Author: yappity

Emerging Optimist. Current Depression/Cancer Survivor. Possible Wino. Tree/Animal Hugger. Mom. Wife. Daughter. Friend.

When The Moon Fills Up

I began my last post by mentioning depression and then proceeding to sift through thoughts about housework. I know that I said my last post wasn’t about depression, but the truth is that it sort of was. Not only did Housework and Resentment manage to become fused in my head over the years, but so did Depression. It’s a trio now, really.

So, even though I want to continue with my dig through thoughts on Housework, Depression (the thing that has its’ chains wrapped about most subjects in my life) piped up louder today.

Strangely, I was thinking about it because I was wondering why, this morning, after two days of sinking down, I suddenly felt a little better.

Is it because my hubs seems ever so minutely, a miniscule bit,  better? (He did manage to stay out of bed more yesterday. Did manage to joke around with the kiddos. Actually started a conversation with me. Sadly, it was my turn to listlessly respond with a shrug and nod of the head).
Is it because it’s stopped raining and the sun is peeking out? Is it because I dragged myself into the company of others? (What came first? My feeling better, or being around other people making me feel better? Hard to tell. Maybe one reinforced the other….I surprised myself by going to that meeting.) Is it because the alcohol I consumed New Year’s Eve has managed to progress out of my system? Is it because I’ve been drinking more water? I got more sleep?

And here’s what suddenly struck me. Having Depression, or any other sort of mental illness, is a bit like……being a werewolf.

There have been many, many, myriad ways of trying to describe Depression, but in the spirit of the trendy, societal fascination (which for the record, I don’t entirely get…) with vampires and zombies and other supernatural fantastical creatures, I offer up this comparison of what it is like. Maybe some will be able to relate to it better.

It’s like being a werewolf.  Or a zombie.
It’s a secret identity. A double life.

While being depressed, it’s entirely possible to go about your life, to work, to school, to functions, to parties!….and seem like a perfectly “normal” person. You’ve got a huge smile on your face. You can laugh. You can joke.
You can actually feel pretty okay. Or, at least think  you do. Pretend to.

When you get home, – if, by any chance, you actually managed to LEAVE the house – when you get away from others, that “normal’ mask can fall right off. All the energy of “being a normal person” can be completely depleted.  You are drained. Seriously. You feel like you’ve been embalmed. Or petrified. You know you are alive somehow, but you just don’t feel it. Blood doesn’t feel like it’s flowing in your veins anymore. Your brain registers all sorts of things, yet you can’t manage the energy to take care of any of it. You transform into a zombie who shuffles off to the succor of a darkened bedroom and covers to pull over your head and shut the world out.  Everything has lost meaning. A part of your brain registers that things SHOULD have meaning. But somehow, the rest of your brain is in mutiny and refuses to believe it.  Or your mind starts eating itself; it starts smearing toxic thoughts all over the place, rendering you immobile from the resulting self-hatred. This is my husband’s transformation. He’s turned into a zombie lately.

I think it was my transformation a few years ago as well, when I was feeling pretty suicidal.  Many an afternoon was spent in bed, feeling like an insect pinned to a board. It was definitely me in my younger days and earlier episodes. I slept. Rather, half-slept…. you kind of go in and out of slumber, but never out of bed….A. LOT. You turn into the walking dead. Or the reclining dead, as the case may be.

These days, now that I’m “better”, meaning that I deal with it better and have some meds that help, I feel more like a werewolf.  It’s a chronic condition for some, like me.

My depression can rise like a tide. Once in a full, blue moon, you can say. Especially now that I’m dealing with my husband’s ongoing battle.
The zombie is agitating the werewolf, for sure. But, I suppose that can’t be avoided.

