Great! I made it!
Living my life in pain, physically and emotionally.
Ladies, you know when you're hormonal, and it is more than wanting to gorge on chocolate and cookies? When you're... hormonal???
Put that on 11. Then imagine it on 12. That's me.
I'm pretty sure that I react way more extremely than other women. I just said today that I would love to find a way to be LESS in touch with my body. I don't want to know, now that I know, that these little aliens are growing in my uterus (3), along with a polyp on my ovary. Yeah, I'm a female dart board.
I'm grateful that I knew something was wrong. But, someone please tell my body to not feel it as I wait for a procedure(s) to be scheduled. Luckily, it's the holidays, so nobody is reachable. Because, life stops for the stupid lit up ball to drop for all of the folks who have been corralled in Times Square for 24 hours without a bathroom. I sure hope they were giving out Adult Diapers. Get back into life!
This is ruining my life right now. It makes me go back to some thoughts I've had earlier in my illness, that perhaps this is our bodies way of softening the blow if we do croak. I mean, when folks say "I'm so glad that he/she is not in pain anymore. He/she is in a better place. I'm happy that he/she is not suffering anymore, and neither is their family".
I get it. Shoot me in the forehead and please don't miss - because I want to be pain free, in a better place, and to have my family no longer suffer.
Seriously, though, is there a hypnotist who can hypnotize the pain from my brain? Isn't there a switch? Hubby always wants me to take advil, but I think of that as a last ditch trick. Because it is toxic. Advil side effects are FUN! And even Forbes got in on the fun!
Yep. I'll stick to my home remedies as much as I can stand.
But then, there are our families.
My husband bears a lot of weight now. He is afraid for my pain, but also how it affects my INSANITY. It's like I'm back on Tamoxifen. This insanity was a side-effect, so I can only imagine that it's connected via the other side effect of uterine thickening as well as creepy shit growing on the walls. I mean, women go through phases of uterine changes every month, in different ways. But this is nonstop, ongoing pain. Tell me exactly how I am supposed to keep smiling and carrying on like a good, obedient woman?
Would I actually pull a Bobbitt? Ew.
But, life is really trying. I need to be locked in a cage with some really good chocolate and sleeping pills. Because I don't know how I'll get from here to there.
Not every waking moment is painful. Just most of them. The problem, of course, other than the actual pain, is the fact that it's hard to hide. I often hide tears behind sunglasses, or I walk a bit hunched over to try and relieve some of the pressure (how that happens, I have no idea. It may be in my head, and that's fine). I try and live an anti-inflammatory life. Of course, I have to run out and get almond milk because I'm out and am literally dying for a cup of golden milk, but the cow stuff will most likely muck up the anti-inflammatory process.
It's funny. No, not haha funny. I live my life so clean, and then the crud keeps growing in me. I know that what I'm doing is helpful, but it makes me want to surrender. Get the white flag, let's make arrangements for my memorial. I want to be cremated. I don't want a big whoop-dee-doo, and I certainly don't want a bunch of cut flowers at this party. Bring potted plants. Hey - how about exchange them at the end of the shindig? Everyone bring home a potted plant and remember that cut flowers smell like a funeral, and are a waste of cash, and are depressing. Make it a pot-luck. Cook your favorite dish. If you can't cook, bring my husband some really nice whiskey and stuff. Bring my daughter anime stuff. Order pizza - whatever. Just have a good time. It's not a talent show, or a place to say "I knew her so well" when you're just trying to get a gig from someone else who might be there.
I get pretty cynical when I see folks dying, and others vying for the coveted handouts from the closet, or the foot stompers who don't get enough from the will (ps. I'm broke). It's like, we are waiting for you to die so we can fight over your handbags.
Ain't nobody fighting over mine. They go to my daughter. Someday, she may want to carry them. And if not, hubby can help her ebay them and put some money away for college.
What do we leave behind, really? We leave memories. A whiff of perfume that a long lost love wore can bring out an unscripted emotion. The block-away-doppelganger who, upon closer inspection, is actually a cross dresser, or at least, nothing like your loved one gone too soon. A snippet on the supermarket muzak that reminds us of some dumb excursion that once was shared and laughed about. Nothing at all. Nothing can remind us of everything.
I still see my mother. She has now been gone 24 years and 5 months. I hear her. I smell her.
Where is she when I need her??? Because she's here, but she's not taking. I only hope that she doesn't feel guilt for this disease we share.
No comments:
Post a Comment