#also never fun to have the doctor say well talk more in the cancer appointment (cant remember what its actually called) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

diabloindigo · 3 years

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Are you the person to open a box of cereal just to get the toy inside? As a kid yes. Right now, I don’t buy cereals with prizes anymore. Do they even stuff toys in cereal these days?

Do you get scared easy? If it’s in the anxiety induced variety, yes.

What was one of the stupidest things you cried over when you were little? Not sure, it could have been anything from not wanting to wear a fancy dress or dress shoes to a party or a broken toy.

Have you ever drank milk from the carton? Despite having a working dishwasher and plenty of glasses, I “waterfall” milk and juice from the containers.

Juice or milk? I go both ways, leaning more towards juice. Apple or orange.

Do you ever turn off your computer properly? Once in a while.

Do you wish you were a fish? Not really, though I kinda envy the blue Dory (Doctor Fish?) in the tank at my gynecologist’s waiting room. It likes to swim to the bottom of the tank and ride up to the top on a bubble jet. That damn fish has probably had more fun than I have in the past several months.

Who’s your favorite super hero? Invincible (Amazon Prime). Along with Spider-Man (2002) and the Big Hero 6 movie, that character/series is a rare superhero show that makes me feel strong and vulnerable at the same time.

Who’s your favorite super villain? Slade Wilson/ Deathstroke as seen in “Teen Titans: The Judas Contract” animated movie and the 2003-2006 “Teen Titans” cartoon series.

Spiderman or X-men? Spider-Man. Tobey Maguire and Peter B. Parker from Into the Spiderverse.

Movie theatre or stay at home movie night? Theaters. Alamo Drafthouse. I love ordering boozy milkshakes and finger foods.

Do you have a Blue Ray? I have one of those external drives for my Mac though I never use it.

How about HD television? Yeah

Do you think HD television is kind of a waste of money? No.

Do you get why people get so frickin’ freaked out during football season? I do not, and living in a state with a hard-on for (American) football makes it weird when I tell people that I do not have a favorite football team/player.

Do you ever sneak scraps to the dog even though you’re not suppose to? I don’t sneak him food. If I cook or order too much to eat, then I scrape a couple of cup’s worth of leftovers in his bowl. He’s probably got only a year to live so let him live it up a little.

Are you reading a book right now? If so what? A friend gave me a copy of “The Only Good Indians” but I can't get into it so I’m reading “Full Throttle” by Joe Hill.

What was the last book you were required to read for school? It’s been so long I can’t remember.

O donuts or jelly filled? Whipped cream filled. I love Krispy Kreme’s whipped cream filled donuts with raspberry filled donuts as a close second.

If I’m feeling bland then I do like crullers.

Do you like your ice-cream in a bowl or cone? Bowl unless it’s a tasty cone.

Marshmallows in your hot chocolate or no? I could go either way unless it’s a tiny cup of chocolate.

Do you like cherry coke? Hell yes. I love going to Sonic for a cherry-vanilla-lime Coke or this greasy little 1950s type burger joint for their cherry cokes since they load the cups with several cherries.

Do you really think diet Dr. Pepper is the equivalent of a cupcake? No, it tastes artificial. Like a bastard child of a soft drink that wants to pass for cherry soda.

Do you snore in your sleep? Drool? Talk? Snore and talk (I’m pretty stressed out).

Have you ever sleep walked? no

Are you a morning person? I am now.

How do you wake up in the mornings? by alarm during the work week, naturally at 6-7 on vacation days.

Do you think guyliner is hot? What is that?

Is variety the spice of life? yeah

Do you think strawberry milk is disgusting? I like it.

Have you ever drank after anyone? Like sharing a cup/bottle? Yeah, loads of times.

Have you ever drank after anyone you don’t know very well? No.

Do you have any limits on who you drink/eat after?

If we’re talking about sharing, then I will share food/drink with family and friends. If someone offers me bite-size pieces that are individually wrapped or can be torn off the main portion, I’ll eat it, but only from co-workers or acquaintances.

Would you eat a sucker if someone already ate some of it? No.

Would you chew somebody else's gum? Hell no.

Do you know anyone who’s going to die of mono because of that? No.

Do you enjoy school? My English and psychology classes.

Are you a teacher’s pet? no

Do you have a job? Yes.

How did you get to and from school? Parents drove me or I walked for elementary through high school. I drove when I went to college.

Do you have a bedtime? And if so what is it? I’m in bed between 11-12 a.m.

What time do you get up? 6 am so I can walk/exercise before the sun boils the earth in full force.

Have you ever pulled an all-nighter? Yeah in college.

What’s more important? Beauty or brains? brains

Do you believe in yourself? Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don’t.

Did you ever want to be an astronaut when you were little? No. Being a veterinarian or scientist were my highest ambitions as a small kid.

How about the president? Never.

What did you want to be when you were little? Veterinarian, scientist, cartoon character.

Did you ever want to be a super model? no

Do you believe you’re attractive enough to be a super model? No.

Have you ever had an X-ray? Several in the past few months for pre-surgery and dental work.

What’s your favorite guy’s name? What’s your favorite girl’s name? Guys’: Shane, Mark, Tadashi, Austin, Cade, Trip.

Girls’: Quince, Sienna, Amy, Kit, Lizzie (Elizabeth), Raven.

Who’s your second cousin’s, grandparent’s, sister? The fuck...

Do you laugh to yourself whenever the ketchup bottle farts? No, in fact, I get annoyed when other people hear it and ask me if I farted.

Do you have any real guns in your house? I have several.

Do you know how to use nunchucks? No, I bought a pair at one of those Asian imports emporiums, but I donated them since I never learned to use them. They were these crappy foam padded ones with dragons printed on the handles.

Do you know anyone who can use nunchucks? No.

What do you want to be next Halloween? In better health and not shitting bricks about using up my paid time off to go to doctors’ appointments.

Did you ever consider getting a job as a mall Santa? No. I’d rather be one of his elves or a reindeer.

Are you the one responsible for taking out the garbage? Yes. Grosses me the fuck out sometimes with smelly discarded poultry trays or rotten food, but somebody’s gotta do it.

Do you recycle? My city has the blue recycling bins, but I heard that since we’re an ass-backward community, “recyclables” and trash all go to the same place. I just place recyclables in the blue bin to help clear up space in the trash bin. Maybe I’m wrong and this city does recycle? Can’t hurt.

When I was 11, I’d collect empty soda cans to take to the recycling guy since back in the day, they’d pay for aluminum cans. That’s how I scraped up funds for dollar movies and hot dogs.

Are you a pyro? Yeah. I carry/collect Zippo lighters but mostly because the “click-click” is satisfying to hear since I flip the lids open and closed to relieve stress. And I burn a lot of old bills and letters with sensitive info on them.

What was the last word/thing you wrote down? I was researching high fiber foods that are also low in carbs to make a grocery and dinner meal plan.

Sleeping or eating? After my surgery, sleeping.

Are you overall a positive person? I try to be realistically positive, if such a thing exists. The world will never be all sunshine and My Little Ponies, but I try to find some comfort and positivity when my world is a shit-show. Filling this survey out kinda helps.

Do you hate hypocrites? Yeah, especially the “do as I say, not as I do” types.

For instance, a certain family member is pushing good diet and health habits, but it aggravates the hell out of me if I see him drinking high sugar iced tea or eating ice cream. Or Door-Dashing Burger King, even if it is a Beyond Whopper with a diet Coke.

Do you like to prank people? Yes, but I do benign pranks like leaving dirty riddles and meme drawings on their front doors.

What was the worst prank you’ve ever done on anyone? I tried fucking with a telesolicitor but I could not stop laughing.

Have you ever jumped on a trampoline in the ice? I don’t own a trampoline.

Have you ever ice skated? No. I tried once after a local minor league hockey game. I got the skates on, but my ankles were bending/bowing out so I changed my mind.

Ever water skiid? No.

Is vacuum spelled funny? Yes.

Democrat or republican? I don’t associate formally with either party, but I hitch my pony a little to the left.

Who’s the biggest asshole you know? My former boss circa 2013. Very unprofessional and a veritable loudmouth and a poor (shit) showman wannabe.

Pen or pencil? Gel-ink pens.

Should all paper have holes? nope

Speaking of holes. Swiss cheese, what’s the point of that? Fewer calories? Spinning slices in my hand like a TV cowboy spinning his revolver in the trigger guard with his finger?

Have you ever been in a helicopter before? No.

Own any airbrushed tshirts? Nope, not even in the nineties.

Have you ever been suspended? No.

Have you ever been in a fist fight? A few playground fights as a kid.

Ever said something to someone that you didn’t mean to say? Yes.

Do you forgive too easily? I don’t think so.

What are you listening to right now? The AC running.

Have you ever seen any of MCR’s music videos? Nope.

Are you tan? No.

Have you ever been in a tanning bed? No. I have no desire to look like a Cheeto or woo skin cancer.

Have you ever played water volley? Once at my uncle’s neighborhood swimming pool.

Ever had a sunburn? Yes, from neglecting sunscreen re-applications or underestimating the sun.

How about wind burn? It hurts….. Nah, I don't live in a cold enough climate for that.

What was the first word you learned how to say? I think it was “mama.”

#random monkey shit #survey #ask #bored #Q and A #long post

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sourbat · 4 years

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i honestly can't remember if i sent you one of these already, but if not, hammertooth in G? :')

G: Growing Old Together

No matter what angle I approach, I find myself drawn to this being a story about denial and acceptance.

It’d been some time since the events of Galaktikon. Toki’s older, far more adjusted and happily enjoying life. Magnus is still there, and they’re still together. Despite the odds, the two worked out their own set of routines and tricks to support one another. Toki’s still playful, but calmed down in recent years. Magnus is doing good, though he’s certainly slowed down. He’s also had a bit of a cough the past few weeks as well. Toki chalks it up to a cold and tells Magnus to go see a doctor for some medicine.

The doctor picks up something right away, and the world stops when Toki learns that years of drug abuse were finally catching up with Magnus. Doctors say it’s early stage, so it’s fixable and with some lifelong changes, Magnus can expect to still have a relatively good life. They just need to act right now. Magnus is scared, but relieved, but then that word pops up. Chemotherapy.

So Magnus, despite being told relatively good news, is dealing with the fact that he has a bunch of his own cells slowly attacking and eating away at him. Even with professionals helping set up appointments, pamphlets and charts telling Magnus he’s likely going to beat this, he’s feeling like shit. He’s keeping a straight face because Toki is, but deep down he’s scared. He’s terrified. Early stage or not, no one likes hearing they have cancer. Speaking of which, Toki is doing great. He’s smiling, and is doing a great job not bringing up the fact that Magnus is going to start chemo soon. He feeds Magnus healthy foods, and hands him dozens of vitamins, but otherwise doesn’t express any outward concern.

The band eventually approaches Toki, because at some point word got around, and everyone thinks it’s strange that Toki’s so blasé about it. I think it’s ultimately going to be Abigail who physically visits and pulls Toki aside to figure out what the hell is wrong with him. Because when she does arrive, it’s clear Magnus is stressed, is sick and struggling with all these upcoming dates, and Toki’s just smiling and pretending nothing is wrong. She does what every good friend must come to do, and tells Toki he needs to accept what’s going on right now. Magnus is sick and needs support from him. He needs someone to vent to. More importantly, he needs someone who’ll take care of him once he starts chemo. Toki says there’s nothing to worry about, because he can stop the chemo from spreading. Toki starts talking about prophecies and Abigail eventually pieces it together that Toki’s been doing some late-night studying on the side, trying to unearth his lost powers in a desperate attempt to have control over life and death again. Abigail tells him this is a waste of time, and that the chemo is just as good, but then Toki freaks out and says that it’ll make him sicker, and Magnus will lose his hair, energy and appetite. He starts to break down and talks about how hard he worked to get Magnus so healthy, and now he’s scared of losing that Magnus. He knows the numbers are good, but nothing is 100% percent, except for magic. The chemo might fail, but Toki halting Magnus in place won’t. Abigail consoles him, and tells him he needs to accept the reality of his situation, and speak with Magnus.

And he does. They both do. Abigail holds Toki’s hand and takes him back to Magnus and Toki breaks down and tells Magnus he’s always dreamt about spending the rest of his life with someone, and for the last several years assumed that it would be Magnus. The past several years have been so much fun. He’s scared that Magnus is sick, and will get sicker if they get treatment or not, and he’s sorry that he was pretending everything was ok because he thought for sure he could recover his powers, but everyone says it’s impossible. He doesn’t want to give up on this dream, which was why he tried so hard to get his powers back, because as long as he has a hold on Magnus’ soul, the man can’t die. Toki breaks into a sob. Magnus is moved, and tries calming Toki down.

Once he’s stable enough Magnus admits he’s terrified. Of all the things that threatened his life, he never thought it would be this. Magnus admits that he’s spent most of his life living in the moment. Aside from delusions of grandeur, he’s never been one to dwell on the future. It was always easier to think of the now than dealing with the unknown. Only now, Magnus can’t live in the moment, because right now it’s killing him. Powers or not, nothing will change that. Toki sees how scared Magnus is, and embraces him. Magnus tells Toki he doesn’t want to die, and Toki continues holding him the same way Abigail did. There’s crying, and Abigail leaves the room to leave them alone. Magnus starts asking Toki about his dreams, about the things he thinks of when he sees them together forever. Toki starts talking about them going back to Europe, visiting some of the more historical sights he never bothered taking Magnus to before because he didn’t think they were interesting enough. They’re also going to return all the skulls they took from various catacombs, and make a trip to Norway during the warmer months. Toki shifts the subject to Magnus, and asks what they’re going to be doing years from now. Magnus says he’s never thought about it, but Toki tells him to try. Magnus stares out, and around the corner, Abigail slips down the wall, barely keeping herself straight.

“Well,” Magnus struggles to say. His eyes wander the quiet room, staring at the collection of photos and postcards littering their messy walls. They had visited so many places, done so many things. What can he possibly say that wouldn’t be redundant, a repeat of a prior escapade? “Let me think…” he starts, head turning slightly as he tries to envision a future he’d worked so hard to avoid the past several weeks. “Well…you and I are going to visit your friends…”

There’s a knock on the door, and a much older Nathan opens it to reveal Toki and Magnus, the former of whom is carrying a large present. Nathan invites them in, but not before reminding Magnus the rules. Keep a distance from Abigail. Don’t talk about capitalism. Don’t let Toki drink more than three glasses of punch. Magnus says he has it under control. Nathan then tells Magnus “nice haircut” and Toki responds happily that they just got it cut. He reaches for a set of thickening curls and twirls a few with his fingers, and goads over how fast Magnus’ hair started to grow, and how soft the gray curls were turning out. Nathan says the short hair looks better than the mop he dragged on his head for several years. Magnus lets Nathan know he’s lucky he’s in a good mood, and the two end it at that. Toki hands the gift over to Nathan before taking Magnus’s hand and yanking him inside. Everyone welcomes the two, and Toki lifts Magnus’ top to reveal they’re carrying matching fanny packs for their medicine.

#lampmeeting #magnus hammersmith #toki wartooth #fic ask thing #thank you #hammertooth #magtok

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batmanisagatewaydrug · 4 years

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Hi, Sex Witch! I’m a 22yo vagina haver who recently went for my first pap smear. It... did not go well. Even with lubricant, using the smallest speculum available, it hurt to the point of tears, and the doctor wasnt able to get me open enough to actually do the pap smear. She told me that it was okay, that we would “try again next year”, but I already find myself dreading it. Do you have any advice for making a pelvic exam bearable? I also struggle with penetrative sex, if that adds any clarity.

hi anon,

you have my utmost sympathy for this unpleasant experience. my first paper smear wasn’t much fun either, and although the doctor did manage to get it done, it was only by working VERY quickly while I spent the entire time swearing up a storm. (she was very cool about it.) penetration isn’t really my jam, either, so we’re in similar boats.