The werewolf manifests itself by overwhelming the veins with a rising tide of negative emotions, heart with so much despair, that  – despite having interacted with the outside “normal” world like a “regular human” – when home, out of sight of the general public, it throws you on the floor of a dark closet, howling into a pillow and sobbing in uncontrollable mental and, strangely physical, pain; your vision clouded over with nothing but stress and paranoia; your ears stuffed with nothing but the nasty, cruel, scolding of a monster that knows you intimately. It seizes you and twists your heart and kicks you in the ribs and hisses mean things in your ear, and makes you cry, and cry, and cry. It can go on for a day or two…or three.

And the day after that? The werewolf is suddenly …. gone. You look around and things seem …okay. A little, anyway. Things seem do-able. Your seizure is over. And you, a little wobbly, venture back out.

POST-SCRIPT:
If having depression is like being a werewolf or a zombie, then
having ADHD must be like being a Tasmanian Devil.
Anything can set off the Tasmanian Devil, at any time. Seemingly completely random stuff….
My son has ADHD.
He just returned home, found me in here, in the den, and proceeded to rant at and berate me about how “this has been the WORST winter break EVER!!” because we didn’t do x, y, or z…even though at the time of doing “x”, he said he didn’t want to go, or doing “y”, he was too busy…or when “z” was suggested, he wasn’t much interested….
A Tasmanian Devil with selective memory.

 

 

 

Current State of My Union

My husband is deeply depressed. Deeply. Depressed.
I, myself, have fought depression almost all of my life and feel like I am dancing on the edge of it every day.
Thank God my medicine works for me! What a couple, right?
He’s my soul mate. But sometimes that can cause some problems.
Our poor kids. They’ve got a pretty crappy gene pool really…Mental Illness, Cancer, Diabetes, Crohn’s Disease….
And although (thank GOD and knock on wood!) they haven’t displayed any terrible signs of trouble – aside from ADHD and a little Anxiety…I’m noticing how our depression is affecting them. And it needs to stop. It’s needed to stop for some time now; they miss out on so much because of us.

Anyway. This post isn’t about all that. Not directly anyway.

It is New Year’s Eve and I’m trying to get my head around a bunch of stuff because I really need to pull myself together. Things are getting to me big time.  Again. And I’m really tired of this waltz.

I’ve decided that I’m going to do what everyone else does on New Year’s Eve and try to make a new start on a new year. Not that it’s ever worked for me in the past, but whatever. Hope springs eternal. Even when you are slightly depressed.

So, I am permitting myself to indulge in some junk food (Cool Ranch Doritos) and some Prosecco (Hey! Don’t judge the combo…) this evening as I wait for the old year to roll on out (good riddance!) and my new year of (hopefully) better habits to roll in (which will, obviously,  not include junk food or alcohol).  Oh, and better luck! PLEASE PLEASE let some better luck come on in!!!

I’m just going to proceed to spew some thoughts I’ve been having lately; some musings that have replayed and jangled around my head about a particular subject. And I’m probably not going to exhaust them all just now.

I’m trying to find my way. I’m needing to readjust my perspective, and to do that, I’ve got to figure out what my perspective is to begin with.

So.
I’ve been obsessed with Housework for some time now. And not because I love it.

For the record: I never wanted to be a Housewife in the strictest terms. I do not enjoy housework. I do not enjoy cooking.

I do enjoy kids, however. I find them pretty adorable. I do enjoy living in a clean environment as well.

Hence, a dilemma: I don’t like to clean or cook BUT I do like being a mom and I like a clean environment.

