Friday, May 24, 2013

what do you call the stage past 'fuck it'?

Papi and I needed a plan.

We waffled back and forth as to what to do.

When they did the biopsy, it seemed that the spot he made for taking the specimen wasn't where Mr. Lumpy was.

So, we're obviously going for a 2nd opinion, albeit, I'm bored of this game and have surpassed the 'fuck it' stage.

What do you call that stage?  What comes after 'fuck it'?

Well, whatever it is, we still had to talk about the plans and Papi wanted me to go back to Canada.

That caused me more stress than the new native to my body, Mr. Lumpy .

Couch surfing?

Living off take out?

Stress of getting around by bus with my bitch of a back that will inflict me with pain?

No thank you.

Then I called all the cancer places I could to see if there was any point in coming back or just staying put.

After calling 20 numbers, I finally got a human being who would speak to me at Willow Breast Cancer Support.

You want support?  Call them.  Because obviously, everywhere else could care less unless you're wanting to donate to 'the cure'.

We all know there won't be a 'cure' because they make too much money off the 'disease'.  But I'll get off my soapbox now.

So, after speaking to the absolutely lovely woman, she suggested my mother get the gene test, because she's already had ovarian cancer and it would be free for her.  If SHE has the mutated gene, then it would be free for me, too.

Sounds like too much work for someone who has surpassed the 'fuck it' stage, no?


So, I spoke to my baby sister who became the big sister and had the plan set out for us:

1) Wait for results.
2) If the outcome is positive for cancer, off I go to live with her in Canada to get shit done.
3) If the outcome is benign, get a 2nd opinion when our insurance kicks in here July 1st.
4) Wait for results
5) If the outcome is #2, off I go to live with her in Canada to get shit done.  If the outcome is #3, ask my mother to get the gene test and make new plans.

Well, now that I've surpassed the 'fuck it' point and have calmed the fuck down, my gut instinct tells me there's nothing to worry about.

Mr. Lumpy is merely a part of me.

It now remains a little annoyance that my hand will go to day after day, with resentment for all the tears and worry it inflicted upon me.

Another story to add to the never ending drama that is my life.

So now?

We get on with things.

The garage is almost finished and ready for a door and window.

The trees around the casita are being hacked down to prepare for the last stage of renos so that we have an extra space for whatever we decide to do with it.

My veggie garden is budding and today, I will be planting more of my greens that I WILL be here to enjoy, because Mr. Lumpy is nothing but a speck of a nuisance.

The dogs have successfully destroyed more of my underwear.

I, too, have destroyed my underwear because of the Dominican valium.

Here's a forewarning for you.  Opt for the clonazepam and stay away from the valium.

However, if you choose not to listen to me and you have mass anxiety and panic attacks and desire to take the Dominican valium, don't fart.

It won't be a fart.

It will be a shart.

And that shart will be the biggest mess up your ass crack that you'll ever clean up in your life.

Maybe next time I take it, I'll wear some Depends.

Or perhaps just feel the emotions and hyperventilate.

Cleaning up a few tears is much less of a job.

i trust in the process of life

No comments:

Post a Comment

your comments make this world feel smaller ... and you feel closer