This has nothing to do with anything except I really do feel this way. I’m having to put together a resource so that if that stupid fucking Covid-19 virus bullshit shuts down the physical campus we won’t all be stuck with nothing to do. So for fuck sake, wash your damn hands, use tissues when you sneeze, cough into your elbow, and if you’re running a fucking fever just keep your plague ridden ass at home.
But I digress, as usual.
This Saturday is the 8th anniversary of my father’s passing. He died of a wicked nasty form of cancer that no one researches because too few people die from it. It was super painful and there was no hope of recovery but it doesn’t involve tits and tons of people so, eh, fuck you.
Anyway, I’m mostly just fine with the anniversary. We knew he was going to die so we had a little time to prepare. And it’s been awhile. I still miss him sometimes but it’s not the sharp, stabby kind of pain anymore.
At any rate, Lancelot and I are taking Mom out for dinner Saturday mostly because it seems like the good kid thing to do. And I am nothing if not the good kid.
Being a grown up is HARD. It actually rather sucks a good deal of the time. All of the responsibilities, the financial burdens, the whole not being able to tell everyone to just go piss off when you aren’t in a mood to deal with them. You know what I’m talking about.
When you’re a grown up who also has a mental illness it’s even less fun. Sometimes. Right now is rather HARD. I lost a dear friend to a wretched disease and it’s JUST NOT FAIR. To make things worse, there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it.
Except there is.
I cooked dinner last night. I took some work home to make today easier. I talked to a friend on Facebook. I took my meds and got some sleep. I had breakfast this morning. I took a shower and got dressed like the professional I am.
I am moving forward because, quite honestly, it’s what my friend would have wanted. She wouldn’t want all the sadness and tears. She was eternally optimistic and I loved her all the more for that.
I will miss her, always, and I may cry a few more tears. But I’m also going to get back to the business of living my life to the fullest because that’s how she lived, and I think it’s a good way for all of us to live.
I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder in 2006, shortly before my 30th birthday. I’ve been in what I consider “active” recovery since 2009, shortly after my 4th (and final) suicide attempt. Most of the time I’m pretty good, like stable enough that your average stranger wouldn’t notice anything unusual about me. Well, nothing unusual aside from the strange hair and my unique fashion sense.
But sometimes I’m off my game and I need to hit my own reset button. This seems to be one of those times.
The doc started me on a new med to try to help with the tremors that I have, caused by Lithium. Maybe it’s the slowed heart rate that’s resulting from that.
Two years ago I had a breast cancer scare. I just went in for my mammogram last week and was rather nervous about it. Maybe it was the anxiety from that.
Work is getting ridiculously busy again, a little earlier than usual. Every time I think I’m going to get caught up I feel like yet another paper avalanche happens. Maybe it’s the stress from that.
I did something to piss off my back and I’ve been entertaining a headache for several days now. I’m still not sure what caused either, but that could be the culprit.
Regardless, I’m not feeling like myself and I don’t like it one bit.
I’ve been redecorating my office a bit. I’ve been buying new clothes, changing up my look. I’ve changed some of the bits in the bedroom.
I’m not sure what else to do, but I’ll keep trying. Something will hit the reset button in a meaningful way and I’ll be back on track.
My father was the greatest man I have ever known. Patient (mostly), kind (always), and funny (entirely). He was the best dad a weirdo little kid like me could have had.
Seven years ago he lost his battle with cancer. Fortunately it was a very brief battle. He didn’t suffer long and we didn’t have to watch him suffer. At the very end he was with my Mom, as it should have been.
I still miss him, though it’s a little easier each year. I keep him safe in my heart and in my memories, and that’s also as it should be.
Where did we leave off in our saga? Oh yes, I looked like a lobster because of yet another allergic reaction and I was waiting to see if I needed another surgery. Good times.
The allergy subsided and I quite literally shed my skin. Everywhere. Thoroughly gross.
The breast cancer doc was not a woman but rather a lovely older gent with a lovely Hispanic accent who told me that he saw no reason to operate. Instead I’ll be having another mammogram in June on just the left side and we’ll keep an eye on that area for the next few years.
Christmas was good and things in general have been good. I’ve been productive finally. And I’ve been cleared by the oncologist to go back to work next week.
But all of this “sky is falling” stuff has got me thinking. I really do want to take charge of my own destiny and become the person I know I can be. So expect changes, some big and some small. Mostly you should expect to hear all about my goals. I have lots of things to do and I know I won’t get anywhere without a plan, and that’s how I think about goals.
Let’s do this, shall we?
It’s a well documented fact that I’m allergic to lots of stuff, mostly medicine. I tend to get the run of the ill itchy rash that’s more of a miserable nuisance than anything, though I have on two occasions gotten Stevens-Johnson Syndrome which can quickly become severe and life threatening. Having been down this road before I do know the difference.
On Wednesday I was full-on into a rash. I looked like the miserable little lobster that I was but it was truly Just A Rash. Which is why the doc sent me to the ER. *SMH*
After spending several hours there, and donating more blood, I was released with a clean bill of health (quelle suprise!) and instructions to take Benadryl every 4 hours. I’ve been sleeping a lot lately. (duh) I am starting to feel better though, which is good. I’ve been able to be up and out of the house and I even wore real pants the other day. Go me!
On Thursday I have the appointment with the breast surgeon. I know I’m seeing an oncologist and that my doctor for this is a woman, but I don’t know anything beyond that. Assuming I have another full-blown surgery I do intend to tell her to please not give this antibiotic I just had. The itching is driving me rather crazy and I’m a little concerned I’m going to dislocate one of my shoulders trying to scratch the middle of my back.
The surgery this morning went well. Evidently the ridiculous pain had been caused by a regular old ovarian cyst that had stopped being a pain because it had mostly been reabsorbed by my body. The oncologist made the smart decision to remove it anyway because once one of those little suckers grows cysts they’re likely to keep growing them and if she had opened me up and not taken anything I’ve have been super pissed. Especially after this…
Yes, that is the IV stuck in my foot. My arms and hands look like damn pin cushions and I’m covered in bruises. Fortunately by that point I was desperate, crying a little, and the anesthesia doc who put it in got it on the first poke. Yay.
The surgery itself went so well that I went in the OR at 8 and was at home by 11.
I am much less pleased with the breast biopsy results, which didn’t come until this afternoon during my nap. What they found is not cancer, yay, but it something that typically turns into cancer, boo. So tomorrow afternoon I have an appointment with my regular doc to find out what the next phase of this adventure actually is.
For the record, we are not amused.