(Unfortunately, we do not have the income to afford maids and cooks. Never have; probably never will…)

I think this subject has been at the forefront of my mind ever since I became a stay-at-home mom, around 2001.
(Geez. I wish there were a less awkward term, or another term that isn’t so archaic as “housewife” or “homemaker”…. And, weird, how those two terms should make me bristle. I think I blame it on being a product of the feministic 60’s and 70’s. And, yes, for the record, I consider myself a “feminist”. I am a woman and I like having legal rights. But, I digress…..)
I envisioned a clean, comfortable, tidy, pleasant, home for my children. Toys being scattered about was a given.
Stickiness and dirt and pet-hair and dust and food debris and sour laundry didn’t factor into my vision so much.
Or who would be responsible for IT ALL getting taken care of.
I was just going to be there for my kiddos and play with them and feed them and read to them and and love them and keep THEM clean, at least.
So, I did my best doing those things I felt were essential to my children. Making sure they had my attention and trying to revel in that particular time of special baby-smell and coos and grins and socializing.
I tried not to let the state of my house bother me.
I was, in fact, told not to let the state of my house bother me, by more experienced mothers. Told I should enjoy the various stages of their early development. “Quit worrying about the house!”, I was admonished by many.
Not to mention, I was also very, very, tired. Breastfeeding, diaper-changing, laundry, etc. etc.
My hubs worked.
He was exhausted when he came home. He had a god-awful one to one and a half hour commute every day.  So he usually was DONE by the time he got home. Done for the day.
Still, I felt terrible about the state of the house.
To the point that I didn’t want to invite anyone over.
Because, everyone else’s house always looked nice. At least, presentable.
And they had little ones too.
Maybe not as many pets as us (at least 3 to 4 dogs and 3 to 4 cats at any given time). Yeah. That’s a lot of work too.  Litter boxes. Poop scooping. Vacuuming. Feeding. Playing. Exercising. Not that I was great about getting to all of that either….after all, I also had the kids. Lots of love to go around. Just not a lot of energy. (Needless to mention, our dogs are not the most well behaved….but I digress again)
I was 35 when I had my daughter. 38 when I had my son.

Oh, and I never had that “nesting” impulse while I was pregnant. 9/11 occurred in the weeks leading up to my first child’s birth and I was a bit distracted and distraught over what kind of world we were bringing a child into. And I think I mentioned that I’ve struggled with depression too, did I not?

Anyway. Housekeeping has always been a huge chore to me.
A. CHORE. An all day, all-encompassing, hold-your-nose and do-it CHORE.
I was an only child of working parents. A latch-key kid. And, truth-be-told, despite my problems, a pretty good kid….for the most part.
So, while mom and dad were working, who was responsible for helping out with the housework?
When I was in junior high, beginning in 6th grade, I would come home to an empty house, usually pretty upset about something or other, my depression was setting in, and get a call from my mom, checking in on me and then giving me a list of things I needed to do, like vacuum or dust or pick up or clean the bathrooms or whatever she needed help with. Set the table for dinner. Doing my homework was also a given. The grown-up me understands. The youthful me just felt like Cinderella. It continued throughout High School. I was not allowed to leave the house until all my chores were done. Until all the drudgery had been taken care of. Including the weekends. And I still can recall having some of it being criticized when I rushed through it. Streaks on the bathroom mirrors?! Heaven forbid!

Did I always do my chores? Always do what I was told, on time, on a regular basis? Hell NO! Because I was a kid!! I resented the HELL out of missing out on meeting up with friends  because I had to clean the house! and I absolutely hated the guilt trips and the arguments (as I’m absolutely certain my mom did too) when I didn’t do it and shirked it off.

Housework and Resentment soon became close and intimate associates.  And they have remained so until this day.  This is what I need to examine. This is the partnership I think I need to destroy somehow.

 

Everything Stops

There are certain moments in life when it seems that everything comes to a jolting stop.

Your heart quits beating. You forget how to breathe. All the chatter bouncing around in your head is silenced. There is only one phrase that exists in front of your eyes.

This post is not about me.

My husband and I are sitting in the doctor’s office, waiting for him to meet us. A typical doctor’s office in Houston’s Medical Center. There is a large mahogany desk, covered in various reports, next to a window, stretching wall to wall and almost ceiling to floor, that overlooks a local university, surrounded by mature live oaks, underneath which people are jogging, cars are passing, med students are hurrying back from lunch break. Various framed portraits of dear family members are featured: the doctor on the beach surrounded by a lovely wife and three lovely kids; the children, two girls and a boy with braces, smooshing their pre-teen, giggling, faces together for the camera. A close family. A happy family. A family excitedly moving into the future.

