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She hopes it's over soon. That makes two of us.
Take your hands off the climate control device, do not block or complain about the fan or its speed. Keep the box of tissues handy and, for the love of all things holy, please don’t bring me more bad news.
Warning this blog contains adult language.
I say fuck and some other rather colorful words.
I'm in a mood, so be forewarned.
Bad news on any given day can be unsettling. Bad news on a menopausal mood-swinging day can be simply too much to endure; at least it can feel that way for a moment or two. I’m not enjoying this at all, these waves of hormonal modifications. Today, I was driving, when I felt it coming. I said, “I’m having a bad day,” and then tears just trickled down my cheeks. Deb asked what was wrong and I said, and I quote,
“I don’t fucking know. Just find me a damn tissue.” My hairdresser asked what was wrong when I arrived red-eyed. I told her much the same thing. She told me I needed to go out in the yard, lie down, and re-center myself with nature. I’d like to tell Mother Nature to fuck off. This shutting down of the child bearing mechanism should be a much more agreeable process. I mean, I gave once a month like clockwork to Mother Nature’s cause, except for that one nine month stretch. I deserve some type of easy-out payoff in the end. Still, most of the time, with the aid of natural supplements, I’m managing to keep the emotional roller-coaster from leaving the barn. But some days—bad news is the last thing I want to hear.
It wasn't so bad getting the phone message from the nurse explaining the cost of my pelvic ultrasound and asking me to call in for scheduling. I was poked, prodded, and smashed just a month ago, and then given a clean bill of health. This was obviously a mistake. I returned the call and inquired about this unexpected procedure. After verifying my birthdate, the nurse said, N-o-o-o-o, it wasn't just an ultrasound; I was to be scheduled for a biopsy. NOT ME! Yep, that was my educated, two degree holding, writes for a living response, NOT ME! She checked again. "Oh oops, it isn't you. I called the wrong one. We have several of you by that name."
|Sorry, wrong door.|
I kind of knew it was a name issue, because I've dealt with the name thing quite a few times. I once had my door kicked in by the Feds, looking for someone else with the same name. Luckily, one of the agents knew me and said I was "not the one they were looking for." That was a "thank God my Daddy knows everybody" moment, to be sure. I didn’t want the identity mishap to be discovered after I was already property of the CLIC, (Chief Lesbian in Charge at the jail.) Anyway, finding that I was not the one needing the pelvic ultrasound and biopsy was quite a relief. I went from, "Oh, holy shit" to "Thank you, Jesus" in the span of the thirty seconds it took the nurse to realize I was "not the one." Isn’t it funny how a non-church goer can turn so blasphemously religious in moments of panic and redemption?
|Friend or Foe?|
I spent most of the afternoon sitting here wondering if there wasn't really a mix up and it was me who needed the biopsy. What else have they mixed up? Are all our files jumbled together? Should I go get checked again, just to be sure? In the meanwhile, I’m heartsick for the other woman who has my name and is in need of a biopsy —— and then I feel her fear, the empathy tearing at my already hormonally unbalanced brain. I love and hate that I feel so much, that I can so keenly imagine pretty much anything and be swept away in the emotion of the moment—and that’s on a good day. Being able to do that was the basis of my theatrical career and is an asset to my writing. The world needs people like me, who feel very deeply the suffering of others. But then nature comes along and adds its complications to the mix. This midlife hormonal shift is kicking my ass and the empathy that was my friend is now the foreseer of gloom and doom for us all. My mind is my worst enemy and my best friend. It imagines stories people like to read, but it also makes up SHIT for me to worry about. I just keep mumbling to myself, "Count your blessings. Count your blessings."
Deb, poor thing, I know she hopes this emotional storm plays itself out soon. I think I can hear her over there on the couch mumbling, “This too shall pass. This too shall pass.”
[Post Script: I am the patient of a menopause specialist. This fact was very obvious when the nurse called back, before she went home for the day. She wanted to reassure me that I was not the one in need of the procedure. That just goes to show that she is aware the patients she deals with are hormonally challenged and subject to dwell on something like this all night, until they are forced to drive to the office, where they will be found at dawn in a panic waiting in parking lot to resolve the identity issue, DNA kit in hand.]
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