I’m not sure I strictly have any advice to offer from my personal experience, except that I was extremely determined to get it over with and I have a pretty remarkably high discomfort tolerance when I decide to. backwards as it might sound, I think it may actually help to go in expecting discomfort and even pain - because that will certainly happen, especially if your vagina isn’t very penetration-friendly - and simply accepting that while it will be difficult to avoid, it will also be over pretty quickly.

I don’t say that to scare people expecting their first exams, because my intention is never to cause unnecessary fear around the body. but while there are certainly tips and tricks to help - using smaller speculums, using plastic rather than metal, heating them up, applying lubricant - as our anon has learned, those aren’t always guaranteed to work, and that’s a reality everyone should be aware of.

for your next visit - and there does, unfortunately, need to be a next visit, because getting screened for cervical cancer is Important - try to think about what will help you feel calmer in advance. if you’re a boundary-pusher, maybe spend the intervening year tentatively experimenting with inserting tampons or fingers into your vagina, or even working with a vaginal dilation kit.

you may also find it useful to practice breathing exercises that will help keep you relaxed, and to get more in touch with the muscles in your pelvic floor in order to try to keep things loose and prevent any reflexive flinching when the time comes. would you feel better with a buddy? by all means, bring a trusted buddy along for the ride. if you’re able to, talk with your doctor before the appointment to discuss what happened last time you tried to have a pelvic exam to make sure they’re prepared to help you through it and can offer any suggestions they may have. does their practice offer any kind of numbing agent? hey, that would be good to know!

there’s no way for me to guarantee that you’ll have a better experience next time, but I can tell your for sure that your chances of success will increase considerably the more comfortable you’re able to make yourself. whatever you need to make that happen and stay proactive about your healthcare, you have my blessing to do it.

(as long as it’s, you know, reasonable. I suspect your healthcare provider might have some objections if you announce that you’d be most comfortable getting a pap smear if it took place inside a swimming pool.)

#sex edventures 2020 #pap smear #pelvic exam

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needloveandpositivity · 4 years

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It's been described as the worst year of my life packed into 3 or 4 months. And it has been. 2020 was so good for us. We grew closer in our relationship. I knew quarantine was either going to make or break us, and we are doing so well together. I love him with all my heart. But there's so much going on, I'm so exhausted.

We became really close with his aunt and uncle over the summer. We visited often, they came to visit here, it was a good relationship. His aunt became a confidant for me. We could talk about anything. Then his uncle decided to fuck off. Left with no warning. They had 1 fight and he was gone. Aunt was heart broken. My man went to pick up uncle, because my man has a huge heart. It felt like we got shoved in the middle of their separation. Aunt vented to me often about uncle. Trashing him left right and center. I didn't really like him in the first place, but he's family, I gotta tolerate him. But it's so hard to stay neutral. Not even a week after he left, he started seeing another woman. A woman who he had already cheated on aunt with in the past.

I did my best to keep aunts head level, so she wouldn't call, text, email, what ever this lady to try and ruin uncles set up he had. She was so angry. So bitter. And I understood 100%, I think her feelings were justified. He left her. Again. 3rd time he walked out on her because she was trying to help him sort himself out.

My birthday, I get a text message, my man's great aunt had passed away. The woman that uncle was living with passed away suddenly in her sleep. She wasn't a super healthy woman, I understand she had cancer and diabetes, she had basically given up. But she seemed to be doing well, all things considered. We had just seen her the weekend before, she was happy, joking with us. And suddenly, gone. In a text message. We went to see my family that weekend, my dad and my brothers birthdays are all around mine as well, so we were going to celebrate together. I let my parents know, my man's great aunt has passed away quite suddenly. No response. No, "I'm sorry for your loss" no "wow that's terrible, my condolences" nothing. Just oh, yeah I overheard your man say it to his mom earlier. Thanks.

I had 3 weeks off work between contracts. I tried to use that time to organize the apartment, sort things to sell/give away, but Toronto was shutting down again for lock down, so I couldn't really do much with the things I didn't want anymore. So I'm still sitting on those boxes.

The 3rd week, my man's mom came to visit for a few days, which was nice. Her and I get along really well. We went to pet smart, went for a walk, hung out, it was nice. But she left in the middle of the night, no text, no explanation. Just gone. I woke up the next morning looking for her, assuming she went out to smoke, and I couldn't find her. She must have noticed I was active on Facebook, because she messaged me like 20 minutes later, said her gut told her to go home, so she did. At like 3am.

Like a week or 2 later she starts getting all distant, hardly responding to me, not giving me solid answers about Christmas plans, just keeps saying what ever. I asked her if something was wrong and she just kept saying no. It was like this for like a week or two and she just kept getting more and more snippy with me. So I finally asked my man like is your mom mad at me or something. But he's like no no she's fine she loves you why would she be mad at you, what could you possibly have done? And that's what I was wondering too, like, what can I do? What have I done?

Finally, she tells my man that she was upset with me, she thought I didn't want to see her on Christmas. That she was just an after thought. Because I offered to see her all day on December 26th. She took offense to December 26th because in her mind, December 26th is the left over day. The day that people who don't matter get. In my family, December 25 and December 26 hold the same value. We always switched back and forth with my moms family and my dads family for Christmas day and boxing day. This Christmas, with the covid rules and everything, my dads family was going to visit on the 27th, just a few of them, and mom's side was going to do Christmas day, since it was their turn anyways. So the 26th was completely free, and I wanted to give MIL our undivided attention. No rushing to another dinner, she gets the day. But she didn't want that. She wanted Christmas day. But she wouldn't communicate that to me so that we could arrange that for her.. so she thought I didn't want to see her. That she didn't matter. And she got all angry and distant about it without just telling me.

We finally got it sorted out, Christmas was super messy, my moms parents were being over the top about Christmas plans, they ended up canceling everything, and we ended up being able to see MIL on Christmas day after all. The whole time we were down there, I was anxious and uncomfortable. Trying to please everybody at the same time, and it was never enough. Nobody was ever satisfied by the time we could or could not spend with them.

Then, the 27th in the evening we had Christmas with my man's dad. Uncle was there. With this new woman. No heads up, we just walked in, and there she is. No introduction or nothing. Just hey welcome to Christmas dinner, have a seat. Like what? He knew we still spoke with aunt. He knew how heart broken she was. And now flaunting this new girlfriend at us???? I felt completely disrespected. Like he did it to get a rise out of me. Like he did it so that I would tell aunt and put fuel on the fire. He did it to make it hurt for us to tell aunt.

I was so excited to finally go home.

January 4th. One of the worst days of my life. I'm working from home, any normal day. And I get a text message from my best friends son. My best friend has tragically died of a stroke this weekend. I can feel my soul being torn to shreds. I screamed and cried for hours. I was able to calm myself just long enough to send an email to my boss, let him know what happened and i will be signed off for the rest of the day. My mom gave me a call as soon as she found out, one of her friends found out because she used to work with my best friend. She called me, and immediately she knew that I knew. I told her who told me, and I sobbed. She didn't stay on the line for very long. Just told me that if all I'm going to do is sit there and cry, then she's going to go because she had things to do. I wanted to tell her to fuck off right then and there. But I just said k and hung up. I called my man so he knew I wasn't working, that I wasn't okay. He hurried home that afternoon.

January was a rough, rough month. I felt right on the edge of crying every single day. I couldn't make phone calls without bursting into tears. I spent so much time just staring at the wall. I smoked so much weed just so I could get through an hour without crying. My eyes, my nose, my throat, my soul hurt just existing. Weed gave me that temporary relief.

Just when I started pulling myself together, making it through a day without sobbing, my dad texts me. My great aunt has passed away. At this point, I don't feel anything anymore. I don't want to cry, I don't want to feel. I'm just angry all the time. It's either nothing, or angry. There's no in between.

February I start to realize I'm really not okay. And I haven't actually been okay for a while. I haven't done laundry properly since well before Christmas. The apartment is a mess. And more and more often I'm thinking about walking out into the street just to hope someone will run me over. Then maybe someone will notice and understand how very not okay I am. Maybe I'll die? Is that really the worst thing that could happen?

I finally called my doctor when I started having some really physical symptoms. Thinking about my best friend, thinking about aunt and uncle fighting, thinking about MIL, thinking about anything remotely stressful or disappointing would make me shake. Like an uncontrollable shiver starting deep in my chest. Come to find out that's called heart palpitations. I've also been having these attacks, Ill be sitting on the couch, or fucking sleeping, and I'll wake up with a pain in my lower abdomen, super dizzy, nauseous, light headed. I sit in the bathroom and wait to either throw up, or pass out. Neither happen, and after about 20 minutes it subsides, I'm exhausted and I go back to sleep. My heart rate gets so high, so consistently during this time that my fitbit has started recording it as exercise.

I'm scared, obviously, that something might be seriously wrong with me. The nurse that I speak to on the phone doesn't think there's anything to worry about. She says it's just anxiety, she will book me in next week to be put on medication. At this point I'm not entirely convinced it's "just anxiety", so I made an appointment with a counselor. Even if it is "just anxiety" this is far more intense than i have EVER experienced in my life, and I've been diagnosed with anxiety/depression since I was like 13.

My mom doesn't care. I told her what was happening and she just said, I'm sure you're fine. I am super duper absolutely not fine. I haven't thought about dying in YEARS. The last time I thought about it was when I told my parents I was bi and my mom tried to leave. Went upstairs, packed a bag, and walked out the door. My dad chased her down and got her to come back in but like, what the fuck.

I'm almost 1 week on trintellix, I have to get bloodwork done this week to make sure these fun, awesome, never before seen symptoms are in fact just anxiety, and I see the cousellor next week to hopefully figure out what's going on and how to get through this.

I have plans, goals. My man and I are talking about getting married in 2022. Talking about buying a home in 2024. Children? Maybe. But I'd like to be around here to meet them.

So, here I am. I have people who listen, but I feel like I just rant at one friend way too much, and she's sick of me. Another friend that changes the subject when I get sad. Another who has told me she's sick of people venting to her, because she has her own mental health to deal with. And my man doesn't know how to help me. He tries, he really does. But he has bad days too, and I cannot help him while I'm down here. I can't pick him up while I'm still down.

I just need someone to listen. Someone to hear me rant and vent and get things off my chest. Because if I don't, I know I'm going to drown down here.

If you're willing and able to reach out, please do. If not, this will be the blog that I journal in, I guess. Where I write down everything that I want to talk to my best friend about. I know she can't respond, but I'm sure she's up there watching me, and I hope she's reading this to know that I'm trying. I'm getting help. I'm trying to get better, so I can do better.

#help #helpless #mentalwellness #mental heath support #anxitey #depression #depressing shit #im not ok im not ok im not ok #pls help #grief #reaching out #journal #recovery

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sprnklersplashes · 4 years

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heart of stone (10/?)

AO3

Friday finally rolls around again, and Janis is packing up her stuff again and getting ready to go home. Her mom is down the hall with some of the other kid’s moms, probably swapping stories about treatments and comparing the nurses.

As Janis has bonded with the kids on the ward, the parents have done the same; meeting for coffee in the hospital cafeteria or gathering in someone’s empty room to chat. Sometimes it’s about cancer, of course, but their topics have been getting more and more diverse lately. Just days ago Janis walked in on her mom discussing gardening with none other than Maddie’s mom and she’s overheard them talking about the Kardashians over breakfast. And of course, their moms talk about what they were like as little kids, and it’s painfully embarrassing. Janis has joked to Melissa more than once that she’s tempted to request painkillers so she can knock herself out. They also started jokingly referring to themselves as the “cancer moms”, and last night her mom showed Janis the group chat they’d created with the same name. Janis’ jaw had nearly hit the floor and all she said was that she hoped they weren’t planning on getting t-shirts.

Still, she thinks with a smile, at least her mom is making friends here.

She rolls up her sweater and shoves it into her bag, sure it’s wrinkled but it’s going straight into the laundry once she gets in. On Melissa’s advice, she’s started doing most of her laundry at home where she can control when and how it happens (and by that she means she can tell her mom how to do it). Bless the laundry service here, because they really do try, but more often than not her sweaters come back stiff and there’s nothing like pulling her clothes straight out of the dryer at home.

With her clothes in the bag, she gets up from where she was kneeling on the floor, shakes out her stiff legs, and moves over to the bathroom. Her make-up bag sits on the sink, the mascara and tube of lipstick strewn across the shelf along with her hairbrush. Her face is bare today, make-up having slipped her mind again between treatments and appointments and hospital life. She checks it in the mirror, sighing deeply at what she sees. Cady swears up and down she looks the same as she always did whenever they Facetime and her mom hasn’t made any comments, but she can tell there’s a difference now. Those dark shadows have taken up permanent residence under her eyes and sometimes it’s hard for her to tell what’s her face and what’s her sheets. There’s so many changes that no-one seems to notice but her.

Maybe she’s looking too hard, or maybe she just knows what to look for.

With an idea sparking in her mind, she reaches over and grabs the make-up bag. She checks her watch, finding that they still have plenty of time before she’s discharged. And sure she could spend that time continuing to pack, but this is more fun. It’s still productive, just not in the way people would think it. And fine, maybe she just needs it right now. So she unscrews the lid of the foundation and gets to work before she can talk herself out of it.

At least her hands aren’t shaking today. She learned the hard way that no matter how hard you believe you can apply your make-up while your hands are shaking, you can’t.

Even with her steady hands though, she’s not doing much. Kind of because she’s on a schedule and kind of because she’s not seeing anyone important. It’s not like when Cady and Damian are coming over and she spends an hour building the best version of herself for them. She just wants to look like a human, rather than this half-zombie that’s taken her place in the mirror. So she hides the darkness behind foundation and fills out her cheeks, paints over her lips with purple, rings her eyes in black and makes her eyelashes bigger.

She can’t quite pin down the feeling she’s having as she goes along. What she does know that the more she puts on, the better she feels when she looks in the mirror. Yes, she should know better by that, and she does. Kind of. This isn’t the old kind of preteen insecurity. She’s had enough of Cady’s speeches about natural beauty to chase all those fears away. But she’d wager Cady has never been spooked by what she saw in the mirror before, so what would she know?

“Oh my God,” she mutters to herself. She drops the mascara tube back in the bag and zips it shut. “Can you stop being so dramatic?” She looks up at the mirror again, giving herself a smile. There she is. Good old, normal Janis. She lets out a breath and takes the tie out of her hair, letting it fall past one shoulder. She must have forgotten about brushing it as well.

“Easily fixed.”

She runs the brush through her hair, humming under her breath and trying to think of what else she should be packing, checking off the little boxes in her brain and the excitement at going home daring to creep in.

Until she pulls the brush away and feels a lot more come with it.

No she thinks.

She keeps her eyes locked on her reflection’s, willing herself not to look at it. If she doesn’t look, it doesn’t exist. She doesn’t normally like uncertainty, but she’ll gladly take it here if the reality is this. Her hand is frozen in place, her fingers still curled around the brush’s handle. Her other hand grabs the sink. The cold of the metal creeps through her skin and into her veins, travelling through her just like her chemo does.

The stupid freaking chemo. Her IV stands behind her, mocking her even if she’s not using it. If this is what she thinks it is, this is the reason why.

“Okay,” she whispers. She shakes out her hands and wriggles her toes to try to get any feeling back into them. “Okay, come on.” She tries to imagine her friends next to her, giving her advice, but their words fade away before they reach her. Of course they do. She can’t know what they’d say to her about this. She can guess, but she can’t know. Besides, she can barely think when she’s like this, when her brain is shutting down and running away from her she’s being left to fend for herself.

