Shrink The Monster

Yesterday was an angry post. Anger, anger, and fear, really. That’s what fear does in me, keeping me going and out of bed, it refuels itself into anger.

Yesterday was all pretty scary for me, but also, I’ve heard fairly common. Mammogram call-backs, even biopsies, don’t necessarily mean doom. I didn’t know.

Today, I’m just tired. It’s emotionally draining stuff all that bare prodding, kneading and squishing while standing in a cold room in a loose drape. Doctor’s really should be more attentive to their medical language (so foreign), their demeanor (they may do this a hundred times a day, but this is MY first time. Be understanding. Use common English. Skip the big medical terms. I won’t remember anyway.)

And for goodness sakes, get your patient a chair before you break this scary news to her. All the blood is about to pool in her feet. It’s the least you could do.

Today, people sound very loud. I feel like a frail bird. I wish they’d talk softly too me. Pretend I was found in the park. Wrap me gently in a blanket. Give me something nourishing: coffee, warm bread, and just sit quietly by.

I believe I am going to be okay, really, but it doesn’t make this journey any less frightening. Except for the dogs, I’m going it alone. I refuse to worry my family–Oh, we are worriers! I couldn’t bear watching their worry, while dealing with my own. Too much! I can see the furrow in my mother’s brow from here, her hands wringing at 3a.m. No, no, no.

Coming here is good. I tell you. I get it out of my head. I move on. That’s what writing does. It buoys me, even rescues me, when I can’t get my arms around the monster in the room. Writing shrinks the monster.

I’ll let you know what happens next, when it happens. I know you are quietly listening and that helps enormously. Honest, engine.

d, xo

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