I’m nervously shaking my leg up and down because I’ve been waiting anxiously for this appointment. We both have. We want to have some reassuring answers to why I’ve been having the symptoms I’ve been having.

The doctor is really busy this afternoon. So, I do what most of us do these days, I pull out my iPhone and start scrolling through Facebook to pass the time. My husband and I have run out of things to talk about and frankly, we are somehow too nervous to continue; we’ve fallen into that married-for-many-years silence.

I scroll past the pictures that my old college friend in the Midwest had recently posted of herself and her daughter, who is at the tail end of her teen years, who looks so much like her mother, on a vacation in the Pacific Northwest – an area of the U.S. that I love. I remembered “liking” them the day before. There was no status update with them – just that it was the two of them on vacation. I hadn’t really looked at the date, or the comments, just the photo montage. I decided to look at them again because the two of them have such great smiles and they looked like they were having so much fun and I just adore the setting they were in that I thought that I’d like to look at them again – at such happiness and beauty….

But, then, I become aware of some comments that seem odd. I switch over to her page to see what is going on. There are messages of consolation. Of prayers. Of sympathy.

One message bothers me in particular because it only mentions my friend, her husband, and their son, a young teen. “Oh, God,….” I moan. My husband looks over at me.

Our doctor pops his head into his office and reassures us that he will be with us in “just two minutes!”.

My husband asks what’s wrong and I tell him I have a bad feeling about something, I have to message my friend. He admonishes me to check on it later, let Facebook rest for now, the doctor will be in any second. I put my iPhone down. I wait about a minute. I’m too impatient. I’m worried now about my friend.

I quickly message her to find out what’s happened. I’m thinking there’s been an accident. An illness.

The doctor runs past his door going the opposite direction in the hall. My husband is telling me to let Facebook wait. “Be right there!” echoes back to us from outside the door.

My phone beeps – I have to check, just real quick, okay? I see the doc run back the other way in the background. Suddenly, I want him to take his time. I glance down and see only one sentence in reply to my long-winded question:

“My daughter killed herself yesterday”.

Full stop.

August 17th, 2014.

Maybe I’m being melodramatic.

I don’t care. I think that I’m allowed.

As I told a friend this evening, “I’m thinking the worst, but hoping for the best”.

(I can’t believe that I’m actually hoping for kidney stones!)

I just took Hydrocodone, left over from my previous surgeries, to see if that might help, because the regular pain reliever we have in our cabinet did absolutely nothing for me this afternoon when my daughter needed me to take her shopping for school supplies.

As I shuffled into Target with her, squinting against lights that seemed to be making the myriad colors of signs and boxes and fabrics and plastic scream, I was trying to think of how I could possibly describe the pain I was having across my lower back.

It wasn’t a shooting pain. Not sharp.

I felt extremely….funky. It was an all over discomfort. Like a low, radiating, buzz.

In fact, I felt buzzed. Buzzed without booze. Not a happy buzz; more like a low, sonic, pressurized, radiating, wave of…

Hold on a minute!! That was it! I found myself thinking – I feel like I did when I went into labor!

I didn’t want to keep my eyes open.

My eyesight has gotten so much worse recently and combined with this bizarre lightheadedness and achy pressure that was at the moment weakening my limbs, it really did make me feel drunk. And I probably looked like I was drunk.

The lights felt too bright.
Keeping up any sort of banter with my girl, answering any of her anxious questions about what sort of paper do they want her to get, should she go with these post-it notes, or those? was nearly impossible. Thinking about anything was drowned out by the incredible need to just stand still and ride out the wave of discomfort.