It’s the ticking behind her, the loudest sound in the room, that gets her to calm down. Even when she wants to stop, the world moves on, and her mom is coming back in here any second. Meaning she needs to be herself when she does. So she looks and presses her hand to her mouth to keep from screaming.

Her hair is in the brush. Not a few strands of it, a whole clump of black and blonde hands from her brush. Her hand goes to the spot it had been, amazed that there’s anything left. When her fingers brush against her scalp, a whimper escapes her mouth before she can think to stop it.

Her hair fell out.

Her hair is falling out.

How does she react to this? Has anyone told her how to react? No, of course not, because she hasn’t asked. Denial and blind hope can run deep. If she doesn’t think about it, it doesn’t happen. Only now it has happened, is happening, and she’s heading into it blind whether she wants to or not.

Denial seems to be the most attractive option, so she jumps to it. She rips the clump off the brush, shuddering as it slides between her fingers, and she drops it into the toilet, letting it be flushed down the drain and out to sea. Far out of sight and hopefully, far out of mind.

She looks at the brush for a moment, recoiling away from it like it’s a snake. What she wants to do it throw it away too, just like the clump, and her mom is the only reason she doesn’t. Instead she throws it into her bag, burying it down at the bottom.

“Okay.” She lets out a breath and kneels back on her heels, her hands held out as if she’s reaching for something. Like she can just grab an answer out of thin air. “Come on, you’re smarter than that,” she whispers. There isn’t an answer here, not to this. This happens to cancer patients, all the time. What made her think herself so special she was above it? It’s already happened to some people, like Maddie for example, who runs around in beanies all day. She knew it would happen on that first day in the doctor’s office with the kids on the poster.

She’s going to become a kid on a poster.

She bawks at the idea and her hand instinctively flies to her head. Her fingers cautiously move over the black waves, barely touching anything lest she take any more out.

Breathe she tells herself. In for eight, out for eight. She’s been through this, on both sides of it, and yet this is worse. Like every time before this was a jogging and this is running a marathon. Even as she stumbles towards the finish line, her vision clearing and her brain calming itself enough to think, the tightness in her chest is still there. She wraps one clammy, cold hand around her bedpost and pulls herself up, her other hand shoved into her pocket, and keeps on counting her breaths. When she glances up, she catches sight of herself in the mirror and it’s with relief that she sees how normal she looks. For her, the entire world has shattered around her, but for everyone else, it’s just another day.

She’s so good at faking it that her mom doesn’t notice anything wrong for the next hour as they get ready to go. No one does, not the nurses who do last checks and bid her goodbye for the week, nor the receptionist who checks her and her mom out. Maybe she can fake it long enough until…

She’ll cross that bridge when she comes to it.

“Janis!” Maddie runs across the room towards her, her little beanie tight over her head. Much as Janis tries, and crappy as she feels, it’s almost all she can see on the girl.

“Hey, kid,” she says, clearing her throat. She swallows everything else she’s thinking and holds out her fist for a first pump. “Don’t cause too much trouble while I’m gone, okay?”

“No promises.” She steps closer to her, her chin tilted upwards, and pulls Janis down to her. Excitement gleams in her eyes, but Janis barely notices it; she’s too bust thinking about how few eyelashes she has. That hadn’t even crossed her mind.

Her throat runs dry.

“Hey, I heard that the Make A Wish Foundation came to you,” she whispers.

“Oh, and where did you hear that?”

“From my mom,” she admits sheepishly. “She heard it from your mom.”

“Word sure travels fast in here,” she says flatly.

“Do you know what you’re going to get?” she asks.

“Not yet,” she says. “Haven’t thought about it too much.” She lets Maddie drag her over to the couches and sit her down, the wide eyed look never leaving the kid’s face. “What did you do for yours?”

“Oh, I went to see Frozen on Broadway,” she blurts out, her smile exploding on her little face. “And I got to go backstage and meet the cast. They gave us front row seats as well. It was the best day of my life.”

“Sounds like a lot of fun,” Janis tells her. “My friend Damian, he’s a big musical theatre geek. He really wants to see Frozen.”

“I just really love Frozen,” Maddie says. “And Elsa, obviously.”

“We do love Queen Elsa.” Just then, Janis wonders if she ever used to braid her hair like Elsa. Janis hasn’t, and it hits her that if she wants to, she might have to do it fast.

“Just make sure it’s something you really want,” she advises her. “I stressed so much over it. It ended up being between Frozen and Disneyland.”

“How ever did you manage?” Janis says dryly. She looks up just in time to see her mom waving her over, phone in hand, letting her know her dad is in the parking lot. “I gotta go, kid. See you next week.”

“See you later,” she says. “Oh, by the way, I meant to give you this at movie night, but I forgot.” She reaches into her pocket and hands her a scrap of pink paper folded into a square. Inside, Janis finds the word MaddieThePanda and madisonrichards written in pencils. Embarrassingly, it takes her a second to recognise them, but the first has a drawing of a ghost and the second a doodle of a camera.

“Ah, the socials,” she says. Maddie nods, avoiding her eyes, and Janis pulls her into a light hug before getting up. “I’ll follow you the minute I get home, okay?”

“Awesome!” she squeaks and she scampers off, leaving Janis to join her mom.

“She’s a nice girl,” her mom comments as they ride down the elevator.

“You’re quite pally with her mom,” Janis says. “She’s in the cancer mom squad, right?”

“She is. So what did Maddie give you?”

“Instagram and Snapchat,” she replies, holding the piece of paper between her fingers. Janis’ own Instagram has been fairly barren since this started, despite how much she scrolls through her own feed and watches her friends’ accounts. Even her art account has been empty for a while. Unsurprisingly, she hasn’t felt like posting much. And she’s very much aware of the fact that she might be posting a lot less in the near future.

“Are you okay?” her mom asks.

“Fine.” She readjusts the mask she’s had on all day and falls back on her usual line. “I’m just tired.” The best thing about that line is that technically it’s not a lie.

When she does get home, she sets herself up on the couch, blanket thrown over her and phone in hand. Her dad sits on the chair next to her and a gameshow plays on the TV. This has become some kind of tradition between she and her dad. And Maxie, of course. Despite how much she’s missed her bed, she’s missed her dad more, so she stretches out on the couch with a blanket fresh from the dryer and the two of them catch up. And if (and when) the conversation runs dry, they can shout answers at the TV.

“Alex Kingston,” she says, nodding at the question. British Actors Who Were On Doctor Who. Which really is all of Britain. “Told you that Doctor Who obsession I had in middle school would come in handy.”

“Did you tell me that?” her dad asks. “I cannot remember you telling me that.”

“I did.” Still watching, she opens her phone and taps open Instagram. The little scrap of paper sits on her lap and she types Maddie’s name into the searchbar. She finds her account fairly easily, but she’s in for a shock when she does.

Maddie’s healthy self is on this account. It does look like her, it’s unmistakable, but it still shakes her to see her like that, hanging upside-down from a tree, running across a soccer pitch, dressed up as Elsa at Comic Con. Her suspicion was right; Maddie is blonde. Was.

She checks the date on her last ‘normal’ looking post and finds it was a little over two months. Maddie sitting cross-legged on her trampoline, two of her little school friends on either side. There was a tumour inside her at that moment and no-one even knew. She looks happy, carelessly happy. Blissful, even.

It’s not that she looks like two different people. That was kind of her expectation, but it’s not true. She still looks like herself, and it’s precisely the similarity between them that freaks her out. It’s the way the girl with a long blonde ponytail chasing a soccer ball and the frail little thing who sits on the end her hospital bed are the same person.

Maxie jumps on her lap just as her hand reaches for her own hair. While her dad scolds him and tells him to get off her, she shakes her head, insisting that it’s fine. When she kisses his fluffy little head, it’s a thank you. He licks her face and she takes it as a ‘you’re welcome’.

“Here you go, sweetheart.” Her mom places a grilled cheese on the table next to her and pats her head before heading over to the couch. “Do you need anything else? I can get you a drink if you-”

“I’m fine.” She nods at the end of the couch, where her backpack sits. “There’s water in my bag anyway.” Her mom nods in understanding and settles next to her dad.

“Which team do we want to win?”

“The college students,” Janis answers, taking a bite out of her sandwich. Of all the tastes she misses, her mom’s grilled cheese is up there. At least the chilli flakes she put on it gives it something. “They deserve it.”

“That old bat certainly doesn’t,” her dad grumbles. “She’s been giving her daughter the stink eye since round one.”

“Oh she looks like she would,” her mom jokes. “Hey Jan, did you tell your dad about the Make A Wish people?”

“The Make A Wish people?” her dad echoes, looking over at her. “You didn’t mention that.”

“Well, now you know,” she says casually, tearing her crusts off. Both her parents look to her expectantly, her dad no doubt excited about this. She’d be lying if she weren’t excited herself though. “It’s sort of what it says on the tin. I make a wish and the good people of the Make A Wish Foundation let it come true. Within reason, obviously. I don’t think they can give me a unicorn.”

“They could strap a horn to a little pony’s head,” her dad suggests.

“That’s animal abuse!” she says. “You know how I feel about the animals.”

“But have you thought about what you want?” her mom interrupts. “I mean, there’s no pressure, but any ideas?”

Janis purses her lips and pushes herself into a semi-normal sitting position. She has, although she wouldn’t call it ‘thinking about it’. More like ‘the first thing that came into her head’. But in her defence, it’s a really good one.

“There is one thing,” she says. “One place I’ve sort of always wanted to go but I never thought about asking for it because I knew it would be way too expensive.” Her mouth turns up into a smile before she can stop herself. Her parents eyes are wide as anticipation builds, both their attentions held tightly in her hand. Her next words are less spoken, more of a squeak. “The Kröller-Müller Museum. In the Netherlands.”

“The where now?” her dad asks.

“The Kröller-Müller Museum!” Janis replies, throwing the blanket off her. Just saying it out loud flipped a switch in her and now she’s bouncing on the couch, words tumbling out of her mouth. “It has one of the best collections of Van Gogh paintings! And basically anyone who was anyone in modern art!”

“Oh, there’s the obsession with Van Gogh,” her mom says. “Thought you left that behind in high school.”

“You thought wrong,” Janis tells her. “He’s my man. And also the Netherlands is meant to be like, really beautiful and I really want to go there. But also this art gallery! This art gallery let me tell you about it! It has a whole garden full of sculptures! And it’s not just European art-”

“Okay, Janis,” her mom chuckles. It’s then that Janis realises she actually stood up in her excitement, her phone at the ready, probably to show them everything and explain why exactly they should say yes to this. “If that’s what you want, that’s what we can do.”

“It is?”

“Of course,” her dad says. “It’s your wish. Also I’d love to see the Netherlands. We could make a whole vacation out of it without paying for anything ourselves.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” she squeals, bouncing up and down on the spot. Any and all dizziness she gets from this will be well worth it. “Oh, could I potentially bring Cady and Damian along with me?”

“If the good people at Make A Wish don’t have an issue with it,” her mom says. “Which I don’t think they will.”

“Oh my god yes!” She punches the air before breaking out into a little happy dance, her feet shuffling on the floor and her arms pumping. “I have to go tell Cady about this. Oh my god!”

Her mom barely has time to ask if she wants help before she picks up her bag and runs upstairs, grilled cheese in her hand. She feels as though this smile is permanently plastered on her face as she imagines her showing Cady around the gallery, telling her all about her favourite pieces, the two of them walking through the sculpture garden.

It’s almost enough to make her forget that this is just a cancer treat.

The five seconds it takes Cady to pick up the phone are torturous, her feet banging against her bed as she waits.

“Hey,” Cady greets, looking adorable with her hair falling around her shoulders and a white sweater engulfing her body. “Someone’s happy. You in your room?”

“Yep,” she answers. “My actual room, not my other room.”

“That’s not confusing,” Cady chuckles. “Wait a second.” She picks up the phone and sits against her wall, balancing her phone on her knees. “Okay, is this angle good?”

“All angles with you are good,” she says, turning onto her stomach so her feet and swing in the air. “Okay, so guess what?”

“Um… what?” she replies.

“You have to guess.”

“Okay, fine,” she says. “Um, they let Maxie come into the hospital with you.”

“Ugh, I wish,” she sighs. “But no. Keep guessing.”

“You… found out whether or not the hot medical student is gay so you can set him up with Damian?”

“Sadly, that’s still a question mark. Come on, one more guess.”

“I hate guessing, just tell me,” she says. “You look like you’re bursting to anyway.”

“You’re right, I am” she says. “So… what would you say to an all-expenses paid trip to Europe?”

“I’d say you’re kidding, right?” she says, raising an eyebrow.

“Nope,” she says proudly. “The Make A Wish Foundation.” Those words make Cady’s mouth fall open in a perfect, precious ‘o’ shape. “Oh yeah baby, they can give us a fancy little European vacation to the Netherlands.”

“Oh my gosh!” Cady says, laughter lining her voice. “Where, when, how, why?”

“The how is Make A Wish,” Janis explains. “The where is the Kröller-Müller Museum in Gelderland.” She definitely didn’t pronounce that properly. “The why is that it’s been my dream vacation since I could form coherent thoughts. And I want my best people with me when I go see it.” Maybe it’s a trick of the camera light, but Janis is sure she can see Cady’s cheeks turn pink.

“You sappy munch,” she tells her.

“Can I take that as ‘you’re in’?” Janis asks.

“You can take it as a ‘frick yes, I’m in’,” she replies between giggles.

“Fabulous. I don’t exactly know when, but that’s okay. We’ll figure it out. I finish in December so maybe we can go for Christmas.”

“Will you be okay to go?” Cady asks.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just… I was doing research about chemotherapy and cancer stuff,” Cady confesses. Her confession turns Janis’ heart to warm, soft mush.

“And why did you do that?” she asks softly.

“Oh… no reason.” They shrug and pull their sleeves over their hands, their face taking on the kind of softness they reserve just for Janis. “Just thought it might come in handy.” Janis blows a little kiss to the camera. Cady catches it, but quickly turns serious. “And it said that the aftermath tends to be pretty rough.”

“Caddy…” She rolls over onto her side, her cheeks turning a pale pink. “You’re sweet, you know that?”

“Of course I know that.”

“But you don’t need to worry about me,” she tells her. “Once this is all over, I’m going to be completely fine.” Her voice catches a little and she swallows past the lump in her throat. “And once I’m good, you and me can jet off to the Netherlands for our romantic getaway.” A lightbulb goes off in her head. “Oh, maybe I can get them to do it on our anniversary. I mean I’ll be completely fine by then, but it would still be romantic.”

“That sounds awesome,” Cady chuckles. “A little Fault In Our Stars, but awesome.”

“Oh my gosh,” Janis realises before bursting into cackling. “How did I not get that?”

“Because you didn’t read every John Green last year book to prep yourself for real people school,” Cady tells her. “I did.”

“Nerd,” she teases. “Anyways, this is me back for the week if you want to come over and give me a week’s worth of Cady cuddles-” As she talks, she makes the mistake of running her hand through her hair. And behind her head, she feels something come off in her hand.

And just like that, a tidal wave crashes in and washes away everything else, all the comfort she’d received from Cady, all that excitement and giddiness. Gone.

“Janis?” Cady asks, a frown creasing her face. “You okay?”

“Um, yeah, fine,” she says quickly. “Uh… I’m actually going to sign off now. I’m pretty tired and I need to get some stuff sorted out. I’ll text you tomorrow okay?”

“Sure.” Cady twirls her necklace around her finger. “Um, feel better soon, okay?”

