesday at 7:30 a.m., I know mine will pause for a bit.

There are things I cannot control.

• I cannot control the pathology report.
• I cannot control how my body heals.
• I cannot control how long recovery takes.

But I can control how I walk in.

I can control what I focus on.

And I can control the trust I choose.

And if you have made it this far in following along with my journey, I would love one small thing.

When you think of me that morning, send up a prayer or a positive thought not for me, but for my surgical team. They are the steady hands. I am just the control enthusiast along for the ride.

Because sometimes control means trusting someone else to take it from here, and knowing that faith carries the rest.