Proof that long-term exposure to anesthesia causes run-on sentences and mad ramblings
May 31, 2003
Okay, I know they mean well, but really, if one more person feels the need to remind me about how lucky I am to have been given a second chance, well, I'll do something unpleasant, like holler or spit. And no, it's not that I disagree, not even slightly. It's just that...hmmmm...what...(evidently I haven't thought this gripe all the way through)...
Hmmmmm
Okay,so maybe I won't holler or spit so much as I'll squirm with embarrassment.
Yup, there's the ticket. I'll squirm and try to frown away my blush with a smile 'n nod as they, those poor Good Intentioned folks, state the glaringly obvious. If I had the ability to be rude, I could squirm, smile 'n nod and say: Yessiree, you betcha, not many 45 year olds have a bout with congestive heart failure, followed by a "slight" heart attack, followed by triple bypass surgery. All in the span of four days. Yet here I sit, six weeks on the other side of My Unfortunate Cardiac Experience, alive and, well, cranky.
I'm not cranky because I'm alive. Trust me on this. If My Unfortunate Cardiac Experience taught me anything, it was the overwhelming knowledge that, despite my previous beliefs of the contrary, dammit, I want to live. I'm cranky because...well, maybe that is it: I want to live. I don't want to muddle through life, mostly convinced that I'm not worthy to be here. I don't want to keep cowering behind Fear's Wall. I want to live. I want to Do Something with Me, something meaningful and important, that will make me finally happy to be alive.
It's just...well, I'm cranky because I don't know what to do with this life I've been so generously allowed to keep. The list of things I Have To Do still exis; they didn't go anywhere. I still have to (and these are in no particular order; to do so would take way too much time and thought and needless frustration):
- work for a living
- be in love
- be here, emotionally and physically, for my rapidly aging parents
- quit doing Bad Things To My Body
(And trust me when I tell you each requirement warrants its own journal entry. Not tonight, though.)
It's not that I hate my job, not by a long shot. My boss, however, is, well, a handful (again, another day's entry). Suffice it to say, for the time being, that I am usually the one who puts up with her and tries very hard to work with her while still saying my piece. We don't fight; I just don't go down without saying my piece. Now, having been away from that arena for 6 weeks and not due back for an additional 6, I am no longer willing to mess with her nonsense. At all. I don't believe saying my piece will be enough anymore but, more importantly, I don't want to have to say my piece. She's not a rational human being, lol, she really isn't. And I just don't want to suffer through her madness any longer. So I need to start looking for another job (or playing the lottery with vigor). I'd like to find a job editing, I'm good at it and it's pretty much what I do now, but there're salary concerns and benefits (I have over 6 months of banked sick leave now which allows me to glide through my Unfortunate Cardiac Experience at full pay). Plus, well, there's something about dealing with the devil you know.
I'd like to be in love. Really in love, a shared love, lol, not a one-sided ordeal. I'd like, for once, to not only have someone love me for me, but have me simultaneously love them for them. Someone I'm not settling for. I am, wait, okay, I was the Queen of Settle. I have settled with everyone I've ever had a relationship with (that wasn't a friend; I learned a long time ago not to settle with friends, I just haven't carried it over to my love life). All I need to do is lose 100 pounds (which I need to do to maintain this second chance anyway) and quit being grateful when someone says they're in love with me. It can't be one sided.
My parents are 83 (dad) and 74 (mom). Granted, they are an incredibly young 84/73 but showing signs of wear and tear. And yes, I'm an only child. For all of those who sneer at us only children and whine about how spoiled we are...well, yes, that's true, but please, feel free to comfort yourself with the knowledge that we have no one to share parental duties with. I have no siblings with whom to hold What Should We Do About Mother/Father discussions. It's just me, and lemme tell you, that's enough to weaken anyone's heart. My dad and I have a lovely relationship...I'm 45 and still Daddy's Little Girl and damned proud of it. My mother and I have a more complicated relationship. Please know that I called her "(S)mother" (behind her back, of course) for many, many years. And, while I won't inherit riches by a long shot, I will be the sole owner of Their Stuff. And oye, do they have a lot of Stuff. My dad's shed is enough to make anyone break out in hives (along with his Army memorabilia, he has crutches last used by me when I was in the 6th grade, 7 lawn mowers that don't work but are used for parts, and no fewer than 12 coffee cans filled with assorted (used, mind you) nails, screws and wingnuts). My mother has clothes and shoes she last wore when I was a tot (did you notice my current age??), all of my baby teeth (I ask her on occasion if she plans to make a necklace out of them), and stuff I don't even know about neatly filling all 7 closets in the house. We won't even think about the attic.
So I reckon that, while I'm here helping them, I can still work towards what I want to do with the rest of my life, however long I have left.
And ah, yes, the Bad Things: diabetes, high blood pressure, a cholesterol count that made more than one doctor ask,"Was your cholesterol really [fill in the blank]?" I believe I already mentioned the pesky 100 or so pounds I need to lose. Yeah, diet, exercise, diet, exercise. I'm doing it. Mostly. I'm better with the diet than the exercise. And then there are things that I can't yet mention. I just can't. No one's sorrier than I about that, but I've said at least this much, and that's waaaaaay more than I've admitted till until now.
So this second chance thing is an ever-present nuisance. I image it to be an unidentifiable thing: a blob but not an unattractive one, that definitely pulsates, hovering in front of me, waiting for me to grab it. It's not that it's even out of reach or behind some Star Trekish force field; it's right there, ripe for the plucking.
But to touch it is to own it and I just don't know what to do with it. So for the time being, there it will hover, right there, waiting for me.
And yes, dammit, I know there's a shelf life to hovering. Another 45 years of keeping life at arm's length for sure won't work this time. Besides, who the hell wants to be 90 and still wondering what to do with a second chance?