“Yeah. I will. I’ll see you later, Caddy.”

If Cady was going to say anything else, she doesn’t get the chance. Janis hangs up the call and shoves her phone under her pillow, just in case. She presses her hand to her chest, her heart beating wildly against it.

“Oh God.”

She pushes herself up, only to find more of her hair sitting on her bed. There has to be more than what came off in the hospital, she thinks as she pushes herself into a kneeling position. Twice as much.

How much is left?

She pushes herself off the bed and half-stumbles, half-runs to the mirror. Thankfully, she still looks normal at the front, but not at the back. There’s a patch at the back and if she can see it, anyone can. Anyone meaning her parents. It’s small enough for her to be able to cover it by pulling her hair into a ponytail, but that won’t last forever.

She sinks down on the bed, her nails digging into the covers and her head spinning. She can’t stop this and she won’t be able to hide it for that much longer either. This is her new reality.

As insane as it sounds, she feels like she’s losing a part of herself. Not even in the way most people like her probably think. Her hair is a symbol of the battle she fought with Regina. The half-blonde shows that Regina didn’t win. That she did, that she came out of it as herself, not as a clone of Regina. She can still remember standing in her bathroom cutting most of her hair off. Still remember the thrill she felt when the first hints of black started making their appearance. To lose this feels like she’s losing that victory.

She lays down on her bed and stares up at the ceiling, tears burning in her eyes until tiredness creeps in and she finally falls asleep.

******

Her parents pick up on her mood, even if they don’t know what it’s about, which is the very last thing she wants. She should be trying harder, but she doesn’t have much energy to play pretend. She loves her parents, but right now she wishes they would be assholes and not care about her.

“You feeling okay, Jan?” her mom asks as she comes up behind her.

“Just tired,” she mumbles. Maxie whimpers and rubs his head against her leg, demanding pets. She obliges, partly to make herself feel better. If her dog can’t fix her mood, this truly is the end of her. Her mom nods, not moving from where she stands and watching Janis pretend watch daytime TV.

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want something?”

It was a low blow, Janis knew that the second she said it, sort of even before it, and her mom’s wounded face is the price she pays for it. For a split second, Janis thinks (slash hopes) that she’ll tell her off about her attitude, instead she just shrugs.

“No. Just making coffee, you want some?”

“I’m okay.” She pauses for a moment and looks up just as her mom is heading away. “Thanks, though.”

It’s not that she hasn’t thought about telling her parents. Logically, she knows that that’s the best thing she could do. They’re going to find out sooner or later and it’s better that they hear it from her than her just coming downstairs in a few days completely bald. Save their feelings, show them she cares and all that. She knows all that and she’s still keeping it from them. Pride, fear and stupidity is a lethal cocktail and she’s downed at least three since yesterday.

She guesses she dozed off because she blinks and it’s a completely new show. According to her phone, it’s half an hour later. The TV was put on mute at some point and her phone placed on the coffee table. She stretches her limbs out on the couch, her stomach growling, and she guesses it’s time to head to the kitchen and eat her first meal of the day.

“Oh, morning,” her dad teases. She throws him a peace sign and heads over to the cupboard.

“Do we have peanut butter left?” she asks. “I want a PG&J.”

“I got a new one, it’s in the front,” her mom says. “The jelly’s in there too.” She has to stretch to get it, even with her being taller than average. She almost doesn’t notice her mom approaching until it’s too late and all she can do is hope she tied her hair back enough to hide her little patch well enough. “Sweetie why don’t you let me do that?”

“Mom, I’m nearly 18,” she reminds her. She snorts, although it feels empty and more sarcastic than earnest. “I can do this myself.”

“I know,” she says gently. “I just don’t want you to… I’m making something for myself anyway, you just woke up.”

Janis in a deep breath. It’s well intentioned, of course, but it pisses her off.

“It’s okay Mom,” she says. “I’ve got this.” She screws open the peanut butter and spreads more than enough on one slice, just to make her point. Her grip on the knife turns her knuckles white.

“Really, sweetheart.” Her mom puts her hand on her shoulder and even though her touch is as gentle as can be, Janis bites back a scream. “You go sit down; I don’t want you stressing yourself.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake mom!” The knife clatters to the counter and she whips around to face her mother. “I’m not an invalid, I’m not a child, and I can make my own freaking sandwich!”

Her mom looks like she shot her. She may as well have. She backs away from Janis, her mouth opening and closing noiselessly, her eyes torn between anger and concern. When she looks to her dad for help, there’s nothing he can do.

“I’m sorry,” Janis says after what feels like forever. She wraps her arms around herself, her eyes meeting her mom’s. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s okay.” Her tone implies it’s anything but. “It’s all right.”

Janis only shakes her head, her throat too tight to say anything. Her mom takes a careful step towards her, then another. She’s never been handled with this much care before. Not even in the aftermath of Regina, when she was at her lowest, did she feel this breakable.

“You make your sandwich, kid,” her mom says quietly, her hand on her shoulder. Janis flinches away from her touch, mindful of her hair. Her mom takes the hint and she watches as disappointment flickers across her face.

“Sorry,” she whispers again. Her voice is so quiet that it’s as though she didn’t say anything. Maybe she didn’t.

When she looks over at the sandwich on the counter, her once-empty stomach feels too full and a shiver runs down her back.

“I’m not hungry,” she mumbles.

She stumbles into her room and leans on the chair, not even having the energy to close the door fully. Her parents know to give her her space anyway. They’re good like that, always are, and look how she repaid them.

She doesn’t care about being an asshole in school, to the people who deserve it, but she crossed a line here. The worst part is that she can’t really apologise because her parents are giving her the special treatment. Regardless of whether or not she deserves it, she doesn’t want it.

She rakes her hand through her hair, the habit still in her body even if she should know better, and of course another clump of hair comes off in her hand. That’s the second time today, the first being what came off in her hairbrush this morning. She’s being pushed further away from normal with every minute.

She holds it in front of her and looks at it, looks at the black and blonde clump just sitting there. Lifeless. Dull. Curling at the edges and poking out from between her fingers.

And suddenly she’s not upset or self-pitying any more.

She’s pissed.

She’s pissed as hell.

She shoves the door closed and squeezes the hair in her hand. It’s this illness, and that freaking medicine that’s making her feel this way. Making her tired and angry all the time, why her parents are giving her free passes. Making her miss out on her senior year and now taking her hair away from her too. Taking every facet of her life until she’s left with dust, and all against her will. How dare it, she thinks. How dare this disease come in and wreck her life like this. Make her feel so helpless and fragile. Who gave it that right?

She squeezes the clump in her hand as hot tears roll her face and into her open mouth. Her breathing is ragged and uneven; she gasps and chokes on sobs, even more so when another clump falls out.

Then an idea starts to piece together in her mind. It sounds insane, until she realises she was going to have to do it sooner or later. And that it was recommended in one of the leaflets she was given near the beginning. It scares her, but at the same time, it gives her some sort of satisfaction. Like doing it lets her win in some way. She lets the idea of that satisfaction pull her down the hallway, one ear listening out for her parents, and slips into the bathroom. There she finds her dad’s electric razor sitting on a shelf and she slides it into her pocket.

She remembers when she was 12 and her dad found her in this bathroom after cutting most of her hair off. He hid his surprise well. He might not be able to do that this time.

She locks her bedroom door and closes the curtains as well. Victory or no, she wants this done in private. She positions her mirror on the desk, enough to get her entire head in.

She looks at herself for a long moment, razor in her hand. This is the last time she’ll look like this for a long, long time. Her cancer has been hidden from passing eyes until now. Now she’ll just have it written on her forehead in invisible ink. The sad, pitiful eyes and sympathetic sighs won’t just be from her parents or peers now, but from everyone who sees her.

But it’s either this or it falls out on its own. Her fate it, quite literally, in her own hands.

So she takes a deep breath, turns the razor on, and runs it through the middle of her head.

It’s not as easy as people make it look. And by people, she means people on TV and in movies. The razor gets stuck on more than one occasion and it takes two or three tries on some places to get it fully off. Not to mention her hair getting caught in her bra or falling down the front of her shirt. But she powers through it and keeps going until there’s nothing left of it.

There’s nothing left.

Her first thought is that as far as impulse decisions go; this one takes the cake.

Her second thought is “oh my fucking god I’m bald!”. She’s well and truly bald. The realisation slams into her and she stumbles forwards, barely managing to grab the chair to steady herself. She can’t even decide if she regrets it not, if that one victory she claimed in doing it herself was worth it, because all she is thinking is “I am fucking bald”. She doesn’t look like herself. She looks like a kid. Or a cancer patient.

Her next conversation with her friends will be all about this. And she’s almost certain she can’t handle that.

Unless….

Her second crazy idea of the day springs to mind. Granted, it’s not as drastic as shaving her whole head, but it’s still a jump. A big one. But it’ll give her back something she’s been missing for a while, power. Power to tell her own story, to make people look and see her, not cancer.

She opens her phone and gets up her camera, snapping selfies like it’s any other day. One with a peace sign up, one with her tongue sticking out, one laying in her bed, one in front of the mirror. She lines them all up on Instagram and opens the caption.

‘Hello friends. Tis I, Janis Sarkisian. Yes, I got a haircut. A bit more than a haircut. You all probably know by now that I have cancer. And you probably understand that people with cancer lose their hair. Yep, that’s what happened here folks. Please feel free to look at these pictures as long as you like in order to get used to it. I mean it. It’ll save all the awkward staring irl. I’ll do the same.’

Her thumbs dance over the keypad as she bites down on her lip, choosing words with just as much care as she would in her college essay. Maybe more.

‘I’m still me. Just without hair. See you guys when I see you. Please restrict your comments to only talking about how good looking I am and how my girlfriend is lucky to have me. Thank you for your time.’

She hits ‘post’ immediately, only to immediately regret it once she does. She drops down to the floor and holds her phone to her chest, back against the wall, left with no option but to wait for the next event to happen.

#cadnis ff #cadnis #mean girls broadway #mean girls fanfic #janis sarkisian #mean girls musical #fic: heart of stone

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ninjanonymous · 4 years

Text

I’m pissed off, and sad, and scared, and I have a lot to say right now. This all needs to be said, for my own sake if not for anyone else’s.

Very recently, the Supreme Court ruled 7-2 that employers under the Affordable Care Act are now allowed to roll back access to birth control for their employees, as long as their religion disagrees with it. This ruling was made in the name of religious tyranny, and NOT that of religious freedom. Christian-run businesses can now force their beliefs onto their employees by actively denying them the healthcare that they very much need.

Can you imagine the outrage there would be if SCOTUS decided that it was suddenly okay for a Muslim-run business to break FLSA standards during Ramadan? After all, if a Christian-run business shouldn’t be forced to pay for all ACA-protected aspects of an employee’s healthcare, why should a Muslim-run business have to sacrifice profits when eating lunch during Ramadan is against their religion?

“Oh, but there are federal protections to keep something like that from happening.” Are there? Are there really? The ACA gave employees FEDERALLY PROTECTED access to birth control through their employers, because an employer’s religious beliefs shouldn’t be used to control the freedoms or hurt the wellbeing of others. Now look where we are.

This court ruling essentially dictates that religion can make you exempt from federally-mandated rules for the sake of profit. It puts the employer’s beliefs above the beliefs and wellbeing of their employees. It puts any company’s self-proclaimed God over the law, and allows them to forgo worker protections because, according to them, it’s what Jesus would want.

And where do we draw the line? Should a company that’s run by a Jehovah’s Witness be allowed to deny coverage for a needed blood transfusion? Can a religious company claim that any illness is a righteous punishment from God, and the use of modern medicine to treat it would be sinful? What would that mean for something as devastatingly expensive as cancer treatment? What if the CEO doesn’t agree with vaccines? And really, why even stop at access to healthcare when there are any number of ways that a company could encroach on their worker’s rights in the name of God?

Too many people in this country are entirely dependent on their employers for their health insurance. Healthcare costs in America are the highest in the western world by far, and life-saving treatment is often prohibitively expensive without it. This SCOTUS decision may ultimately deny many Americans their constitutional right to life.

Employers pay private insurance companies to provide care for their employees. This is a blanket expense. They don’t get an itemized bill for the healthcare that they’re covering. They’re paying for general healthcare coverage to be provided by insurance company, and that’s it. The employers are not the insurance companies themselves. They are not the ones processing the claims and choosing which to deny and which to cover. Your medical record is private, protected information. Your employer does not have access to that information under HIPAA. If your employer isn’t allowed in the room with you during your doctor’s appointment, they absolutely shouldn’t be allowed to pick and choose what care you can and can’t receive.

These companies are literally just saying, “see that person right there? I don’t like that they’re on birth control, because I’M a Christian, and that’s against MY beliefs, so now THEY can’t have it.” A Christian forcing their beliefs onto someone else isn’t religious freedom, just like a Muslim forcing their beliefs onto a Christian wouldn’t be. This is religious tyranny the and Christian-backed persecution of women.

And for this specific ruling, it really is that arbitrary. This ruling is a poorly-disguised move to further strip away the rights of women in the name of Abrahamic theocracy. The idea that this decision would save money for these employers is completely asinine, considering good reproductive healthcare and access to birth control reduces long-term costs overall (I will be adding the stats and sources to back this up in a later post).

And here’s an important reminder for you all: reproductive healthcare is still basic healthcare. Taking care of one’s needs regarding their reproductive system benefits their overall health. And even if you disagree with me there, “birth control” is a pretty damn big misnomer. While it is commonly used to prevent unwanted pregnancies, there are a myriad of other reasons that a woman might need it for.

Birth control can control hormonal acne. My own mother was put on it for this reason back when she was a teenager.

It can be used to help regulate one’s mood. A dear friend of mine is on it for this reason. She suffers from severe depression, occasionally to the point of suicidal ideation. I am fucking terrified about what this court decision could mean for her.

It reduces one’s chances of getting uterine cancer. I have a family history of uterine cancer, and it can be hard to detect. They only found it in my grandmother by chance when they were performing an unrelated surgery.

It reduces your chances of forming ovarian cysts. Women with PCOS often suffer from these, and they can be quite painful. My mother had to have a football-sized ovarian cyst removed from her abdomen, and histology found that it contained pre-cancerous cells.

It can relieve symptoms of PMS and PMDD. Again, this is a form of hormonal mood regulation, as well as a means of controlling many of the unfortunate physical side effects of the menstrual cycle. PMS and PMDD are often topics of ridicule, but their symptoms can have a serious negative impact on one’s day-to-day life. I’ll add more information on this later, since there’s a lot to cover.

It can help regulate one’s menstrual cycle. For reasons I shouldn’t have to explain, knowing when blood and viscera is going to start pouring out of your crotch really helps with being prepared to deal with it. It also helps to avoid really embarrassing situations in public, or the need to clean bloodstains out of clothes and furniture. Irregular periods are a gruesome guessing game. I’ve been there. I don’t want to go back.

It can make your periods less painful. Periods happen when, once a month, the uterus sheds its inner lining. As in, the person having their period is bleeding internally, because one of their organs is shredding and expelling parts of itself from the inside. That shit hurts. Many women have reported vomiting or passing out from period pain. For me, the average period cramp can be compared to really bad gas or diarrhea pain. You know, the kind that has you breaking out into cold sweats on the toilet while you silently beg for mercy to any god that might be listening. Fun, right? I’d recon my pain level is about the average, too.

It can be used to manage menstrual migraines. Did you know some women get migraines in conjunction with their periods? Migraines are debilitating. Imagine having them chronically, getting them frequently around the same time every month, then being denied affordable access to the one medicine that was keeping it in check because your asshole boss says that Jesus wants you to suffer. Bonus points if you get fired because the migraines had a negative impact on your ability to work.

