And I was like, “Well, it’s happening. It’s got to happen. So I don’t think I really have any choice but to be okay with it.”
And frankly, that’s just how I’m starting to feel about all of it. Hey. We’re here. We are at this point. We’re in the gutter. The rain is coming down. The scripts are written. The forms signed. It’s happening.
I don’t have to like it. I don’t have to agree with it. Hell, I don’t even have to be conscious during some of it.
Going into this nose-dive, free-fall of a flare is almost liberating in the idea that I don’t have to be okay with it–No one is judging me here on my emotional or mental capacity to “handle” the bruising, painful, overstimulating, starving, cramping, nauseating, rushed or terrifying symptoms and surgeries happening here. It doesn’t matter if I stomp my feet or have a panic attack in the parking lot or dye my hair purple and yell at everyone in the waiting room. It’s going to happen one way or another.
And the most important thing that I know, that’s motivating me through is that I don’t want to be HERE. If you had been camping out in my body for the last two months–oh boy would you know that absolutely anywhere is better than where I am now. Even if it hurts a little more or may or may not work–because there’s not a worse place to be than being in pain and not doing a thing about it.
So yeah, I’m okay with it. I’m on board. I’m even thinking good thoughts and day dreaming about how it might feel to lay in bed at night, not curled up in a ball scouring around in the dark for Zofran and ginger ale.
And during this time of great upheaval I am relying heavily on Jason Mraz, The Counting Crows, The Fray, Sting and Dave Mathews, long baths, a face full of expensive make-up, fleece pants, cotton candy bubble gum and the fact that TODAY at least for this hour I am not in the hospital, under anesthesia, getting my veins dug into, or away from the people I love.
Powered by Facebook Comments