Bringing Makeup Bags and a Shower Cap that Washes Your Hair for You is Key
I’m heated. I’m hot. Let’s do this.
One month ago
I thought I’d be writing a very different tone of blog; I thought I’d be
telling you how far I had progressed, that I was enjoying food, that I was
starting to be active, able to go out with my friends, and things were
changing.
This is me though. I should have known I was clinging to the
most dangerous thing in the world – hope.
Hope doesn’t exist in my world; it never should.
I cut on Spotify to listen to
music for the first time in two months today.
If you’ve followed this blog or know me at all, you realize what a
devastating fact this is – music is my life.
It’s how I express my emotion, the things I can’t say, relive the past and
enjoy the present moment. However, I’ve
had to press mute on all playlists for the time being because I don’t
want to associate them with what I’m currently going through and I’m also
struggling to find joy in the lyrics anymore.
This ain’t right.
I’m just over it.
I recently had someone in
healthcare tell me “In 40 years of working in hospitals and with sick people, I’ve
never seen someone with the life or luck you have.” And dammit, I’m tired of
it. I go back to my port debacle – it
literally exploded in my chest, causing stenosis of my heart vessels. There is no medical literature on this. It simply doesn’t happen.
WHY FUCKING ME?!
To everyone saying “lean on
God, he’s got you” and variations of the words, listen – God ain’t got nothing
to do with this anymore. I am truly,
truly trying to find a meaning in the suffering. A long time ago, I was actually grateful for
it. It changed me, it has made me more
thankful for the things that truly matter, I don’t get lost on the first
world problems or petty stuff, so trust me – I am thankful for what it did for
me. However, there’s a point where it’s
got to stop.
I am well past that damn
point.
The two weeks in January I had
where for once, when I was able to monitor my condition with my pain and stomach
medication, are now my worst memories, because they gave me that false sense of
hope that things could be ok. Once
you experience what life could be and it’s ripped away from you, you hate
everything that much more.
I’m confined to a chair for
work, momming, friending, wifing, and all other things. Some days I think people don’t realize how
sick I am because I choose to try to photograph the happy moments; you want to
try to capture yourself at your best, like things could be ok.
So here’s the deal.
I’ll have stomach surgery endoscopically
March 8. Thankfully, this should be a breeze. After that, shit better improve. Because I’m just mad at this point. It’s all I have left to feel.
My child is the most empathetic
person I know, but there is absolutely no reason he should be exposed to as
much as he has been at this point. He
shouldn’t know how to complete a full ostomy bag change, the definition for
stoma, what the hospital machines mean, why Mommy is so sick all the time. He shouldn’t.
This is
purely a rage blog. Sometimes, you gotta
just get your feelings out.
I am listening to “Survive” by
VHS Collection and hoping I can do that, because right now – I just don’t know.
Took this photo on One Good Day