It can reduce your risk of anemia. Some women get really heavy periods. Like, crazy heavy, to the point where they bleed so much that it’s unhealthy. Technically speaking, I fall into this camp. I’d hemorrhage to the point of needing a transfusion if I went long enough without birth control. Gee, I sure hope the insurance-throttling company that I work for isn’t run by a Jehovah’s Witness.

Birth control is the only non-invasive way to control uterine fibroids, which often go hand-in-hand with endometriosis. These are non-cancerous growths within or around the uterus can cause uncontrolled bleeding, and may be quite painful in and of themselves. A ridiculously high number of women have this, myself included. Most women that have them have no or very few symptoms. I was not so lucky.

And that’s just a few of birth control’s many uses. And actually, let me talk about my fibroids some more for a second, just so you all have a better idea of what it means to live with this shit. TMI time. I take birth control. I’ve been taking it regularly for about five years now. I’ve never had sex before, and I don’t plan on it any time soon. This is the one and only reason I’m on the pill.

Five years ago, during my freshman year of college, I started bleeding out of the blue. Really, really badly. This “spotting” was sudden, and heavy, and unrelenting. I’d completely bleed through a super tampon in less than two hours, when one of those would last a good eight hours on my heaviest day during a normal period. I had to sleep with towels on the bed, and set an alarm to wake up early so I could take deal with the shed blood before it got too bad, and to give myself extra time for cleanup before classes. After going from horizontal to vertical for the first time in several hours, getting to the bathroom was a race against time and gravity.

I lived like this for a full month. Tampons and pads, for those of you that have had the privilege of never needing to buy them, can get really pricey. Doubly so for a broke college student, triply so when they need to be extra-large packs containing extra-large products, and quadruple-y so when that broke college student is still managing to bleed through those products at an absurd rate. And, it hurt. The pain was worse than usual; the camps were sharper, more persistent, and sometimes it felt like someone was jabbing a big needle into my abdomen and twisting it around. I was taking OTC painkillers constantly, and they barely made a dent in the pain.

The bleeding started just over a week after my last period had ended, so it was way too early for it to be my next cycle. I figured that maybe my cycle was syncing up to my roommate, or some other chick on my floor had some weird hormonal imbalance, and the outside interference from other people’s hormones was screwing with me enough to make my own body act weird. I figured I’d just have to wait out this one bad period, and everything would settle back down to normal. But, two weeks passed and absolutely nothing changed. The bleeding wasn’t slowing down, and I started to get worried that it wasn’t just an abnormal period. I waited a couple more days, then booked an appointment at the health center. It was more than a week until they could see me.

The consensus was fibroids. They couldn’t give me an official diagnosis without an ultrasound, but all signs pointed to that one conclusion. They said that the only way to make the bleeding stop was by taking birth control. I wasn’t happy about it, since my mom had me convinced that birth control would actually increase my risk of cancer (not true, as I later found out), but I agreed anyway. The nightmare was over a few days later.

So, off topic but still related, I had surgery on my foot a couple months ago. It had to be immobilized for a while, and I was put on blood thinners to prevent any clots from forming while I recovered. Birth control pills can actually increase the risk of blood clots, so I made the choice to hold off on taking those for a while, just as an added precaution. Sure enough, only five days later, the bleeding and the pain was back. Again, it had been only a week since my last period.

I still need to be on birth control. It is a medical necessity for me. My fibroids are still around, and I’ll still spot and cramp up if I miss a pill. I’ve recently been told by my doctor that a permanent fix, and my only other option for treatment, is a hysterectomy. I am 22 years old. Most surgeons would never dream about performing that procedure on me, even if it didn’t already come with its own health risks.

And hell, even if it is used just to prevent pregnancies, what gives someone else the right to deny a woman her bodily autonomy? Human beings are sexual creatures. They’re going to fuck, regardless of whatever laws or religious doctrines are involved. We are quite literally built to have sex, and it’s entirely healthy to do so. There are plenty of peer-reviewed studies that go into detail on the matter; just hop onto Google Scholar and see for yourself. And, maybe, preventing pregnancy is a need in and of itself. What if a woman has a condition that would make pregnancy extremely high-risk? Is she not justified in taking birth control to protect herself from grievous injury? If she’s married to a man, does that married couple not have a right to sleep together without fear of one of them literally dying for it? Even by Christian standards, it doesn’t seem right.

This decision that the Supreme Court has made is utterly shameful, and countless law-abiding American citizens will now be denied access to needed care that they otherwise couldn’t afford without insurance coverage. This is truly a loss for America and her people, and one that will cause suffering for decades to come.

#long post #text #my thoughts #scotus #politics #feminism #fuck republicans #fuck conservatives #and fuck the evangelical right #religion #christianity #america #2020 #sorry if i’m not the best writer #fuck #theocracy #angry #fibroids #birth control

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never-not-ever · 5 years

Note

Can you share your story with us? You can do it ❤️

Thank you! It wasn’t that bad… The 8th graders this morning were paying attention which was nice but no one asked questions in the end so it was like a little awkward lol. But after that at the high school I was a part of 5 periods where the kids would shuffle in and me and my co peer mentors would sit at the front like a panel. Since there was a bunch of us we didn’t all have to present each time but I ended up doing mine twice!

Also just to preface this, my story is not the full story. The first draft I sent to the coordinator was like 10x long and over time we shortened it and tried to not make it as descriptive/triggering… but here ya go!

“Freshmen year of high school, I was sitting in class joking with my best friend about how it was going to be my last day in school. I had an annual physical with my doctor later that afternoon. This was my first doctors appointment since I started self harming. Back then I thought that the second she saw my arm I was going to get taken away by two men in white coats. I didn’t go to a psych ward that day. Instead, she asked me if I was okay and I replied “I’m fine, it was a stupid thing I did, I promise I won’t do it again”. She handed me a little white card with the name and phone number of a therapist. I often wonder what would have happened if I actually called that therapist and got help back in high school. Would the self harm have stopped? Would the suicide attempts have been prevented? Would I have graduated from college by now? Who would I be if I got help back then?

I think I had a pretty normal childhood. I didn’t have a mom and a dad but I had my Nana and my Aunt. My Nana got custody of me when I was 2 and she and my Aunt raised me my whole life. My Aunt was like my mother and everywhere we went people thought I was her daughter. I have no memory of my father. He was an alcoholic and left before my mother lost custody of me. My mother has her own problems with mental health as well as a drug addiction. We tried to have a relationship but as I grew up I saw who she really was. By the time I turned 15 I wanted nothing to do with her and I haven’t spoken to her since.

Growing up I was really close with my Aunt, she was like a mother to me, a real one. My Aunt was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was in middle school and she was constantly in relapse and remission. For months it would disappear and then all of a sudden it would come back again. I went to a small middle school with probably about 15 kids in my class. I was the biggest person in my school. At the 8th grade dance all the other girls wore cute dresses and I wore pants and a nice shirt. That wasn’t my style but I was just way too self conscious to ever wear a dress. In high school I was once again the biggest person. I had a couple close friends but I hated being around people, always fearing that they were judging me for my size. I had a friend online who introduced me to self harm. He was always bullied so he starting hurting himself as a way to cope. You see I was never bullied. I was always overweight but no one ever called me names or made fun of me, at least to my face. I was the bully. To myself. I hated the way I looked, the things I said, the way I interacted with other people. I hated everything about myself. I always scolded myself for saying or doing the wrong thing. I started self harming in my freshmen year. Back then I didn’t see a future for myself. I was so depressed that I wasn’t thinking about the consequences I’d later face because of my self harm. My depression, along with my extreme self hatred, turned my self harm into a way to punish myself.

After high school my depression and self harm got worse and I started feeling suicidal. My Aunts cancer was back and had traveled throughout her body. She passed away in April of 2012. She died at home and I watched her take her last breath. Right after she passed I ran up to my room and tore apart the suicide notes and threw away all my self harm supplies all while telling myself “I have to be there for my Nana, I can’t leave her too”. My Aunt’s death made me feel selfish for feeling depressed and suicidal. It made me think of all the people who have it worse and here I was so depressed and wanting to end my life? It didn’t make sense. But I wasn’t choosing to feel this way and I had every right to feel the way I did. It took me a while to realize that but I know now after feeling such joy and happiness I wouldn’t chose sadness and depression, no one would. For a while after my Aunt passed away I thought maybe she was watching over me and so every time I had that urge to hurt myself it was easily pushed away. The day my Aunt died it was like I put this shield up and I automatically started comforting everyone around me so I wasn’t actually grasping the fact that she was gone. Later on that fall I tried to go back to school but my depression got worse and the reality of my Aunt’s death finally came to the surface and so I ended up dropping out. The self harm started up again and it was now a full blown addiction.

Almost a year after my Aunts death I saw my first therapist and later that summer my first psychiatrist. I spent a year in therapy while working part time. I tried once again to go back to school but for the third time I dropped out. I was severely depressed, self harming and binge drinking alone in my room. I was soon admitted to a psych ward at McLean Hospital. I was there for a week and on the day I discharged I went home and attempted to end my life. The memories of that day will haunt me forever. Back then I didn’t think about how my death would effect the ones around me. When I hear suicide survivors talk about their lost loved ones it hurts to think I could have put my friends and family through that.

For years after that I started this cycle where I would feel fine, happy even, for months at a time. But then out of nowhere I’d slowly start to feel depressed again and the self harm would start up. Depression looks different for everyone but for me it’s not wanting to get out of bed. It’s pushing away friends and family, always feeling like a burden. It’s staying up until 4 am and not waking up until the late afternoon. It’s binge eating and gaining weight and climbing up past 300lbs. It’s hating everything about yourself and the person you’ve become.

I’ve had to go back to the hospital a couple times since my suicide attempt. There were no scary men in white coats like I had thought. Going to the hospital is needed if you’re in danger of hurting yourself. It’s a place to go if you can’t keep yourself safe. A couple years ago I was feeling suicidal and I vaguely talked about it on Tumblr and thankfully someone called the police. Back then I was so angry at that person but looking back they probably saved my life. During one of my hospitalizations I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder which was something I had never heard of before. BPD is a mental illness that consists of intense mood swings, self harm, suicidal thinking, bad body image and impulsive behaviors.

Finally I reached a point where I wasn’t constantly thinking about ending my life. I started Dialectical Behavior Therapy, the most successful therapy for helping people like me. This type of therapy can be done outside of the hospital so it allowed me to go back to work and school. It teaches you skills to help manage your emotions, maintain healthy relationships and handle stressful situations. I’ve done many different types of DBT therapy, residential, partial programs, groups and individual therapy. But I’ve finally gotten to a place in my recovery where all I need now is just therapy. It’s become a weekly place to check in and talk about any red flags before they become another spiral.

McLean hospital and DBT have literally saved my life. I mean, I saved my life but DBT taught me the skills to not destroy my relationships and myself. Today I’m in a healthy, stable relationship with my girlfriend and we’ve been together for 3 years. We just moved in together last summer and adopted two little black kittens. Last fall I passed my first classes since 2015 and I know now that I want to work in the mental health field some day. I’ve lost a lot of weight and I’m starting to feel more comfortable in this new body scars and all. I work full time as a florist manager and I’m now part of this amazing peer mentor organization. I might not be here today if someone didn’t call the police back then. I wasn’t able to reach out for help so I’m grateful that someone else was able to do it for me. It sounds cliche but it does get better and if you had told me that back then, I would have laughed in your face. After 12 years I still have urges to hurt myself and sometimes I hear a song that reminds me of the day I tried to end my life and all I want to do is sleep to escape those feelings. But it passes. The urges and the sadness and the hopelessness. It all passes. I think of my cats and how amazing it is to feel the sun on my arms. I think of things that help me chose recovery instead of resorting back to old behaviors and that’s how I know things are different now. Thank you.”

#personal #my story #mental health awareness #borderline personality disorder #depression #self harm #recovery

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transbionic-shieldmaiden · 4 years

Text

a really long post about my stupid HRT adventure

cw medical stuff, tumors.

context: there was a post about getting on HRT that I read but I decided this was too personal to go in a reblog. donut rebagel, but feel free to reply.

ohhhh man, so like obviously i’m glad other people have had a better time than I when it comes to getting on hrt but i really gotta rant about the issues i had, because I had a hell of a time getting it DESPITE NOT ACTUALLY RUNNING INTO GATEKEEPING. so, story time:

this got long, so have a read more.

So I have executive dysfunction, which I cannot recommend. For me at least it comes in a package deal with a bunch of plasticbrains things I’m very much a fan of (stims! hyperfocus! being trans!), but I’d still very much like to not deal with it. And I also have social anxiety. Which overall is not a great combination of issues for dealing with the medical system.

Case in point: figuring out I’m trans was the catalyst for getting me to actually seek therapy (at MIT medical, which -- sidenote -- is free for students and I can’t recommend them highly enough), but what this actually meant was I took basically an entire semester to make the phone call to get an appointment, which was scheduled for a month after the call*. So far so great.

Anyway, as my therapy continued I kept coming in and complaining about dysphoria and being like “man i wish i could start hrt! but i won’t, because that involves talking to strangers :(” and eventually my therapist was like “so like. regular medical, which can prescribe hrt, is literally one floor below us. i can walk you down and schedule an appointment right now.”

and i was like “uhhhh wait i didn’t actually want my problem solved that means i have to talk to strangers!!!” but like obviously this was the social anxiety talking because i did actually want hrt. so my therapist walked me down to medical and i scheduled an appointment with the one Trans Doctor (tee-em) at MIT medical (like seriously this woman is as far as I can tell the PCP for like half of MIT’s trans population, we stan).

so the way this worked out is I needed three appointments: one intake appointment which was largely informational, one appointment with a physical checkup and a blood draw, and finally an appointment once the blood draw results came in. So I went in to the firs appointment, scheduled the second once it was done, and then MIT medical stole my blood.

And when that appointment was done I...didn’t schedule the third.

Cue several months passing due to executive dysfunction and social anxiety.

So I finally get myself together enough to schedule the last appointment, and I go in...and it turns out I have abnormally low testosterone. And I was all ready to be like “Oh no...isn’t that a shame...how terrible...” but the problem is, low testosterone in conjunction with my other blood metrics...was possibly a sign of a brain tumor.

That sounds worse than it actually is -- the brain tumor in question would’ve been benign, so it wouldn’t have been cancer. It does occasionally lead to blindness however, and low testosterone from said tumor would obviously not be very visible once I was taking spironolactone. So we needed to make sure I didn’t have a tumor before we could proceed with HRT. I was sent to take another blood test, optimized for the time of day when testosterone levels peak, and was therefore in the strange situation of being a trans woman hoping for high testosterone levels on a blood test.

Alas, it seems I was truly too trans for my own good, for it turns out the second test was even lower than the first.

This meant I had to go in for another blood test, and I had to get an MRI. And of course remember that every appointment I make here means 3-5 weeks depending on scheduling, all while I’m engaging in the standard MIT pastime of drowning in psets. Which is not fun when you’re depressed from dysphoria, let me tell you.

The MRI rolls around and it’s in this area of the Boston metro area Where The T Dares Not Go. There’s a bus stop near the clinic, but I have only been on an MBTA bus once and I really didn’t want to miss my appointment. So I hop in a lyft and soon it’s time for me to go in the Big Science Tube.

