And so it goes
Been a rough patch, certainly. Sunday night I got email from my stepmother. We don’t keep in regular contact, as we’re both reclusive, so I hadn’t talked to her for a while. Imagine how I felt when she told me she’d nearly died. Apparently, she’d been feeling sick and nauseated with stomach pain for a couple of months, and her doctor was treating her for what he thought was an ulcer. Things worsened until she ended up in the ER, and an MRI showed she had gallstones that had migrated to several places, occluding a duct to her bladder and causing a widespread infection. So… surgery to remove the gall bladder, find all the stones and get rid of them as well, and put a stent in her bladder duct.
Six to eight weeks recovery, with a lot of pain and nausea. And then she gets to have surgery again to remove the stent, with another long recovery. She’s 85 years old, kids. She’s already dealing with a host of physical problems, including various food sensitivities and chronic sciatica. To quote her: “This sucks!” And how much can a body take before it gives out?
She was writing to me to apologize that we won’t be able to go out for my (upcoming) birthday lunch. I told her to please not worry about that. I wish I could do something for her, but I know how fiercely independent she is. She doesn’t want to be fussed over.
So, Monday and yesterday were raw. Monday, I had a chiropractor appointment… I’ve been a mess of tension and aches. I wasn’t my usual feisty self on the table; I didn’t gripe about the painful stuff he was doing, I got into the positions he asked, I was very passive. His comment? “You’re very compliant today. What’s wrong with you?” How well he knows me already.
Yesterday, Steve came over. We did not play; I was too despondent. All I did was crawl into his arms and cry on his shirt.
But the fog has to lift eventually. Life and work go on. Fake it till you make it and all that new age-y sh*t. I’ve worked. I’ve worked out. And I figured I’d make some attempt to post something here, so everyone wouldn’t think I’d disappeared into the ether.
So pardon me if this is disjointed; it’s simply a collection of random thoughts.
Yesterday I was playing Scrabble online, and this screen appeared. I swear, I did not create this, I didn’t rearrange any letters; it happened randomly. It made me giggle.
I remembered another snippet from the party. After my lengthy scene with Ulf, during aftercare, I impulsively said, “Let me see your hand.” I just had a feeling… he turned up his palm. Sure enough, I’d thoroughly assed his hand — a blood blister and several red streaks. He was incredulous; said he hadn’t been aware of it at all.
Looks like this granny has still got it, huh?
Another random tidbit — I haven’t cut my hair in months. Usually, I get it cut and colored every six to eight weeks, but the last two times I got color, I didn’t cut it. It is the longest it’s been in years. John loves it, Steve loves it. I have mixed feelings about it.
I have never had sleek, sophisticated, polished hair. It’s just not me, and I wouldn’t even know how to style it that way. Once my hairdresser gave me a sleek blowout, and it felt so foreign and “not me” that I couldn’t wait to wash it out. I don’t put it up, because I hate my ears and don’t show them. So, for better or worse, my hair is big and wild. On the one hand, having it past my shoulders and down my back feels very sexy. But on the other, the ghost of my mother is in my head. “You’re too old for long hair.” “You need to style your hair somehow.” And, my favorite: “When are you going to do something about those rags hanging around your face?”
Tomorrow I’m getting my hair colored… I’m considering letting the cut go, again. Just to break away from the judgment of a “woman of a certain age” growing her hair long. I’m sorry, Mom… I love you, but STFU already. Get out of my head.
Took this selfie yesterday. What do you guys think? Grow it, or cut it back a bit?
Finally… people tell me they like this blog because it’s real, because it’s honest. Well, in the spirit of honesty, I have a confession. I do photo-edit my pictures a little. Not a whole lot; I don’t know how to do anything fancy. I don’t have Photoshop, I just have a simple program with the basics. So I’ll erase bags under my eyes, or blur out those damned spots on my arms and legs. A little indulgence of my vanity.
But, you want real? Here is real. This is from yesterday. No photo-editing, no makeup, straight from the camera except for cropping and resizing. This is my depression face. It’s not pretty, but it’s me.
This is what Steve saw. He said I was beautiful. I think he’s crazy, but I love him for it.
Onward. There is work to be done. And this body won’t exercise itself, no matter how much I wish it would.
Hopefully some fun on-topic stuff soon. We’ll see.