Make Mine A Cold One

Am big ol' snarky bitch.  I know it.  I apologize.

This time of year is always tough for me.  March 31 is approaching.  July 09 is going to be worse.  Prepare yourselves now.

Seven years ago, my world changed.  Irreversibly.  There is no way to fix what happened.  There is no cure for what went wrong.

I had been in pain most of the day.  I did all the things that usually made the pain go away.  I would learn later that the things I did to end the pain were the equivalent of myth and it was merely coincidence that the pain ended when it did it.

That night it literally took all I had to crawl up 14 stairs from a basement and fling myself on a landing loud enough so someone would hear me.  The pain was so bad, I could not speak.  Yes, that's right, I could not speak.  It took all I had to lay there and gasp for air.  I felt like I was being stabbed.  Not that I know what that feels like but the Drama Queen who dwells within has decided that is exactly what it would feel like.

I don't know how long it took the ambulance to get there but I do know it took three EMT's to pry me out of the fetal position.  I remember being on a stretcher and hearing "Responds to stimuli, does not respond to commands."  I had this moment of clarity at that point.  Something inside me told me I was waaaay more than a wee bit fucked and all really was not well.  I remember the needle.  I remember the morphine hitting my blood stream and every part of me becoming very cold while my upper lip curled under.  They had me on my back where the pain was and I couldn't get the words out to tell them.  My mouth was dry and I had trouble seeing.  Pain really can be blinding.  I remember the disjointed screams; it sounded like me but it didn't feel like me.  I remember the hot ambulance dood calling the hospital and asking if he could tranquilize me.  Really really.

The next 20 hours were a blur.  The stuff that was put in my I.V. before the CT scan made me feel like I had peed myself.  The doc was sweet when he gave me the bad news and assured me that I had in fact not wet the bed but, on the ride back from the CT scan, I had vomited all over the halls of his nice, clean ER.

The rest is just a blur.

What I can tell you is this... for me, morphine is my go-to pain killer... what had previously been diagnosed as a "fussy" appendix would turn out to be gallstones  that had pretty much turned my gall bladder into a big rock that was messing things up for my liver and pancreas... pancreatitis had developed because of the long term, untreated gall bladder disease... I would need to have surgery to remove the gall bladder... my pancreas was broken... no more alcohol, beef, pork, lamb, wild game, or fatty foods.  I miss all of you.

The next few months after that were also life changing.  Three and a half months later my gall bladder was removed through my belly button (no, really, it was).  Post surgery complications (surgical site infection, pulmonary edema, hypoxia, low blood pressure, biliary dyskinesia) would land me back in the hospital.  I would be told by two doctors that I had one last treatment to try and if that didn't work, I had three to six months to live and I needed to prepare myself for that because they were fairly certain this treatment would not work.  Then the bastards starved me for a week.  And then had the balls to say that I couldn't go home until I pooed.  Me being me, I yelled at them for being bush league, apathetic and flat out idiotic for thinking ice chips would make me shit informed them that it was impossible to summon up a bowel movement when all you have been eating for a week is ice chips.  I had a lunch tray the next day.  And a poo for the good doctors that night.  The Beastie Boys were so right.  You gotta fight.  For your right.  To paaaarty.

I am in remission now and have been since May 2009.  I won't bore you with all the details (minimum four BM'S a day kids!) but I will tell you the really important things I have learned...
... having a disease can define you and shape your life.  You just have to decide how much of the definition is you and how much is the disease.
... a terminal diagnosis can be overcome by sheer willpower and brutal stubbornness, all you have to do is make that first decision... will I live or will I die?
... being hospitalized for more than a few days will show you who your friends and supporters are; look who is sitting by your bed, reflect on who is absent.  The person sitting by your bed loves you more.
... if you suffer from chronic pain, as I do, find a way to deal with it and stop complaining about it because its not going anywhere and neither are you if you bitch about it all the damn time.  I have days when I can barely get out of bed to make the phone call to say I won't be in to work but instead of complaining about the pain I remember I'm still lucky enough to be alive and I am still lucky enough to feel pain.
... because pancreatitis was historically thought to be a disease afflicting chronic alcoholics, when I go to the hospital because I am having a pancreatic attack, most staff at these medical facilities will suspect I am a drunk who destroyed their pancreas and is now on the prowl looking for drugs.
... Mundare Sausage, while is tasty yummy good stuff, will put me in the hospital for two days after projectile vomiting all over That Aunt's clean bathroom, thus ruining Christmas dinner.  Go on, trump that!
... in my world, the liver bone is connected to the pancreas bone is connected to the kidney bone and I gotta keep my bones healthy.
... if I ever need to get all hood like dat, I can lift my shirt, show off my scars, and claim I got shot, just like Fiddy.