So here’s the thing about the Big Science Tube. It’s loud, it’s cramped, and in my case at least you get pumped with Contrast Juice which like goes in your brain or something? idk i’m not an MRI tech. I actually found it to be a not entirely unpleasant experience, because it sort of feels like you’re in a cryosleep chamber or something and I’m a huge nerd. But it’s also...massively disorienting. You can’t move, your vision is limited to the inside surface of a white cylinder, the whole thing is making Noise and vibrating, there’s the Contrast Juice sloshing in your brain...Oh, and at least in my case they let me listen to satellite radio while i was vibing in the science tube. Thing is, I don’t generally like radio music, since I tend to like individual songs more than genres, so I picked the jazz station. I figured this would ensure fairly enjoyable music the whole time, instead of a weird roller-coaster of songs I like, songs I hate, and songs I haven’t heard (the vast majority).

While I stand by this analysis in general, I do not recommend jazz as the soundtrack to the big science tube.

All this is to say that by the time I got out, I was extremely out of it and loopy. Oh, I also forgot to mention: I did not sleep well the night before. My sleep schedule is a mess at the best of times, and I was very nervous. So I am...completely off the shits by this point, not to mention extremely hungry and thirsty. They tell you to drink a lot to flush the Contrast Juice from your system, so that works out OK. In theory.

I get out, stand by the bus station for a bit, and conclude the bus isn’t coming. I walk across the street to a McDonalds, figuring I could really use some food and liquid. Which was correct.

...Except the bus came and went while I was in there, and looking at the schedule on my phone revealed I’d have to wait another half an hour for another.

This is where I make a terrible mistake. I look at my map, see that Harvard...isn’t too far from where I am, and Harvard has a T station! Perfect! So I, completely loopy from the MRI, still dehydrated because I haven’t gotten nearly enough liquids from McDonalds, decide to WALK TO HARVARD. It was a 30 minute walk, through unfamiliar territory, and I cannot stress this enough: I. Was. Off. The. Shits.

So I walk to Harvard using my phone’s GPS and whatever brain cells were not full of Contrast Juice, somehow managing to navigate through this random neighborhood and over the bridge without getting too lost or getting hit by a car. As I reach Harvard, I realize that this is a bad place for me to be in my current mental state: it’s bustling, full of standard college craziness; i think there was a guy in a chocolate bar costume which I could not process at the time. Oh, and I’ve never been to the Harvard T station so in my condition I struggle to find it. And when I do get there...well, here’s the thing about the Harvard T station: It’s huge. There’s several floors of underground bus terminals and an absolute warren of tunnels. Perfectly navigable, if you’re sober or know the area.

I am of course none of these things.

Still, somehow I find my way to the train, but that wasn’t even the end of my problems! Because, you see, my dorm is twenty minutes from the nearest T stop! So even once I get back to MIT I still have lots of walking to do. I don’t remember how I got back at that point; I think it involved a lot of drinking fountains.

Anyway, I guess this was supposed to be about me getting HRT? So it takes a while for the MRI results to get back, but it turns out I don’t have a tumor. However, in the meantime my parents have been pushing for me to freeze some sperm cells, so that I can have kids someday. Here’s the thing: I do not want kids. I do not expect to ever want kids. And if that changes, I’d be quite happy to adopt kids. But my parents are offering to pay for it, and the risk-averse part of my brain is like “oh...maybe i should do it...just in case???”

It takes me a month to actually call a fertility clinic. In the meantime, I am struggling in my classes; dysphoria is not conducive to educational success. It was not a good time to be me, let’s just put it that way. Finally, I make the call, and uhhhh it turns out sperm freezing is really expensive? And you have to go in for an intake appointment...then do some tests...and then...

So at this point I say, fuck it! And I get on HRT the next week. In total it took me like...a year to get on HRT, depending on how you count it? And all this without anyone actually gatekeeping me on being an Invalid Trans or whatever. But it’s all good, because now I’m far happier and more together than I ever thought I can be. The moral of this story is: HRT good, executive dysfunction bad, and don’t wander through Harvard while completely off the shits from MRI aftereffects.

*this is the one issue with MIT medical; their services are great but also in high demand. the system is a bit better once you actually get into it though.

#genderfeels #trainsbionic-shieldmaiden #plasticbrains #personal #donut rebagel #medical cw #tumors cw #the word of the shieldmaiden

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onceuponatimewithhaleigh · 4 years

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Time to catch up!

I'm so sorry I kinda vanished! Well, I didn't kind of vanish. I straight poofed. So I'm going to catch you guys up on what's happened since the start of August. Quite a lot has gone on, and I needed to kinda - I don't really know? Mentally I was just gone. Like August happened? I don't remember it. But anyhow here we go!

My Skin Spot:

Not cancer! My doctor so politely told me "Sometimes spots just pop up as we... get older." So. Guess I'm just gonna have some serious blemishes the older I get. Haha! I mean, not going to lie, I'm salty about it. But I'd rather be 'getting old' than have cancer. So that's all good!

Meeting with Dr. Lak:

Doctor Lak is my future surgeon for my gastric bypass. She's really really nice. Super friendly and super supportive. She got me all setup - so I have a slue of appointments made. Due to my insurance, I have to see a dietitian for six months consecutively before I can have the surgery. I also have to pass a nicotine test. So - I have to quit smoking ASAP. Which, I need to anyhow. (more on my smoking at the end lol) but overall she was absolutely fantastic!

College(Part One):

Before classes started I talked to my amazing Academic Advisor, Kathrine - and I told her some of my interests and my plans for after college. And we both kinda poked around at my minoring in Photography. To me, that wasn't really enough, so I am now a double major!

OBGYN:

I haven't said anything here, but I have plans in becoming a mother as soon as my health permits. Now I am not in a relationship, nor do I plan to be. I want to be a single mother. Some people think I'm absolutely bat-shit crazy for that. But I think, for me that is the best thing. I have an extremely supportive family, and I have zero doubt in my mind that my child will be loved as much and so much more than they'd ever possibly need! The issue here was A. my weight. B. my family has a history of fertility issues. C. I have PCOS. D. I don't have a partner haha, Kinda need two to tango ;) That all being said, I had mentioned this to my OBGYN, who retired randomly on me in March(with no notice - canceled pre-existing appointments, and with no doctors accepting new patients). I had been telling him about bad pains I'd been having for a while, and he never really listened to me or made any move to investigate. I did my own research, as well as spoke to people about it - and thought I may have Endometriosis. I brought my thoughts to him. He shrugged and said "That's probably it." and made Z E R O effort to figure it out. After three months of pain being horrible to the point sometimes when I was driving, I'd have a flare-up and I'd have to pull over because the pain was so bad I couldn't breathe or see. Then he retired. Then there were no doctors accepting anyone new. So. FINALLY - August 10th I get into a new OBGYN, Dr. Curtis. The first impression was "dudes young and super hip this is gonna be weird..." I'm weird when it comes to doctors, but doctors messing around down there I'm even weirder LOL. I feel like if my OB was a woman there's some weird competition 'Mines prettier...' I have no idea don't judge me xD I told him my wants and things and he told me sadly some older doctors just don't care. they're very black and white. And he was spot on. He told me I probably don't have endometriosis. Put me back on birth control, told me to have the gastric surgery, and then he'd get me in for an exam, and he'd get me to a fertility clinic. He supported me 100% in wanting to become a single mother. He did say that I was the youngest he'd ever seen himself, but he had no issues moving forward with me doing that. Told me a year after surgery, he'd get me to a clinic and we'd get me a baby xD

Dietitian:

My dietitian's name is Andrea, and guys, I love her. She is so goofy as scatterbrained it makes me giggle! I learned a lot during that call though! (all my appointments with gastric have been on the computer/phone) So, this hospital does post-surgery stuff differently than any others in the area, and they've found it's got the best results. So after surgery, I'd usually be on a liquid diet for 6 weeks. Which is standard. Nope! Not here! After surgery, I'll be on a pure protein diet. Not shakes- PUREAED MEAT. How gross right? Meat slushie anyone? Gag lol She goes "Everyone seems to love the pureed eggs" and I literally gagged in the call xD This is gonna be the death of me. Another thing that had me completely shook was that with a stomach the size of an EGG after surgery, I still have to drink 64oz of water a day. She said I can only drink 2oz at a time. So I basically have to take a shot of water every 10 minutes ALL DAY LONG. But! I can't drink anything at all for 30 minutes BEFORE I eat, I can't drink WHILE EATING(which I have to eat 3/4 a cup over 45 minutes-_-), and I can't drink shit for 30 minutes AFTER I eat. So. This shit's gonna be wild man. I'm excited but anxious as hell. And for the rest of my life, I'll be taking vitamin supplements.

Weight:

Currently, my weight is 417lbs

College(Part Two):

So. Friday(Aug. 28th) before the term starts, I have a massive breakdown. That Monday the first week the course was available to look at. We could submit anything, but we could go in and do the work and submit it later. Well. I got in there in my Introduction to Liberal Arts(IDS-100), and boooyyy did I overreact. :) I freaked out. I got overwhelmed because my IDS-100 professor is a very longwinded man. The email I had gotten made everything seem way way more complicated than necessary. And I basically went into spiral mode.

'is a college education reallllyyyy that important?'

'What's the point?'

'I'm gonna fail anyhow, so why try?'

'My family will think I'm a failure...'

'I shouldn't even try, so I don't fail.'

A whole slue of shit thoughts went through my head, and I took it, man. That little demon in my brain just bitching "Never good enough. Not smart enough! Failure." And I sat there and took it like a little bitch. I got so bad I called my advisor, Good ole Kathrine, and LUCKY FOR ME; she was busy and didn't answer. I had the ability to talk to another advisor, but I didn't wanna sob into a stranger's ear so LOL. I called my dad when I was balls deep into a panic attack, and he came down and talked me out of it, and then told me he'd sit with me when I do classwork so he can help if I need it. Which, It's not really that I need help, I was worried about my comprehension of the information I read in class. Because I'm a very visual learner and one of those that talks shit out. And being online, I'm alone in my room so uh lol But yeah. He talked me down, got me all calmed down. Then the next day, my advisor called and asked why I'd called and she apologized for not being available and I laughed and told her straight "It's better you were busy, Cause I'd have dropped out." and she was shocked. Told her all of what happened and what was going on in my head and she told me she was gonna set up weekly appointments with me after each module opens. a new module opens every Monday. and she said she was gonna call me every Tuesday. I went on a spiel about how I feel ridiculous cause I'm being a burden. And she squashed that thought hella fast. So long story short. I am so blessed to have a support system between my dad and my wonderful advisor Kathrine. Lol

Boooo:

I gained a new allergy and lost an old one. I have no idea how that worked. But. No longer allergic to Soy. But now have a TERRIBLE reaction to all dairy products... Which fuckin blows because I live in Wisconsin, and I L O V E cheese. -_- Cheese hates me. :(BYE GUYS!

Whoops!

Forgot about the smoking bit, this is an Edit lmao Basically - TOTALLY thought I could drop smoking cold turkey cause that's how I'd done it every time I'd quit smoking before. Welp. Not this time :) I was a raging bitch, and a HORRIBLE migraine that was so bad I couldn't do ANYTHING. And to top it all off, I had a panic attack lol So. It's the time of year I usually start to quit anyhow. I'm so weird. I'm a seasonal smoker. Living in Wisconsin I am NOT keen on smoking in below zero temperatures in winter. I'd like to keep my fingers. This year I started smoking earlier than usual because I was out of state where freezing winter temperatures were a minimum of like, 37*F and I'm like *cackles in Wisconsinite* CHILDS PLAY!!! So, I started smoking again in December lol Anyway, now- my dad's in control of my smokes. He gives me my daily allowance in a ziplock bag which made me laugh so fucking hard because just like I actually said to him "I feel like you're my dealer and I'm sneaking something naughty!" lol Right now I'm aloud 10 a day. Which is probably 3-5 less than I usually smoke a day. So. I'm kinda feeling it. But my dads controlling them. So this should be fun. :) That's all! Bye guys!

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debbie-tanthorey · 4 years

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65 DAYS IN MAY

CHAPTER ONE

Cosmic irony. A dentist saved me. You read that correctly – saved my LIFE, albeit inadvertently. An action as mundane as having one’s teeth cleaned, set fate in motion. Was the week of Thanksgiving 2019, bi-annual check-up. Dentist does his thing after the hygienist finishes. You know the drill (pun intended). Only this time he uncustomarily offers me a hand-mirror, tells me to look in my throat, asks me if I've had my tonsils out.

“No”

“You have a white spot back there, see that?” My eyes shift toward the mirror – I LIE – say I see it (don’t have my glasses on, PRIDE won’t let me admit I can’t see any white patch) He continues, “If you don't mind, am referring you to an oral surgeon for a biopsy.” The nefarious B-word; brain fires a warning shot. B-word leads to the C-word.

Alone now in my car, I fall apart. Hi, I'm a hypochondriac; I don't handle health challenges well despite the jovial persona folks see. A paralyzed-with-fear hypochondriac. Foremost in my thoughts is a long-time friend from high school, currently dealing with a devastating throat cancer diagnosis; I know not to minimize this. (R.I.P. Grady, August 8, 2020 😔) Get to my desk, dial my primary physician immediately, which is a big deal for introverted-me; set up an appointment for a second opinion. The Thanksgiving holiday means I can't be seen until the following week. What is normally a fun, family-gathering time of year, is effectively fogged in with dread, I go through the motions. All-consuming thoughts ruminate incessantly - I'm dying. Yeah, it's what hypochondriacs DO, we ‘dive off into the deep end,’ thrash, drown in ‘what if’s??’

The next week, my doctor smiles after he peers past my tongue into my throat, “Where?” Looks twice, insists I relax, “It's nothing.” He knows me well, adding, “if it would make you feel better, let's follow-up in three months.” His reassurance tempers my panic . . life resumes.

CHAPTER TWO

December 2019, January, February, 2020 the winter that wasn't. Work that was. Mid-February Housing fair at Ohio University's Walter Hall Rotunda. Event coordinator, Donna, introduces herself to Dave and me at our display table. Lively-soul, (I admire extroverts) she explains she recently transferred to this area from Columbus and, among other things, is a Stage 4 breast cancer survivor. Woman is spunky. Piques my interest. I share my sister's email address with her, explaining Cheryl is an 18-month soldier waging the same battle.

March approaches and the little nagging voice in my head reminds, “3-month follow-up, Deb, just do it.” Did. Friday, March 6. Confirmed, no dumb spot. Ha!! Your basic normal appointment. Crisis debunked. As visit concludes, Hillary, his nurse, scrolls through my medical record, turns to mention it's been more than a couple years since my last mammogram, they’ve all been clear, but I'm due, and would I want to set up one.

“Sure”

My youngest, Leah, works in this same medical facility, stop at her desk near the lab to say ‘hello.’ She’s my last to leave home, miss her in my house still. Always good to see and talk to her. She and Ian were married 18 months ago. Her desk-mate, Jordan, coincidentally one of Leah’s friends from her high school days, sets up my mammo appointment for Monday.

MONDAY, MARCH 9. Say ‘hello’ again to the girls at their desk. Check-in. Take a seat, wait my turn. Have had plenty of these 'grams in my lifetime, no big deal, no dread. Bare 'em, squash 'em, and get back to work. This time though, the tech knows my sister, and as I dress when we are done, from behind the screen she casually asks how old Cheryl was when she got her diagnosis and how’s she doing. (60. She is doing remarkably well, maintaining) 10 minutes later, I’m back at my work desk, phone rings, the mammo-tech is on the phone, needing me to return the next day for “a couple more, 'maybe clearer' pics, and an ultrasound.” That’s never happened before. A fleeting shot of panic surges, but since my most recent dread has been unfounded, I attempt to not over-react.

