Survive.

 

Just Me in the Hospital for the 3rd Time Already This Year.
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