So ya, that's why I'm little Miss Grumpy Pants.  And it is not because I feel sorry for myself.  It is because I am broken and it cannot be fixed, no matter what I do.  And I get frustrated and stabby having the precious time I have left wasted by people who can't find their ass with both hands, even if they have a road map and a tour guide. 

And a shopping cart.  Those fuckers always come with a shopping cart.

On that note, I need to go have BM number 4.  Some days, having pancreatitis is shitty.

Why I'm My Age And Not Married

I get it so you can stop spewing the drivel now.

You think I am broken.

I am.  In a lot of ways.  But not in the ways you were talking about.

I understand that you think that, by no later than the age of 33, a woman should be married, have at least two kids, be a card carrying member of the minivan majority, have a mortgage, and a cabin at a local lake.  Because that's how they did it in 1910, as you so eloquently put it.

I understand that you think I fucked up.

In my defense, what do you really know about me?  Never, not once, not ever have you asked me why I'm not married.  No.  You just froth at the mouth and wax poetic about your kids and what they have accomplished.  We will get back to them in a bit.

What I really want to know is when was I suddenly required to live by and up to your socially conditioned pompous ideals of what a woman should be and do?  Perhaps I didn't get the email/memo/smoke signals or whatever it was they were using back in your day.

Well here is my memo to you...

I want to be married and have a family.  You can keep your minivan and cabin by the lake as, while those things may be desirable for some, I have no desire to live like a stepfordized soccer mom who has been fully lobotomized and is currently living a life that can only be described as vanilla.  Or beige.  This means I will not be settling for the first man who puts his hand between my legs and pretends to get me off, and it certainly means I will not be settling for whatever it is you believe is an "ideal choice."

I am well aware of the fact that I wasted a fair amount of my prime on a man who I was not meant to be with.  I loved him even though he was deeply troubled and stood by him, like a wife stands by a husband, hoping we could both find a way for him to get himself together.  That is what you do when you are already married in your hearts -- stick it out through good times and bad.  No one wanted that relationship to work more than I did.  But it did not work out and when it ended it was like being divorced, or widowed if you want to really know how it felt.  Not all of us get the fairytale ending.

I understand that you think I need to "find a man" and "settle down" and "stop being so goddamn fussy."  You know what?  Fuck.  You.  Being fussy has prevented me from ending up as a statistic; divorced, beaten, raped, single mother -- pick your poison.  And after you are done fucking right off, tell me how many years were you truly happy after you "settled"?  The way you tell it, the way we all hear it, the shine was well worn off before you were even married.  Yes, I totally want that kind of misery in my life.  Because my life has not been difficult enough or painful enough.  Personally, I would rather be on my own than be with a cheating jackass.  You know, like the one you "settled down with."

You should know the biggest reason why I am not married is because I take the whole idea of marriage and being married seriously.  Divorces and pre-nups are not an option in my world.  I take those vows, those promises, seriously.  It is my opinion that most people getting married today do not take the marriage they are about to enter into seriously enough and those people really should not be getting married if they have some kind of exit strategy in place before they even make it to the altar.

I know that because I never had that piece of paper you think I have no idea what it is like to be married, but in my own way I do.  And I know what it feels like to be a widow, just like you.  I will not be making the same mistake again and I certainly will not be taking your advise and "settling."  I want it to be for the right reasons and I'm willing to wait.

I have too much respect for myself to simply settle.

PS:  While you prattle on about how amazing your children are, please don't forget that neither one of them are legally married.  In domestic type relationships, yes, but not married.  And if we were still back in 1910 like you and your ideologies are, being shacked up is much worse than being an old maid.  Just saying.