I turned the cart to go down one aisle, damn it felt heavier than usual, and pow! there was a shot of pure pain through my spine. My ears almost hummed with the tingle of it. I just told my kid to get whatever she thought was best – I was just going to stand in one place and wait. And then came…the hot flash. Beautiful.

I really was not entirely convinced I was going to make it out of that store without passing out.

But, we made it.

Each day that goes by in which I feel physically worse, makes me anxious about waiting to find out what’s going on. Even if it turns out to be “nothing”; as everyone keeps reassuring me.

So. No. I am not a happy camper. I am not feeling positive. I’m feeling pretty bitchy to be honest.

Weird how your body can affect your mindset that way. Sometimes it just manages to yell so loudly it drowns out every positive thought you can muster.

And that’s how today has gone.

Just The Facts, M’am.

On the night of July 23rd, I had a small trickle of painful, dark colored, smelly urination.
On Thursday, July 24th, 2014, I went to the YMCA to exercise.
After 1 hour on the Precor machine, I stopped by the restroom on the way out.
It hurt again.
I peed some blood.
I have no ovaries anymore.
I am in full blown menopause.
I went to the nearest Urgent Care Facility.
They did a Urinalysis.
I was told there wasn’t any bacteria, so it may not be a Urinary Tract Infection.
The doctor left the exam room, returned, and then told me that there actually “was something” in the urine, so they were going to run a culture and they would let me know on Monday what sort of bacteria we were dealing with.
I was happy it was a UTI.
They called on Monday to cheerfully report that “nothing grew”. It was a false UTI diagnosis.
They did not, however, know why my leukocytes would be elevated.
Which they were.
I freaked out.
I called my Oncologist.
He told me not to freak out.
I asked him if we should do some blood work.
He replied, “Why?” and “Not necessary”.
I kept my appointment with my General Practitioner’s office to draw blood to check my cholesterol levels.
I did not mention the urinalysis to them. Therefore, no other blood work was ordered.
I did not visibly pee blood except for that one day in July.
My Oncologist referred me to my Gynecologist.
I had to wait a week to see my Gyno.
He did an exam.
He did not see or feel anything unusual.
He ordered another Urinalysis.
We went on vacation four days later to Six Flags Fiesta Texas in San Antonio.
My lower back has been aching off and on for over a year or two.
I got a voicemail on August 11th, while sitting in the water park at Six Flags, that my urinalysis came back and there was still blood in my urine.
My pap smear was normal. (Yay for my pap smear!)
My Gynecologist referred me to a Urologist.
On August 12th, I woke up feeling a little dizzy. I continued to feel rather “off” for the rest of the day. Easily fatigued. Headaches.
On August 13th, I woke up with a headache and backache again.
My urine over the vacation turned completely clear in color.
Returned home on the 13th and just wanted to sleep for a little while.
Picked up our labrador from the boarding facility that evening but had to leave our foster dog in their care.
The next day, my backache continued off and on.
Took my daughter to her tutoring session across town.
Returned home around 5:30 p.m. and promptly fell asleep.
Totally forgot to take my daughter to her junior high’s orientation night.
She freaked out and yelled at me in tears.
She was unaware that evening was the “Express” event.
I had forgotten to mention it to her previously.
I was diagnosed with Triple-Negative Breast Cancer late August, 2011.
It is August 16th, 2014 today.
Triple-Negative Breast Cancer is aggressive and has a tendency to return in the first three years.
It does not tend to return in the breast area (especially when they have been removed).
I slept in bed until 2 p.m. this afternoon, except for breaks to go to the bathroom.
My lower back still hurts.
My urine is still clear.
I’m starting to notice weird aches elsewhere.
I made an appointment, while on vacation, with the Urologist who was recommended.
I was told by the receptionist that they liked to “act as quickly as possible when there is blood in the urine” and she scheduled me for this coming Tuesday, August 19th at 3:00 p.m.
I have to have a referral.
The Urologist’s office insists on that. The Insurance Company insists on that.
They must have a referral from my General Practitioner, and my General Practitioner ONLY.
Who is on vacation until Monday.
Who has no one covering for her in her practice while she is out.
Whose office keeps mentioning that referrals must have at least 48 hours to be “approved”.
The Urologist’s office has informed me that without a referral on paper, they will not be able to see me.
My throat has been feeling a little raw off and on since last Sunday.
I keep having little headaches. Off and on.
My house is extremely messy.
My now clear urine has been smelling strange since late July.
I have piles of laundry.
I freaked out on the phone with everyone involved with health insurance matters and this appointment.
I have been swinging between burst of energy, like when I work out and walk the dogs, and feeling worn out completely, after doing those things, or after going out to social events.
I have been feeling unmotivated to do the things that need doing.
Our yard needs mowing, and trimming, and weeding.
I’m not in a good mood; I go between a sort of emotional flat-line, unfocused thoughts, eerie calm, and tears.
The kids’ school year starts back up in one week.
We have not prepared.
I’m not feeling physically well; my energy is low, my lower half feels weak; I feel a little light-headed, almost buzzed in a very strange way.
I’m having to urinate more often than I usually do.
We are going to show up to my appointment, with a referral or without.
My cat, Rex, has lost a lot of weight lately.
He had mysteriously started losing a lot of weight around the time of my cancer diagnosis in 2011.
(After I “recovered”, so, coincidentally, did he).
He would follow me around the house a lot back then, before I knew I had cancer, staring me in the eyes and meowing.
He is doing it again.

