Here’s what I need to write about:

I found a lump in my left breast. I went the doctor, like your supposed to.

She said “I am not overly worried, but with such a strong family history, I want you to have . . . → Read More: A strong family history]]> I have written 5 blog posts while sitting here – all about nothing.

Here’s what I need to write about:

I found a lump in my left breast. I went the doctor, like your supposed to.

She said “I am not overly worried, but with such a strong family history, I want you to have a mammogram”.

That’s verbatim. I quote her, because I have dissected what she said and how she said it over and over and over again, looking for more or less or something else. I know there’s nothing else, she’s always been very honest with me and she never dulls anything down so as not to freak me out. She knows I’ll freak out anyway. She knows that there isn’t anything she could possibly tell me that is worse that what I make up in my head when I don’t have her quotes to obsess about.

It’s probably nothing, because if it were something, she would have just said “You need to get a mammogram” or “I’m concerned” because that’s ok for a doctor to say. That’s their job.Right?

“I am not overly worried, but with such a strong family history, I want you to have a mammogram” and then “Ohh. You are self-pay. Hmm.” because YAY: No insurance. and then “don’t let not having insurance deter you from having this done. This is important.” Shit.

So this morning, I’m online searching for programs that offer mammograms to those of us that cannot pay $300-$500 to have one and $230-$400 to have the results read. Only in this case, “searching for programs that offer mammograms” equals “writing 5 blog posts about nothing”.

Ok, 6 posts, now.

To my computer-geek mind, these unaddressed fears are like . . . → Read More: On being a scaredy-cat]]> I hate it when I realize I am afraid of something. I hate that there are things lurking around in me that control my actions (in inaction, as the case may be) and dictate my every-next move without my permission.

To my computer-geek mind, these unaddressed fears are like a computer virus in my brain. Just sitting around inside my head, waiting to trigger a detrimental reaction; activating pop-up bitchiness and eventually shutting down my whole machine self. {Who’s the biggest nerd you know?}

The other night while I was knee-deep in justification as to why I had not yet gotten off my ass and gone to volunteer at the crisis center like I said I was going to a month ago, my husband said “what are you so afraid of?” and it all came out in a blurry, snotty mess.

I’m afraid that someone might need me. Someone might need to tell me their story and I might have to listen to it. Someone might have a story that I get, you know? Like mine. And I might have to relate to it. Like at some point, what if I need to tell someone my whole story? Like my whole story? And what if it doesn’t make any sense and someone makes the things that happened seem unnecessary or unjustified? What if someone somewhere says that what I did was wrong and thinks I am a bad person for it? What if I am a bad person for it? What if the grief and mourning and hurt was all unnecessary? What if someone says “and then what?” like the story doesn’t have an ending?

And that’s what it was. I was frozen by the fear that my pain was unnecessary.

What bullshit.

I went in this afternoon. No one asked me anything I couldn’t answer. I didn’t get hit by a truck and a meteor didn’t fall on my head. Nothing exploded and no one punched me in the face or threw rocks at me.

I’m going back tomorrow.

Weird.

After ‘yes that’s all there was’ and ‘no there is no more anywhere in the house’ there were two more bottles under the bathroom sink. Empty, now, obviously.

I tell him that if I have to be the sane . . . → Read More: Tomorrow will be day one, again.]]> I was at work today and he called to tell me he was not ‘ok’.

After ‘yes that’s all there was’ and ‘no there is no more anywhere in the house’ there were two more bottles under the bathroom sink. Empty, now, obviously.

I tell him that if I have to be the sane one in this, he is going to just have to deal with me being half fucking crazy too. I tell him that no, I will not help him figure out how to tell his boss he can’t come in today. That we are going to need us both at work today in order to pay for the god-damned medical bills that this is going to cost us. I tell him that I am not angry, I am terrified. I cry and then yell and then thank him for telling me. I tell him I love him and that I don’t want him to fucking die. Then that this is somehow progress, because this time he told me before I happened to find out and he didn’t try to hide it or fake it – like he did before. That maybe next time he can tell me or God or someone before he actually does it.

I tell him that I am coming to get him and take him to work and that he has 20 minutes to figure out how to suck it up and get ready.

Because I don’t know what the fuck else to do.