21.10.10

I've Been Bitch Slapped. And It Ain't Pretty.

I just finished reading Redhead Writing's new Bitch Slap Post: What's Your Excuse? If you haven't been reading Erika, shame on you, and you'd best hurry your little ass on over. She's got amazingly insightful, witty, and brilliant things to say and I aspire to be more like her in my wildest secret dreams.

So here we are. What is my excuse?

Since my boobie scare, I feel like someone kicked me in the gut. If you need to catch up on that tidbit, please go here and here. But if you're like me, you're tired of hearing and thinking about it. Yet I can't seem to stop the obsessive thoughts, the what ifs, the mind wanderings, the dreams.

I feel wrung out like a washcloth that someone's left in a moldy ball in the corner of the shower.

I feel tired, like I haven't slept in a bazillion years. Even though I am sleeping some. Fitfully.

I feel overwhelmed, impatient, gritty like sand. Shallow and cloudy like a wading pool. Hazy and opaque, like looking through a fog, smog, cloud, or into a dirty mirror. Angry smears of thick oil paint slashed across a naked canvas. Their dried, hard, raised ridges. Colors bleeding into one another.

While I was waiting for the MRI and then for its results, I went to the JCC to work out. I swam laps until I couldn't swim anymore. Then I got dressed and wrapped my wet hair in a bun and ran laps around the track until I couldn't run anymore. I was running from myself, from the fear. But I can't run. I can't hide (physically yes, metaphorically, no).

I have to face it. The raw reality of what I've just been through. So why can't I peel myself off the floor now that I'm safe? What is my excuse now? I am getting through my to-do list that Erika talks about, but I'm back to this auto-pilot mode. Half-assed. The reality is I don't deserve any trophy. There are no miracles here. Just plain old me.

And meanwhile I'm pissed that there's this gaping hole in my gut--a hernia--that I am having repaired two weeks from tomorrow. I'm bitch slapping the dick of a doctor who "fixed" it in August of '09 because he was apparently on auto-pilot and doing it half assed. No mesh. So now I have to go back under the knife, inconvenience everyone, and miss exercising for six weeks. I'm pissed. And I feel sapped. How can I go into this surgery feeling beaten down and trodden on, weak, angry?

I'm trying, I really am.
Slowly peeling myself back, piece by piece. After I worked so hard at #CIP to build myself up. And only to trip and fall. Only to get stuck, again.

Help me get unstuck, please.

18.10.10

Today's Post Is Brought To You By The Letters M, R, & I

**If you missed my post about finding a lump in my breast last week, go here first.

I had my MRI at 7:45 this morning. My friend Anne met me there (The Father Load was unable to come) and I am grateful for her moral support. I also invited myself over to my friend Meg's house last week to vent and talk for a while. Thank God for good friends! Anne stayed with me while I got gowned up and they started my IV. Then I had to say goodbye and go down the hall with the nurse.

As soon as I saw the hulking machine and heard its humming my eyes welled up and I started to sniffle. Everything seemed frightfully cold and sterile. I desperately wanted The Father Load. The nurse handed me some headphones so I could avoid freaking the fuck out  listen to music during the procedure. With her help I positioned myself, but it was no easy task since I had to go face down and plant my breasts into two ginormous holes. I lowered my forehead/face onto a hard piece of crappy plastic resembling a tiny toilet seat (which was ironic indeed because I certainly felt shitty). The best part was the giant ridge in between my boobs that jammed into my sternum. All this while keeping my right arm straight because even with a flexible needle, the IV still ached. I finally laid all the way down and the nurse instructed me to remain still as long as I heard loud noises.

Then the whole table slid slowly backwards, sucking me into its gaping mouth, and although I was face down and couldn't see, I sensed my close, cave-like surroundings. Just as Aerosmith came on I started to think it might not be so bad, but then I heard something akin to gunshots. And they wouldn't stop. I couldn't even hear Steven Tyler. Tears came in a rush and soon the snot was dripping off the tip of my nose and it bothered me that I couldn't move to wipe it. My own stale breath came back at me with nowhere to go except the shallow toilet bowl I was looking into.

Then I knew I had to separate from myself or I'd never get through the next 29 minutes.

So I closed my eyes and tried to think good thoughts.

I thought about when we snuggled in bed Saturday morning. The girls made a mommy sandwich, one of them on each side of me. Abby faced me, and I listened to the rhythmic suck, suck, suck of her thumb, and
the whistling of air through her nostrils. She flung her right arm over me and patted me gently as if she sensed I needed that. Izzy was curled into me from behind, quiet, the heat of her breath on my back, her cold feet on the back of my legs. There was no talking for a while, no fighting, just precious moments being insatiably in love with my little girls.

They need me. I can't go anywhere.

Then,
Nothing is going to happen to me right now.

The machine's noises changed and suddenly it sounded as if it was saying "benign," "benign," "benign," over and over again, faster and faster. A high-pitched whinny.

It isn't my time yet, I thought.

I remembered the girls' first lemonade stand over the weekend. A milestone. More work for me, but it was worth it to see them flying to greet each customer, take the order, and run back, sloshing lemonade out of the Dixie cups. Red-faced and sweaty from the sun, we lined them up for sunscreen. In October.


Goofing off with Jacklyn while the adults set up


Some of the girls' friends who joined in the fun!


New knocking noises began, and my right arm got cold as they pushed the contrast solution into my IV. I  shut my eyes hard and thought ahead to this Sunday evening, when I will re-marry my husband. The new ivory dress hanging in my closet in a bag, pressed, waiting for me. We will stand under the chuppah as we did almost nine years ago. There will be cake and champagne and dancing. I can't wait.

Nothing is going to happen to me right now.
It isn't my time yet.

I got a phone call from The Father Load a little while ago. The radiologist reviewed my films and said everything is normal.

Nothing is going to happen to me right now.
Is isn't my time yet.
 

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