My Pot Boileth Over

On July 25, 2014, after ending a one hour workout on the Precor machine at my YMCA, I felt like I had to go to the bathroom. Which, for me, after a workout, is a little unusual. But, plenty of people probably do that on a regular basis, right? Right.

I enter the stall, I sit, I pee, and it hurts. Nothing much actually comes out. Damn. I probably have a urinary tract infection, I think.
I mean, I had been kinda having some symptoms that were making me think a UTI might be on the horizon.
I stand up, I grab some toilet paper, I wipe, and there’s blood.
Holy crap! There’s blood. I look behind me into the bowl. Yikes! There’s blood….

Probably a sign of a urinary tract infection, I tell myself. But I can’t help panicking.

Why the hell would a woman of my age (fortisheemumbleesomething) panic about that?
Maybe you’re getting your period, sheesh!

Well, my ovaries were taken out, along with my breasts, over two years ago, because of my BRCA2 genetic mutation, and because I had Triple-Negative Breast Cancer.
No. I wish I could say it was my period. But, not possible.

I try to stay calm. I go home. I have a shower. I call my husband and my mom. We all agree that I should go to my doctor or the nearest Urgent Care facility. So, off I go to the Urgent Care because I couldn’t get through to my primary doctor.

We do a urinalysis.  It comes back negative. Then the doctor re-reads and says it’s positive. Rather, “Well, there is something there”. They will do a culture and we will have to wait until Monday for the results.

Ah, shit. There’s a lot of details to this story, but I’m just gonna get to the chase….

I peed blood about a week ago. And it’s had me freaked out ever since because I am a “former” cancer patient.

And now I have a really weird rash on both my arms that looks like the shingles I got about a month or two ago.

Shingles are an old person’s disease, if you ask me.
At least, that’s the way I always felt before.
I’ve learned about them since then and I realize that it can happen to anyone who’s ever had the chicken-pox.
Still. The fact that it looks like it’s coming back after having peed blood and after having cancer is the reason I’m writing right now.
With a bottle of wine at my side.
Because I’m having a “terrible, horrible, very bad, no good” week.
Or more.

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I went into a “fight-mode”. I actually closed my eyes and visualized myself suiting up, in impenetrable steel, sort of like a Transformer. I visualized sending those cancer cells out into a black hole in space.
I remembered how a very dear friend of mine had gone through her breast cancer with an incredible sense of humor and stoicism. “How are you going to handle this?” I remember asking myself. “Like my friend, E.” was the response, “like a total badass!”.
I was NOT going to die from this!! NO. WAY.

