Two Days

Understand that, despite the tears, I'm laughing. It's a bitter laugh, weedy, but it is laughter.

The surgery went great--they really have come a long way when it comes to general anesthesia. The mass came out, and four days later, word came back: fibroid. That's right, they're saying it's a uterine fibroid that had just wandered south to the vaginal wall for spits and giggles. That's what they say. I'm hoping that, with time, I'll believe it.

Not saying there wasn't a sense of relief--of course there was. And it lasted exactly TWO DAYS. Two.

Why only two?

Because this morning, bright and early, my GP's office calls to let me know that my mammogram results are back. Back, and not normal. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? The doctor's office said that there was a "nodule" or "suspicious spot." The hospital/radiology department, on the other hand, described it as "an area of unusual density." I have an appointment for "higher level" mammography day after tomorrow.

Poor Tommy had already sounded the "all clear" at work. Guess he should have waited a bit, huh?

I don't have much more of this in me. I need a stretch where I'm just okay. Haven't had one of those in a couple of years. Dreamed the car was dead, too. And the taxes. Damn, the taxes.

Oh, and Tommy is crawling with Lone Star ticks. I swear.

What a mess.

Carry me Home Tonight

My husband grabbed the tune for me off Itunes--the whole album, in fact. Thank you. I love you. You make me cry, like most things anymore.

Surgery tomorrow. Have to be at the hospital at 5:45 am. I am so afraid.

We did the day in DC yesterday--a few hours walking around with Charlie, the Wonder-Cairn, who did great. He was calm, he was good, and he was friendly without being obnoxious. We walked his little legs right off. Afterwards, we went to a cemetery in DC, scoping it out, looking at the sections with available plots. No, I haven't got myself in the ground yet, but I need to go into this knowing things are settled, should this go south. Or go Ohio, if that makes y'all feel any better. It's not a great neighborhood (the cemetery, not Ohio), but, since I'm not really looking to LIVE there, I guess that's okay. There's a giant goldfish pond, which is very cool. Magnolias blooming. Amazing upright headstones and crypts. Giant, towering oaks. A good spot for a picnic and a visit.

Tommy planted my Lilies of the Valley the other day--it's a Frank thing, reminds me. Keeps him alive in my heart. Today I planted a few pansies. Just a preview, I hope. Something to get my hands in the dirt and some color in my world.

I don't understand how something can be wrong when I can do so much now. I walked for over three hours yesterday at a good pace for most of it. I rode my recumbent stationary bike for 70 minutes the other day. How can I move so much and so much BETTER and have something wrong? Bodies should come with alarms, something to warn us when those first few rogue cells start working their nardary. Seems stupid that we can feel a sliver but can't feel a tumor until it's in our spine or lungs. "Intelligent" design, my ass.

Just had it out on Facebook with some shallow, insubstantial creature from high school. Amazing, the lack of depth and the sorry-assed high school mentality that some folks drag with them through life. A truly ugly person, and I finally dropped her (I've had her hidden for over a year). I feel better for it, have been long tired of biting my tongue and sitting on my hands to keep from poking her stupid ass. Think a wingnut with peroxide and inflatable breasts. Oh, and lip gloss, of course. Now, empty the cranium of anything useful and fill it with a desire to round up people with dark skin and demand "papers, please!" Add a hatred of our President and a set of impossible standards for him that no republican president would have to meet. Add cowboy boots and a penchant for hitting the clubs with aging ex-jocks and muscular gay teens. Mix in some fake eyelashes and plunging necklines. Gloss it off with a sheen of cold self-satisfaction and a smug claim to Christianity and you've got her.

I am definitely better off without her. I can't help feeling that things are--well, are ONE DAY from going mightily bad, and I'm going to need to find a more peaceful, focused place. I've already gotten there in some ways. Sean's awful noises rarely piss me off anymore. Now? Now I just smile and think, "I am so glad to be here, hearing this."

Cross your fingers or whatevers. Tomorrow's the day, it's the start.

Memories Stolen

Something I haven't posted about, strangely. Something that happened when we first arrived in Manassas. We'd driven over 2,000 miles in a gigantic, 26 foot Penske truck pulling an auto-transport trailer. The truck was a monstrosity, sat as tall as many of the 18 wheeler cabs--we could look straight over and into the truckers' lairs. Don't mistake me, it was a great truck, and we were really happy with the service we got from Penske.

Until we turned in the truck, that is.

When we rolled into Manassas on September 7th, we were still in possession of our Fuji digital camera. It was in its nice case, with spare rechargeable batteries, a few memory cards, and a micro-SD card that goes with Sean's fancy RC airplane camera. These cards were loaded with photos from Sean's first ghost town visit (Metropolis, in Nevada), his airshow shots and videos (from Wendover Air Show), and hundreds of pictures of the drive cross country.