TUESDAY, MARCH 10. Keenly study the radiology-tech’s face for clues when she comes to fetch me from the lobby, I examine her demeanor as if I’m a police detective on a high-profile murder case and she’s my prime suspect. She's calm. So I'm cool. Rescan first, ultrasound second. Not especially pleasant the latter, (idiotic thing to say, was wholly unpleasant ) having your chest unceremoniously smashed in a circular motion against your ribs. The techs are studious, the room silent, I stare at the ceiling. Last time I had an ultrasound was 26 years ago and I was pregnant. Today, no fun at all. Understand now why my sister mentioned she is not a fan of these during her breast cancer struggles.

CHAPTER THREE

SATURDAY, MARCH 14, a knock on the front door, mailman is standing on my front porch and in the time it takes me to scribble my name on a card, I'm staring down at a certified letter in my palm, the return address of the clinic lunging off the paper at me. There's a low, barely-audible, foreign sound in my head. It's 'control', in human form, and is protesting/whining as she’s being forcibly dragged away from me. Remind myself I'm somewhat sane, an adult - just open the envelope. I do. And there it is, in black and white, the word -

ABNORMALITY

The rest of the weekend is a blur, debunking the need for concern with my daughters. Every excuse, every plausible explanation of why a letter like this would be mailed. A mistake, surely so. Just a glitch in the system. “Mom, if it was bad, they wouldn't notify you by letter,” Leah insists.

MONDAY, MARCH 16, my primary physician calls in regard to my somewhat-panicky email fired-off to him on Saturday, the day the letter arrives. He speaks in calm tones, explains he was on vacation the past week, is sorry he could not talk to me before the notice arrived, he's seen the offending spot on the film, offers it's so small, unlikely any cause for concern. “Indistinctive,” he assures. Forwarding to a surgeon for review.

CHAPTER FOUR

TUESDAY, MARCH 17, mama-daughter call . . normal stuff .. she’s working today at the clinic. She mentions the aforementioned surgeon has office hours today, maybe I could be squeezed in. I’m in luck, they can. So in a couple hours, I am shaking the hand of the head of surgery. Personable guy, he tells me he's reviewed my pics, if the radiologist had not circled the area, he would not have noticed it right away. Optimism duly noted. He thoroughly examines that body part, pokes and prods, asks me if I feel a lump. “I have not.” Today he doesn't either. Every woman knows about lumps. I absolutely know about lumps. I would never ignore one. Fact of the matter, there is NO lump!

We go over my less than stellar immediate family history of C. (HATE that word). Lung, breast, leukemia. He recommends biopsy to rule out any true problem. The B-word again. This day I say, ‘ok'.

Right here is where COVID-19 makes it's bizarro presence known, personally impacts ME. Doctor advises local surgery center is now closed due to the virus and procedures are limited to emergencies only but he is willing to go before the Board to plead my case. ???? While thankful he is willing to intercede for me; I am tamping down anxiety fighting to rise up, mentally jumping up and down, stomping on it, both feet.

Couple days later I get the call the Medical Board approves me for a needle biopsy. Control-of-my-life, she is sitting on the floor in a fetal position, rocking, whimpering in a locked padded-room somewhere.

CHAPTER FIVE

TUESDAY, MARCH 24, Jess drives me to Jackson. I don't need driven. Appreciate my oldest’s company though. COVID rules necessitate only a patient be permitted to enter any facility; Jess has to wait in the car. At the door, am screened for symptoms, this is the Twilight Zone. And it's too quiet in here. The place is dark and weird and I don't want to be here. I'm the ONLY person in the entire surgery center, I overhear the staff talking, they weren’t on the schedule today, I’m the only patient. hhmmmm, why am I so important?? Creepy.

Am ushered into the procedure room, nurses are professional, put me at ease. Entering, it’s impossible to miss my film aglow on the lighted-box on the wall; she asks if I want to see it. (NO!! I don’t want to see it!!) In reality, robotically, walk over to look. There it is, plain as day. The previously described small-likely-nothing indistinctive spot. Yikes, it's a glaring, ominous, bright white glob with literal tentacles reaching out, it’s in the middle of my precious flesh. No denying this now. Thing’s staring back at me. The only way I know how to describe the rest of the appointment, is that I am having an out-of-body experience, it’s not happening to me. No . . . is not.

You know the lifts in a garage of an auto repair shop? That's what this is. Clumsily climb aboard, assume a face-down position. There's no delicate way to explain the procedure. There's an enormous hole in the table, chest area, your beloved body part dangles and the table is raised, surgeon accesses it from below. Area is securely taped, prepped and numbed. Needles are fun, aren't they??! (eye roll) Am told the table will vibrate, surgeon cautions me to lay perfectly still or the laser will slice me. (no problem, I float away, not even present in the room) And it begins. Computer guides a gatling gun of needles as it commences to stab the tumor, withdraw specimens of cells. Sounds horrific, but it isn't, numbing tends to that. Divert my eyes from the red, fleshy goop siphoning into the container, my eyes clamped shut much of the time. Lasts just a few minutes, dress, then am on my way. Visit the same surgeon in a week for the results. Will not come back to this location, by then this center will also be closed by the pandemic mandate, next appointment is at a nearby hospital.

CHAPTER SIX

APRIL 1, 2020, APRIL FOOL'S DAY. First time I have ever visited this hospital, enter alone, virus protocol at the door. Surgeon’s office on the second floor, take the elevator. Few folks in the building, those that are, like me, are wearing masks. As I wait, pilfer on my ipad. Name is called, off I go. Today I find out this thing is benign, that I have been spazzing for weeks over nothing, naturally. Don't wait long for the Dr., I remain seated as he enters, greets me. He begins talking as he walks across the room, lays down my chart, then turns, making eye-contact, “you are so lucky to have had this test, mammogram did what it was supposed to do; we've caught it early.”

“...(I go effectively deaf) blah-blah-blah-blah-blah CARCINOMA.” A cataclysmic concoction of consonants and vowels strung together into syllables, words, in sentence form, delivered matter-of-factly. What happens here is nothing short of BIZARRE. Always imagined if I heard the words, “you have cancer,” I would react BADLY.

I would -

be angry

weep

go to pieces

vomit

all of the above

In reality -

I did not cry

I did not faint

I did not scream

Instead, sit calmly, silently. Stoic. Utterly, absolutely, wholly dumbfounded. ( this isn’t real - my head hurts - is this a stroke!?) REALITY Brain cells scramble to focus, I listen intently to every word, nod occasionally. Hearing all, absorbing little, during this a crash course on three types of breast cancer and treatment options available. (drifting off - I like him, he gestures with his hands as he speaks of surgery options.) Reconstruction; their plastic surgeon is top notch. The decision is mine. The doctor adds simply, “you know what will happen if you do nothing.”

I do

Unceremoniously and without a second’s hesitation, I react, “Get it off me,” hand on my chest. (subconscious protesting, “I feel FINE!!!! THIS. IS. STUPID!!”)

He nods in acknowledgement of my words, continuing, discusses recurrence rates on the opposite breast. Fuzzy math. Right here I interrupt him with the wave of a hand, “Get them both off me!” For good measure, I repeat it. Decision made, bilateral mastectomy it is, ASAP. Hands me a print-out with my diagnosis, I roll the paper up like a diploma and slip it in my bag. Stare down at the bag I take to work everyday . . (new-reality thoughts commence) or did … back when life was normal.

“Lousy April Fool’s Day, ya gotta admit.” I mutter out-loud to him as I rise to my feet, reach for the door. (how am I walking??!)

Ah, but COVID-19. Global pandemic, if it were a person, he’d be a cold-hearted, merciless jerk. I have to wait 14 days, be symptom-free in order to be permitted in their surgery unit or risk contaminating the whole place. Condemned to live with my killer for 15 more days, let it sleep with me, go to work with me, hang out with me while I visit my kids, grandkids. Melodramatic? You betcha, but the truth. All the while knowing the beast is growing.

I don’t exit the building until I am pre-registered for surgery, receive copious instructions, am assigned a day, APRIL 16. Next to the radiology waiting room, there I message my sister, she is the first to know. I have breast cancer. There’s lab work, x-ray, EKG. Am a zombie. A polite zombie with cancer making idle chitchat with techs who have no freaking clue my unremarkable and average life has evaporated in the last 45 minutes.

Poked, prodded, scanned and x-rayed - my walk across the parking lot is a 1,000 mile trek. Open the door, slide into the seat, fasten the seat belt, inhale deeply, fill my lungs with air just so I feel alive and less numb. Stare at my hands. Wish I could scream without attracting attention. Vomiting would be a blessing about now. I seem to be the same person that got out of the vehicle two hours before. No, am not the same at all. HOW do I do this????! Any of this??

HOW??????????!!!!!

In the days that follow, I will unroll my biopsy report, familiarize myself: invasive lobular carcinoma, 1.6cm, grade 1, ER+PR+HER2-. (translation = hormone fed) I will become versed about the enemy within, that if left untreated, would put me in the ground. Knowledge is power.

CHAPTER SEVEN

How do you tell the people you love, you have cancer? How do you toss a live emotional-grenade in a room? As terrifying as it is for me, I have to watch the realization sink in, the fear in their faces. Jess and Leah, my girls, having initiated a video chat with me as I wait for labs at the hospital. “Mom...well, how’d it go??” Not necessary to share details out loud, I crack, my eyes said all there was to say. Tough to hide that. Awful is the fact I’m in a public waiting room as they ask, am trying to hold it together, not disintegrate, explode into pieces. Watch them absorb what they now understand. I can’t help them.

Morning of April 1, the plan was to go back to work after the appointment. I don't. I aim the car toward home.

But first, I stop at my mom's house, to reveal the diagnosis to her and George. This is the first time I will say the words. Standing in the middle of her living room, my mouth opens and the emotion-less words fall out, “I have cancer too.” It is weird to hear it voiced and I feel bad for her. (her sister, my dad, my brother, my sister, now me) Explain to her what I plan to do and comfort that it'll be alright. She supports my decision: show no mercy to the beast.

Head home.

Turn onto my county road, Jameson calls, asks how the Dr. visit went. Avoiding answering, instead, ask if they are home, that I will be right there. Am thankful I am not them. He ‘knows’ from my tone, detects from the question. My son and wife, Patty, live 1/4 mile from my house, I arrive at their place in only a couple minutes, walk into their living room where they both were, learn the kids are upstairs, state the fact to the both of them, and I sit down for a bit. Just like that. Keep it light and matter of fact.

Life is insane.

CHAPTER EIGHT

What follows is 15 days trapped in a state of in-between. Desperate for normalcy yet knowing I can’t have it. What to do. What. To. Do. Staying right-minded is the aim. Crave it. C-word rarely leaving my thoughts. Every day ‘hospital Jessica’ calls me to ask a series of Covid-19 related questions and asks my body temperature that I am tasked with taking each morning upon waking.

What I CAN maintain right now, is routine.

COVID locks my office door in mid-March, am the only one staffing there. OU student move-in/move-out day is May 3. I’m the one in charge of this, making sure everything is ready. Can’t cancel it . . it goes on with or without me. Scheduling surgery mid-April, slashes two weeks off my prep time for this once-a-year event. Realize the timing could not be better, if there IS such a thing, I have little free time to ponder what’s coming, am too busy. Every day I plow through my work to-do list. Go home too tired to indulge doom and gloom.

Away from the office too, I quickly find another diversion, researching and shopping for items I might need after the surgery. Soft tops with inner pockets for drains management, ice packs, hot packs, special propping pillow. A miracle they all arrive on time because Amazon Prime has been waylay-ed by the corona virus. A sick and twisted ‘Merry Christmas to me’ as each package arrives. In some small way, gives me a semblance of control.

Sleeping is not an issue during these days. It’s my safe place. Sleep deep and well, courtesy of a little purple pill discovered years ago. (thank you, menopause) Each and every morning, have about 30 seconds of ‘normal’ before I remember what demon is living in me.

An entertaining activity during this time is staring in my lingerie drawer at the start of every day, choosing which style, what color bra for one last travel in the rotation. I waffle. At first, suffer pangs of melancholy while looking at the neat row of vibrant colors and lace. Then chuckle, cups are large enough to be made into hats for small children. No one wants to discuss my boobs, but this is an important part of the process of letting go. Acknowledgement. A girl spends what seems like her whole life waiting for these body parts to materialize; coveted, we dress them up, suspend them with steel reinforcement, make the best of them. They feed our children, we rock our babies/grandbabies against them. They’re part of who we are. Mine are set for execution. It’s them or me.

Time ticks by.

CHAPTER NINE

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 15. Mastectomy Eve, am something I have never been, radioactive. True. This day go into the hospital ALONE, pass through the covid-19 gauntlet; escorted to a quiet room with a massive machine, bet it was a CT scanner, I don’t ask, I lay down on a metal table and a needle is inserted in my chest region, right side (still find it weird to use the word ‘breast’) and a radioactive tracer is placed in my body at the sight of the tumor. I’d researched the procedure a little (LIE . . I researched a LOT) beforehand, and read it would be EXCRUCIATING. So expect the worst. Naturally. Tech is kind and reassuring; small talk. I notice what great hair he has. Stare at the ceiling as I lay there. Then the doctor comes in, says I’ll feel a stick (had read the area is numbed first) expect that. Did. Not horrendous - that’s an exaggeration, barely felt anything. Assume we wait for the numbing to take effect before he drills through to the core. What I DIDN’T expect, is him to say, “you’re done.” Meaning that tiny prick was it. Say what now? Before the morning’s surgery, I’ll come back to this table, and will find out if the cancer has leeched into any lymph nodes. I dress and exit the building.

ESCAPE! The rest of this day IS MINE. I take my dreary thoughts, my diseased chest, the ‘DD girls’ , and we hit the road, took the long way home. Gave ‘them’ the best darned last-day-alive you could ask for. Was the least I could do considering what I was consenting to do to them. Pitied them and wanted them DEAD at the same time. Them or me.

Flowers waiting for me when I got home, the first time I sobbed in earnest. A torrent of tears.

CHAPTER TEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 16, 2020. DtoDD DAY. Death to DD’s Day. (and my Mom’s 81st birthday) Eerily calm. I grab my packed bag, stare at my freshly-made bed as I turn to exit the bedroom. Oh here comes one of those bizarro thoughts I have at times like this. Glancing around, mutter, “when I return, nothing will be the same. Gee, I hope I come back.” Melodramatic to a fault I am. Patty drops me off at the hospital door at a ridiculously early hour. Did I mention this is during a pandemic so no one can come in and that the hospital is spooky-empty and hushed?? Well, it is. Apocolyptically-quiet. Surreal. Check-in is swift and efficient and a surgery-nurse retrieves me promptly, accompany her to the prep area. this is real?

This unit has a circle of several cubicles, all but three are empty though. Settled in, changing into hospital gown, then I have three hours to ponder the fact that the last time I had surgery was 26 years ago and I am not as young as I used to be, and nowhere near ready to die, and lordy, I am no fan of pain. I feel FINE . . how can something deadly be in me yet I feel this HEALTHY??

In the hours I wait, return to scan-room to see if this thing has reached my lymph nodes. Dark room, humming machine. Same tech lets me watch the screen, bright lights like tiny fireworks become visible. No clue what I am watching.

My appointed time arrives, was about 9:30 a.m. Accompanied by a surgical nurse, I walk down the hallway to the O.R., my IV pole in tow. this isn’t real Three surgical staff are busily prepping. Funny how apprehension makes one awkwardly talkative with strangers, more so than normal. I greet them and cannot shut up, blather, “you know how kids took home tonsils in a jar?? (clutching my chest) you have a gallon jug I can take these home with me?” (yes, I really did say it) Laughter from them, that’s good. Am offered a stool to climb onto the table. I do. My God, to the gallows, ‘girls’

Jettisoned into the Twilight Zone right here. In the time it takes me to scoot, get comfortably horizontal on the table, sterile people descend on me, all over me doing things. Arms, legs . . belt around my abdomen. Am picturing masked-ants. Busy, busy. Big light on the ceiling lowering, settles above my upper torso and head. I feel FINE Am here, but not here. Oh God. Gentle voice to my right, as a mask is fitted over my nose and mouth, “take a couple deep breaths.”