It was a whirlwind of an education about breast cancer, and its many, varied, forms after that. But I was going to get through it. That was the foremost thought in my head.
I. Had. To. Get. Through. It.

I have children. I have a husband. I have parents. I have friends. I have pets. I have unfinished business.

Every chemotherapy completed, every surgery over with, was a milestone.
I completed my chemotherapy on April 17th, 2012. I rang that bell!!

I chose not to reconstruct for many, many reasons: One was that I did not want to waste one more second of my life on cancer. The fact that my “foobs” would have absolutely no sensation in them was another. (I mean, what’s the point, right????). The whole reconstruction journey of breast cancer patients is a whole ‘nother post in itself….

So. I can remember being wheeled out of the hospital after my double mastectomy.
I felt almost high. I was grinning from ear to ear.
(What the hell was wrong with me?)
I was just happy as hell to have survived the surgery. I was happy as hell just to be alive.

Fast forward.
I’ve felt nothing but relief to be declared NED. To be labeled a “survivor”. I’ve bounced about, for the most part, like a labrador puppy. I try not to think about cancer.

I didn’t realize how much I’ve been suppressing.
I never went through an “anger stage”.

Hoo-boy, am I going through it now…..

I have been referred to my OB/Gyn by my oncologist, who, bless his heart, has assured me that it’s not that big a deal. It could very well still be a UTI. There could be a myriad possibilities for the blood in the urine. “Take a deep breath” he advised me.

And he’s right.

And,yet….
WHY is this rash on my arm????

I’m still PISSED!! I am pissed off that I have this THING hanging over my head for the. rest. of. my. life.
I am mad about the panic, which, frankly, came out of the blue for me, about every little odd occurrence.

I. AM. MAD.

I want to know. I want to know how much time I have left.

And this has my brain going a million miles a second….

I’m pissed off. At LOTS of things…..

The Morning After

Upside to drinking a whole bottle and a half of wine and passing out in your nice clothes is that when you wake up you are already dressed for the next day…

This is especially great when you have an appointment to meet with your psychiatrist and you are running very late because of your hangover.

The fact that your loved one did not make coffee, however, is not lost on you.

Bad Night

I’ve been pretty good about avoiding the alcohol lately. I recognized that I could have a problem with it.  Honestly, I’ve known that I have a problem with it. Namely, I like it too much.

However, this evening was not a good one. In fact, it was the most stressful I’ve had in awhile.

I had some hints from the Universe to not stop for liquid comfort:  My mom mentioning that she, too, felt like stopping for wine on the way back from our dinner tonight, but decided “it was not the right thing to do”. 

At her house, however, she went straight for the rum to add to her coca-cola.  We both shared a laugh about her going for the hard stuff.

There was a cheerleader in my head yelling “you can resist!”.  I decided to throw the finger at that cheerleader.

The men in my life are pushing my buttons.

My husband. My father. My son. 

All good men. But damn if they aren’t making me mad.

I know that wine won’t solve my issues. I know.

Maybe I do need an AA Mentor.

Yeah. Tonight was rough. 

Cancer

Cancer.

Yes. I had it. Triple-Negative Breast Cancer.

I can’t seem to recall the specifics because I seem to be in a state of avoidance lately.

April 17th will be my second anniversary of being released from active treatment.
I have an appointment- a routine follow-up appointment – on Monday, with the surgeon who performed my double mastectomy.

I feel guilty somewhat.
I’m going on with my life like it never happened.
And yet, my perspective has changed.
And yet, I get resentful sometimes of how it has changed me.
And I feel weird
And I avoid
And I feel pressure
And

This is a glimpse, a very small, millisecond, glimpse into my brain, when I think about cancer….