We were busy. We were unloading the truck, cleaning it, and getting it turned in all on the same day we arrived at our new home. Oh, this was during the huge tropical storm, of course, so the rain was amazing. Breathtaking. And a little scary.

It took us a couple of days to realize that the camera was missing. We turned the new place upside down, searching for it. When we finally reached the sad conclusion that the camera was gone, we headed over to Home Depot, which is where we turned in the truck. The "gentleman" there was dismissive and almost disdainful, seemed supremely uninterested in our loss. Glanced under the counter, said "it's not here," and that was it. No offer of a claim form, no questions, not an iota of sympathy.

We don't know if the camera was in the truck. We don't even necessarily want the camera back--we replaced it with a better camera. But those pictures? Those memories? Who steals those? It's like stealing photo albums or yearbooks. Who does that?

If you know anyone in the Prince William County area who suddenly popped up with a nice new Fuji digital with zoom and a bunch of filled-up memory cards? Send us the cards, wouldja? Keep the camera, but give us back our memories.

Please.

Plant a Garden

I'm struggling. I screwed up today, rooted around up there and found the mass. It's big. It's so much bigger and more substantial and REAL than I imagined. I cried and cried. Then I got angry. How on EARTH does a NATIONALLY RENOWNED urogynecologist, a stinking FACOG, for hell's sake, MISS that? It's UNMISSABLE. It is so absolutely obvious, and that silly creature dug around up there and proclaimed me MASS-FREE.

I'm scared. Terrified. I'm worried about my arrhythmia and the general anesthesia. I'm worried about my metoprolol and general, too. Apparently, there's some controversy over whether or not metoprolol should be withheld when administering general. My doctor seems to think it's not a problem. And hey, according to the hospital, he's "very, very good."

As good as my FACOG urogynecologist? She's famous, she's been on TV! He's famous, too--he's been voted one of the top ten docs in DC for a few years running.

I don't feel reassured.

I find myself feeling, suddenly, that time is moving VERY fast, and that I'm not going to get things done. Things I promised Sean, things I wanted to tell him or show him or write down for him. Pictures I haven't labeled, family portraits we've never had done. I've flipped into short-time, and I'm scared to death. But one thing I did tell him? To plant flowers every year. If I'm here, if I'm not, either way, plant flowers for me. Because there isn't much that makes me happier, both in practice and in my heart.

My insurance broke my arm

My arm hurts. It hurts a lot. See, my insurance will only cover bloodwork from a place called LabCorp. So, instead of having the pre-operative CBC and BMP performed at the hospital that will be hosting my upcoming surgery (more on that later), I had to slog into some piss-smelling barnyard of a lab (think your average urban plasma donation center), where I was snapped at, forced to hand over credit card information, and then had my arm so mangled by the lab tech that I fear the vein won't be usable come the 13th.

Speaking of the 13th, that's the day the surgery is set for. We did the MRI five days ago, and it showed exactly squat. No mass. My "primary care physician's" office called to tell me that in a chipper, upbeat voice, but what, are we three? Does it matter if it shows on the MRI or no when we can FEEL it? When it shows on the ultrasound? That's not GOOD news, it's CRAP news, because any answers I'd hoped to get from the MRI weren't realized. So I blew 45 minutes of my life jammed in a drainpipe with my poor back screaming so they could find . . . bupkiss.

Had an EKG today, too. That's good. A ten second sample--like that tells them a damned thing about my heart. My heart didn't choose that particular ten seconds to start throwing out the frequent PVCs, so what? Like the MRI, does that mean they're not there?

We got a puppy. I don't know if I posted about that, I'm having a tough time keeping things straight in my head. We've had him for a week and a day now. He's a little Cairn Terrier (think Toto), and we got him from a backwoods breeder up in Maryland. Nice folks, seemed kindly, but with an edge. A lot of "praise the lords" and "Jesus sent you" stuff. Messianic Jews, doncha know? We didn't mention that, if the lord sent us, he's got a twisted sense of humor, considering our atheism. Nah--why mess about with folks' faith? If it makes them happy and isn't in my legislation, why bother? That they almost certainly wouldn't have given us the puppy was another consideration. We named our little guy Charlie, and, for as drooly, pukey, trembly, and pissy as he was when we got him home, he's blossomed into a great little dog. Sean is very happy, and so is Tommy. Me? He's a great puppy, but I agreed to this because I made a promise to Sean, and, if things go to hell, I need to have at least come through on that front.

Forgive the typos. I'll read through later and correct. I'm tired, and it's grocery shopping time. Wish us luck on the housebreaking front, huh?