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In light of all the much more important and dire situations in the world, I really think I need some more navel-gazing, don't you?

5.06.2010

The slightest difficulty is becoming monumental again. The locked porch door keeping me from my mail. Clothes that won't fit right or go together. The overwhelming feeling that once my door is locked I need to stumble over my cluttered apartment and head straight for my cat hair-infested comforter, letting it hold me and love me and warm me and keep me as long as it pleases, who I am to deny it.

I've only ever fully cleaned my cubicle twice: both before my medical leaves. Tonight on my desk I found notepads that on the last few pages held notes I'd jotted down in the last week during phone calls with nurses and receptionists and schedulers and neurosurgeons, only to find similar if not the exact same notes at the front of the pad, from less than a year ago.

Less than a year. And here we are again. My fridge is an altar to impulse purchases and leftovers, with those holy remnants from my mother's shopping trips back in October. Things that I need to clean out before she arrives this weekend. Beverages with November pull-dates.

My cane sits propped in the corner by the garage door, saving the place where the shower chair sat for so long, and will soon sit again, aching to hold me as I'll try with everything I have to stay upright.

When I lay on my side, I've been searching my lower back with my fingers, wondering where the scar will be, how it will heal. Will it be tender and purple like its reflection on my stomach. Or will it heal quickly and be a mere ridge to the touch, easily forgotten and ignored.

Oz is moored on my shoulders as I move around from sink to table to bed. How will I stand his absence in the hospital. When I wake up in the middle of the night and search for his warm square foot with my feet, only to remember him zip codes away. Will I worry about him. Will he miss me. Can I live without morning cuddles anymore now that I've grown accustomed to them.

Trying to prepare for my hospital stay is like preparing to leave the world. My work, my friends, my home, my life will continue to exist without me, as I lay in bed, helpless and useless as oxygen and morphine pump in to make up the spaces left from the emptiness inside. All that is good about living will be lost. For a season only, but lost all the same.

I worry I lose too much.

1 comment:

Kj said...

This cuts me to the quick. Your honesty is staggering