Blackness.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I’m struggling in deep water, not diving down - but up, shooting to the surface of the water, I need air. Regaining consciousness, a jostling, repeating, “Debbie, wake up. Can you hear me?” Awake. Literal first conscious thought, drenched in relief -

“... NOT DEAD”

Body is being tugged, moved, but I’m not doing it. Realization hits me, where I am and what's happened. Conscious, I no longer feel fine, unrelenting waves of nausea wash over me. I give myself over to whichever medical professional wants to tend to me. They can have me, I don’t want me. Not this me.

End up in a hospital room, no recollection whatsoever how. Silence interrupted only by BP cuff on an ankle, inflating noisily at intervals reminding me I’m alive. Not moving. Lord, what have I done? Ice packs under both arms. Detest feeling this gross. I hang onto the sheets for hours, ride out the nausea.

As terrible as that was, and it was horrendous, it ends abruptly once I am fully awake later in the afternoon. In fact, feel remarkably good - considering. Any pain is well-managed. I can move, even lift my arms. I can walk to the restroom, tend to myself. Am hungry and eat a good dinner. Pleasantly surprised at this half of the day.

Curious. Here’s where I gingerly lift the blanket to get my first look. DD-girls are gone, replaced by a thick layer of bandage all across my chest, tubing, two drains, and . . . oh my lord . . . HOW long has my belly been that size??????! God bless boobs, they divert one’s attention from a myriad of flaws. Geez-louise.

Thank you, Covid-19, for the hospital stay’s solitude, I don’t mind, I welcome not having to share this day with visitors. Am only interrupted intermittently by nurses and the doctor. No big deal. Not much to tell. Post on facebook that I survived. Was released to go home the very next day with surgeon’s, “no restrictions. See you in a week, will have lab results for you then.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

FRIDAY, APRIL 17. HOME. Here’s where it gets funny. Seriously. Humorous. Reality. My youngest, Leah, volunteers to stay for the first few days. Plan on not needing much in the way of assistance. Stubborn. Not too uncomfortable, prop on pillows, watch tv, pain meds. First-night, decide my bed is where I will sleep, let her have the couch. Undeterred in the middle of the night, manage to get myself to the bathroom alone. Good for ME!! Ah, but then the sun comes up. Right here I discover Super Woman I am not. Attempt the same maneuver and the stabbing pain angrily asserts, “NOT THIS TIME, SISTER!” Ah, bladder is bossy and insistent. But Pain is in charge. “#*&@*#&$}” a little too loudly (translation) “Leah!! Help!!” She comes trotting and I’m laughing, trapped in my own bed. Arms frozen at my sides, literally cannot move under my own power without an instant excruciating reaction. With urgency (full bladder loudly protesting) instruct her to wring a bed sheet, get to the foot of the bed, hold the ends, let me grab the middle . . . PULL!! It works!! Whew, lesson learned, until I could get up and down on my own unaided, I didn’t sleep there again.

Drains. Grateful to only require two. Three times a day they need emptying. Unceremoniously, Leah’s job. When large portions of flesh are removed, one’s body compensates by attempting to fill the space with fluid, drains are typically inserted to draw off this fluid, speeding recovery. These ‘things’ (drain hoses) are just under my skin across the width of my chest, a stitch holding them in place at the hole (yikes) where they exit on either side. The bulbs at the end of the 12 inch lines are clear grenade-shaped receptacles collecting wound-juice. (you winched at the visual, didn’t you? haha) They get full. Necessary to milk the line first, with sterile gloved fingers of one hand, she grasps and steadies the line where it exits my body, with the other, she slides her pinched fingers down the tubing, pushes the ooze and any clots to the end. Pops the top of the bulb, empties 'ick' into a measuring cup, and logs the amount and color. Squeezes the bulb as she closes the lid so siphon will commence. My only job is to 'enjoy' the vigorous suction. eek

I sit dutifully still on a stool while she goes about her ‘work’, chit-chatting about this and that, am intentionally not watching the gore slipping, dripping into the bulb. She's not hurting me but every now and then will feel a subtle tug, a movement of the tubing. (shudder) Sunday evening she taps the bulb’s bottom on the table, remarking, “darned clot won’t fall through.” (rap, rap, smack) “Eww, that’s gross,” she says, “clot (tap) won’t (tap) let go ( jiggling it, the dangling, stringing bloody blob just hanging there, swaying back and forth).” My skin is warming . . . interesting sensation . . getting hot. Really HOT. She is sitting right next to me, is talking but her voice is fading. Am looking her direction, but she is drifting away in a misty vapor . . . waaaaaaaaaaaay over there now, voice, can’t hear her. Vision going and the room is moving ever so slightly.

I see my girl in slo-mo, she realizes what is happening, "Mom, Mom ... MOM!" (my mouth no longer works, cannot respond) hear her excited, “DAD!!!! Come quick!! Help! Mom’s passing out!!!”

Didn't. (did get to the couch . . sat still for an hour, feet up . . w/ice pack alternating on my neck, forehead) Didn’t vomit, so that's a 'WIN" for the day.

I learn to do it myself once she goes home. No big deal.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 23. A week passes, mostly uneventful. Sick leave, lounging, medicating, tracking excretion of Deb-juice, healing. Tough to remember the days in March and early April when I felt GOOD. I feel terrible. Blah - which to me, IS terrible. No fever, no signs of infection, just a general feeling of malaise. (such a descriptive word, ‘malaise’) Post-op visit, a follow-up with the surgeon. Oldest daughter Jess, chauffeur for the day. The entire drive down to Gallipolis, I imagine they’ll take one look at my sorry self, react in horror, re-admit me immediately. I have to be dying, something has to be terribly wrong. No one can feel this bleak and survive.

Mull my life over for that hour drive, did I live it adequately, what is left that I have not done, am I going to throw up IN or OUT of her car . . oh woe is me . . my thoughts are rambling, disjointed, grim. (BEYOND melodramatic) LOL Get to the hospital, I have to admit I cannot even walk in under my own power. I have no power, drained dry. Jess requests a wheelchair and I feel how I imagine being 150 years old and feeble feels, reliant on a stranger for transport up to the waiting area. Pitiful. I hate this. Too puny to care.

And remember COVID . . Jessica can’t come in with me. My mummified remains parked in a desolate waiting room. sigh I need a transfusion. I need a transplant, I need SOMETHING . . want my life back. Where’d Debbie go??!!

Eventually wheeled into the exam room (decrepit thing that I am) to wait. Surgeon enters, his normal perky self, smiles my direction. I lament the state of (absence of) well-being and inability to go to the bathroom for DAYS. (how embarrassing) “Sweetheart (NO, he did not say 'Sweetheart’) it’s your pain meds doing this to you. STOP THEM.”

huh?????!

Examines the 12-inch incisions on either side of my torso. Both doing well. No stitches to remove, interior stitches will dissolve on their own. Exterior sterie strips will fall off in the next week. He studies my drain-log, then simply remarks, “looks great, amounts are decreasing steadily. You want them (drains) out today?” (glimmer of hope) Instantly agree, so without ceremony and with a quick snip of a stitch and a wiggle of the tube and a firm TUG, one Jackson Pratt drain is out. Nasty thing now coiled on the exam table. OUT!!! The other follows swiftly. Oh dear lord . . feels soooooooo good to be rid of those things. Best part . . expected to have them at least another week, that the extrication of same, would be horrendous. Wasn’t. Didn’t hurt actually. Bandaids applied to my newest holes. No stitch, no nothing. “See ya in a month. No restrictions.” Surprised he didn’t pat me on my sorry head.

Trip home is infinitely better, envision the tunnel and light shining in the distance. aaaahhhhh

Not another pain pill crosses these lips . . the man is a genius. (epilogue: my decline was indeed induced by the pain meds . . out of my system - recovering was a breeze. TIP: get off them as soon as you can)

P.S. Almost forgot the most important part!!!!! Lab results!!! Geez . .the tunnel, the light . . THIS IS WHY!!! TODAY I learn I am CANCER-FREE‼️‼️‼️ Well, I would hope so!! Nearly six pounds of flesh sacrificed / removed . . CLEAN MARGINS around the tumor. Lymph nodes are CLEAR!!! Sentinel node removal a bit messy, seven others unable to be separated from it, come out as well. Sobering fact is that I, nor the surgeon, felt a telltale lump - but it was there. In black and white, sobering words, “STAGE TWO”. Appointment with oncologist in May to discuss options. Why??? Here's the thing about breast cancer, sometimes IT COMES BACK.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Want to tell you the euphoria was warmly welcome and long-lasting. Yes and no, in that order. Sharing with friends that surgeon ‘got it all’ was met with copious genuine exclamations of ‘thank God!’ and ‘hallelujah’. For good reason. Pathology report of clean margins and clear nodes is a positive outcome. IT’S GONE!! And like me at this juncture, believe that’s the end of it. Too few days of relief pass swiftly - the reality that it may not be over, steadily seeps back in as I educate myself. But with a stubborn childlike optimism, trust the oncologist will study my diagnosis, pronounce my journey with this evil thing over. “Deborah, congrats, you’re finished with it and it with you. Have a nice life.” Let’s go with that. I want it.

Just a couple more weeks to find out.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In the meantime, at home I’m getting bored. ‘Bored’ is WONDERFUL. It’s normalcy. And a strong signal that it’s time for life to go on.

I am well enough to attend to work emails, becoming more frequent as students prepare to leave Athens officially, the stalwart diehards who came back after Spring Break despite the lockdown that commenced mid-March. Boredom, the impetus, that gets me out of the house.

TUESDAY, APRIL 28, 12 days post-op, several days free from pain-killers and feeling almost back to my old self, I slide behind the wheel of my car, new precious pillow between sensitive chest and the seatbelt and drive to work. Man oh man, how I missed 70′s radio . . sing all the way. I last at my desk for 4 hours this first day, mindful to recognize limitations, cut the day short, but go home triumphant.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 30. Meet-my-oncologist day. (mentally mark off THAT on my ‘Life’s List-of-Dreads’) First things first, why am I here??! Surgeon recommends I have a chat with the man . . rule out the need for anything further. Youbetcha. Today is THE. DAY!! Fully expect to be ‘blessed’ and sent on my way . . “Debbie, you were lucky, it’s all gone. Your cancer journey was intense and brief and now it’s over. Go live your life, girl.”

Check in. Hunker down at the back of the vast lobby, comfy chair. I absorb the room. Oh you know I don’t want to, but I do. A few patients are here. One unhealthy looking older lady on a hospital stretcher over there. Another slightly-weathered woman near the wall, wearing a turban. And there’s me. Odd-man out, pain-killers now out of my system: (yes yes, am minus the ‘girls’) full head of thick hair, kinda sorta minimally wrinkly, feeling strong and healthy . . . like me again.

Name called. BP and weight. Perks of the day . . bp is good, especially good for me. Literally-asked-the-nurse-to-repeat-the-numbers good. And am down 10 lbs. I’ll take it!! Gee, this visit is headed in the right direction!

Lead to an exam room, given a questionnaire. Ugh. Bottom of the page. Please list details of immediate family members . . . health issues, explanation. Here we go . . Melvin / dad / died in 2000 @64 / lung cancer (scribble to the side ‘life time smoker’ . . like it somehow negates the dying) Tim / brother / died in 2000 @39 / leukemia (again, the scribbling, master mechanic, hands in chemicals) Stephen / brother / died in 1957 @6 weeks / S.I.D.S. Bottom of this page is an OCD nightmare, ink scribbles in every direction, sad that I ran of space. Add, “Cheryl / sister / is 61 / @60 stage IV breast cancer (’maintaining’ . . didn’t add, but wanted to, “THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!”) Janice / mom / is 81. Terry / brother / is 55.” Finishing up, as MY oncologist enters the room.

Brief introductions . . Cursory physical exam of surgical site.

Oncologist reviews the information I provide, studies my chart. Two verbal inquires of me -

do you or have you ever smoked? “no”

do you drink alcohol and how much? “rarely”

He pauses. He can ascertain I’m not fudging the details. “Never?” he queries again. Shake my head in the negative. Sincerely he adds, “this makes NO sense. Risk factors are not there for breast cancer. No sense at all.”

Dr. Hamid relates there is a genetic test that can be performed using my tumor tissue, (eewwww, they still have it!!) the results determining whether or not chemo therapy would be of any benefit to me. Again - I am confused why a person who is now disease-free, minus seven pounds of her best flesh, needs ANYTHING additionally. I consent. He jots down for me the chemo recipe that I would receive if it’s indicated. Metaphysically burns my fingertips as I take the slip from him. (chemo??! stifling a scream) If not, I would be prescribed a pill to stop my body's remaining production of estrogen. Anastrazole is the drug of choice, there are a few common side effects: bone/joint pain, fatigue, etc. Majority of women experience no side effects of any kind, he assures. (mental note of an over-achiever: I will be one of THOSE) Dr. adds, “Lab work takes about two weeks to get back. Come see me in two weeks please. Oh wait . . you drive quite a distance to get here, right? Just call my office on May 13, we can handle this over the phone.”

uh huh . . . so much for being blessed and sent on my merry way. CHEMO, sub-set item under 1. CANCER on ‘Life’s List-of-Dreads’. TRULY . . . there is nothing I enjoy MORE, than waiting on test results. (epic eye-roll right here, stomach twists in knot)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

This is the last chapter of ‘65 DAYS IN MAY’ (today it’s February 25, 2021) I am a procrastinator. Am still me, after all. My instructions were to call oncologist’s office on Wednesday, May 13, 2020, to learn whether or not chemo therapy was the next step in my cancer treatment. By now I have little recollection of the blur of days between April 30 and when Dr. Hamid called me with my genetic testing results, my Oncotype score. Every day seemed endless, recovering well, feeling progressively more like myself. I let work duties bulldoze me through those days, thoroughly occupied. I was thankful to have nearly 300 college students moving-out and moving-in on May 3rd. Grateful to be bone weary at the end of each day, having little time to thrash about the prospect of chemo - that, and staying safe as COVID rampaged.

TUESDAY, MAY 12, at my desk, alone in a pandemic-locked-down office. One last day not having to call, know anything. Ignorant bliss. Phone rings, spy caller I.D., uh-oh, cancer center. I stop breathing. Lift receiver, ‘Hello, this is Debbie.’ Not breathing. HERE WE GO (9+ months later now, still recall the catch of my breath and pounding heart. Am not exaggerating when I tell you time froze.) Dr. Hamid’s voice was soft, he wasted no time relating my Oncotype score plus chance of recurrence is low and chemo is not necessary in my situation. He’ll call in an Anastrazole script for me, it cuts my chance of recurrence to less-than 5%. Only question I had, “what exactly was my number?” 17 “See you again in 6 months,” as he ends the call. Stare at the phone receiver clenched in my hand.

NO CHEMO . . with exorbitant gusto, I EXHALE

Celebration fireworks in my head, both hands in the air, stifle an audible, triumphant HALLELUJAH! For the moment, issued a reprieve. I soak it up. Once composed, swivel chair to my right, run my palms slowly, purposefully over the desk calendar, lift the pages, studying, absorbing. Begin to count . . . .

STINT IN PURGATORY - 65 DAYS IN MAY

EPILOGUE

(stay tuned)

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