Last week was a big week. I had a breast biopsy–a diving expedition, if you will, to see what’s up. I had a lot of fear, days of waiting–for doctors to find memos, to sign off on appointments, for appointments to be made, for me to build up the drama, the possibilities, the awfuls.
I did an incredibly good job of keeping myself calm (with a TON of help from my Twitter people) which, if you knew me, is totally not like me. I can be the queen of over-reacting, inpatience, lashing out in anger, fear.
Yet, I kept pretty calm, went to the doctor, got my boob x-rayed, prodded, cut, biopsied, re-x-rayed, taped up, then super mummy-bandaged. I walked around all weekend guarding my chest like I was swaddling a newborn, but I was okay. I did it.
Today, I lost my purse. I lost my purse somewhere in the 30-or-so feet between my door and my jeep. . . a direct line, back-door to car-door: 30 FEET!
It took me a 1/2 hour to notice my purse was even missing, but it was, and I was completely baffled because I knew I had tossed it in the jeep as I was going to coffee with dad. We were going to a new French bakery. I had packed my camera. I KNEW I HAD, and yet, when we arrived, my purse wasn’t there.
When I got home, I searched EVERYWHERE. I looked in the most unlikely of places–the fridge, the garbage cans, under the car, under the seats, in my bed, in the dog’s beds. WHERE THE HELL WAS IT?
My only irrational conclusion was, I had somehow tossed it in the back and launched it out the back window without knowing–absurd, but plausible, this is me we are taking about. THEN, a homeless person, a thug, a bum, an unsavory neighbor I deplore, had snatched it from my driveway! YES, that was it!
I cancelled everything in my wallet down to my library card. I filed a police report (because that’s what you do when unsavory folk slink up your driveway and STEAL your purse that you threw out your own window).
I blithered on Twitter. I cried in the kitchen. I whined on the phone to the bank, the Starbucks service rep, the librarian.
And then–after ALL. THAT. DRAMA–I found my purse.
Yep. I found it.
And then I REALLY started crying.
And berating myself.
There was a LOT of berating.
Because, WHO DOES THAT?
Who loses their purse 30 FEET FROM THE BACK DOOR??
Going at life alone can be okay. It can be better than okay. It can be good, happy, even joyous–sometimes.
But having a major scare like needing a breast biopsy, is not one of those “life is okay alone” moments, even when you still insist that is.
Losing my purse was the universal “last-straw” meltdown I might have had last week, when I was too busy holding my breath to have one.
I called my mom. (I did not tell her yet about the biopsy [baby steps]) but I sobbed about my purse, then cancelling everything, then finding it. I told her we would laugh later, but not yet. And then we did.
Tomorrow, I find out what my biopsy said, what comes next. I don’t know how to feel, act, react anymore. I’m just very tired. But I know I need to stop pushing forward, rushing onward (escaping) to the next event. Somehow, I need to sit still and just be, which if you’re me, is the hardest task of all. Wishing myself well.