Mar. 8th, 2009

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I'm sitting on the front porch and shit, it's a beautiful day. Ending now, sun setting as the tourists cross the street, take photos of the bright balconies to my left, across the street. Birds, fly across, sunlight setting their wings in golden x-ray. Something, somewhere, close, is going on, but I don't know what and I haven't the energy to find out.

Mid-week last week I found out our family dog died. Charlie. The kind of dog you call the Best Dog Ever. My Mother and Father and I picked him out from the shelter when he was a puppy. He was put to sleep last week at the age of thirteen. Lung cancer. It was quick, and unfortunately, I'm guessing, most likely, painful. I wasn't there. My Mom was. She had to give him his last walk because my Dad couldn't do it. Just couldn't. That dog was a good a friend to him as any human and more loyal and kind-hearted than most. I can't believe I won't see him again and just like those close to me wish they could be here, I wish I could be there, just to be there, just to be another body bearing the weight of a loved one lost.

The next night, on a second date with someone (yes, I spent the night. No, we didn't have sex.), I woke up at 3:30am with intense pain in my abdomen that ramped up quite suddenly. Within an hour, I was at the hospital, sweating, nauseated, and ready to pass out from the pain. It was similar to the ovarian cyst I had four months ago, but stronger, much stronger. They give you a chart with these simply-drawn faces to gauge your pain, one-ten. And it's funny, because most people look like a five all the time. I placed this at a clear 8. I'm not mentioning this to garner any kind of sympathy. In fact, I hate talking about it, haven't told a lot of people and only told my family because I did end up getting admitted to the hospital that night. I got out on Friday and my date, as unsure of the future of this as I may be, was there for most of the ordeal. I only got home from staying at his house a few hours ago. Maybe not a wise decision, since I am so unsure and he seems so sure, but sometimes a girl needs to be taken care of, and for me to allow that to happen takes a lot out of me. I'm exhausted. Mentally, emotionally, physically. I have a 5cm "fluid-filled sac" in my ovary that could decide to decrease, explode, or do a little dance once again and that kind of pisses me off. I wanted it out, but doctors being "logical", didn't want to risk general anesthetic for something that is "likely" to go away. So yeah, for anyone wondering, that may happen to read this that is, I'm fine and I'm sorry if I'm even worse at communicating now. I go back in Wednesday for a check-up. The worst part is, I have no guarantee this is not the New World Order for my body and me, if every month, in between that Special Happy Time, I'll get woken up, or forced to leave work to be taken to the Hospital. At least I have health insurance. Seriously. This is how people go bankrupt. This, is how.

There's talk of putting me on birth control to stem these little growths, which I'm none too happy about. Jill on b.c. is a paranoid Jill, no matter the dose, no matter the type. I really don't like it. But I do like morphine. Morphine was my damned friend and Vicodin is not. And neither is hospital food, or doctors who tell and don't listen. Here's an idea, try learning some compassion and not being so cocky. Try setting your goddamned coffee down at the nurse's station before you waltz into my room to tell me I might lose an ovary and then leave before I've had time to process it enough to ask some goddamned questions. Just a thought.

I'm annoyed. My body is betraying me in more ways than one and all I want is a nice iced coffee or a beer even though it's probably the worst thing I could have right now, due to the fact that for the past year or so my intestines have decided to mutiny as well.

And I realize there are so many people out there with much bigger problems, but I really just needed to get this out.

May 2010

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