I was sure the tumor had burst and was ready to send me to the emergency room. My head was swimming in a pool of anxiety, though at the same time slightly relieved that this fucking tumor finally decided to force me to get rid of it. Yeah, that’s right, I said ‘fucking’ (sorry mom and dad). Please understand that this is at least my third time on the Kübler-Ross express loop and it’s so frustrating to see everyone else effortlessly traveling along the freeway while you are stuck on a detour. So, yeah, I’m pissed.
For a while I only hated what it did to my body. My beautiful body. . . I was really hot once you know. I don’t just mean in a pretty face kinda way- whatever those measurements were (36-24-36?) I had ’em by 8th grade and they held on for the next four years. After that, my body turned to mush quicker than a pot of mash potatoes. Now, I don’t know if I’ll ever see it again. Bye, bye body!
Then I hated what it did to my mind. I used to be a master multitasker and motivated go-getter. These days it takes motivation to put on pants and walk to the couch. At first, I thought I was simply tired from all my years of super hard work in redefining overachievement, but as it turns out this tumor has given me a pretty bad case of ‘baby brain’. Not to mention the mood swings! I had taken rides on some pretty monstrous dragons during lady time; but these days it feels more like this dragon is a massive alcoholic. My poor friends and family who have suffered by my side for these past several years, I applaud you. Oh, and don’t be alarmed if you had no idea- I have still maintained my superior ability for putting on a happy face.
Most recently, my spirit has faded from what used to be a blinding light of neon to something resembling an old, abandoned, flickering bar sign. I blame this tumor-created massive self-identity crisis. My body is out of my control. My clothes are constantly too big or too small for me. Did I mention this drunken dragon who I wish would just buck me off already? It’s become really hard to keep my shit together most of the time. My social calendar has been replaced with a furry, little dog who I use as an excuse just about anytime I need to get out of doing something. Sorry friends, it’s not you- it’s me.
But no, the tumor didn’t burst. That would have been too kind. It was a simple sinus infection, something I had never experienced before and never want to again. Instead, I’m hiring a hit man. I have visited with two of the peninsula’s finest neurosurgeons to get opinions on having yet another surgery. Why not? The medical is better here anyway.