You know how frustrating it is when you are suffering, and everyone else is just be-bopping along?
Well, they aren't.
Reader beware: Yes, I am a humorist. No, this blog post isn’t that funny. On this blog, I “free fall” and lay down my burdens—whether they be academic, cynical, laughable, or painful. Endure/enjoy, but at least relate?
I got cocky, and endured two unnecessary weeks of
anxiety. Here’s a tip for the rest of you who suffer from anxiety disorder,
situational depression, seasonal affective disorder, and/or post-traumatic
stress disorder: If your doctor offers same-day screening results, STAY and get them! I have dense breasts with lots of cysts
and scar tissue, so I always must get an ultrasound after my mammogram. It
causes me to be at the medical office ALL DAY LONG. Well, this year, I had a
lunch appointment at 11:30, and did not want to miss it. Plus, I felt like I
“knew the drill.” So, I got a little overconfident and told the mammogram lady
that they could call me with my results. Bad idea. (Ironically, my lunch date
was with my buddy Baton Swiper, who is the chief fundraising guru for our local
Susan Komen office.)
Writers love irony, yes, but this writer HATES
anxiety. It is my constant companion and arch nemesis. I believe the Bible
100%, but anxiety/depression are real, too. Sir Winston Churchill referred to
his bi-polar disorder as his “Black Dog.” Anxiety growls at my brain’s gate
daily. I memorized these verses long ago:
Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or
store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much
more valuable than they? Matthew 6:26
Can any one of you by worrying add a
single hour to your life? Matthew 6:27
They help. My Black Dog growls. They help. He growls. I
recite and pray. He growls. I pray. I live. He growls. I pray.
So, the nurse called me back and said, “As you know,
you have dense breast tissue, so we typically do an ultrasound.”
“Okay, yes.”
“Also, [he growls] the doctor saw a change from last
year on the right breast. We need more pictures in addition to the ultrasound.”
I thought, Matthew
6:27. Geez, why didn’t you schedule this all on one day, Bug? Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.
I’m dying. I’m dying. Matthew 6:27.
Why in the helk would I put myself through that?
Because, reader, I exalted myself thinking I knew my future and would be fine.
Here’s another Bible verse.
And
whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased; and he that shall humble himself
shall be exalted. Matthew 23:12
Before my “abased/humbled” self began to rough draft
my eulogy and instruction book for life for Sharky, Gnome, and Tall Child, I
did call the doctor to make the first appointment possible, two weeks away.
Does anyone else out there imagine her own eulogy? I
think it’s dang thoughtful. I offer my writing services to help others write
them, so why wouldn’t I write my own eulogy to help MY family avoid the arduous
task? I already gave them my funeral plan in my last book, Theories: Size 12, Go On, Get Mad, But You Know You Agree. Maybe
I’ll do the eulogy as a blog post, but I don’t want to tempt fate. See? There I
go again, trying to control my life.
Growl.
Verse.
Anyway, I humbled my mind for two weeks,
and certainly did NOT add one day to my life. I texted my “inner circle” of
friends: Lifestar, Frisky on Water, and OMGG. Frisky actually had breast
cancer. She brought that hell home to all of us 40+ ladies. She rallied and
recovered and set a stellar example of guts and faith for all of us. She
replied to my text with a picture message that said:
Not
once does the Bible say, “Worry about it,” “Stress over it,” or “Figure it out.”
But over and over it clearly says, “Trust God.”
Good stuff. I cried. She helped me. The growls sounded
less frequently. I told God I trusted Him, but as Margaret Thatcher once said, “I’m
extraordinarily patient, provided I get my way in the end.”
Those 14 days gave me ample time to reflect on anxiety
and pensiveness. Where do you do your best thinking? I do mine three places:
1. Exercising
(I don’t work hard enough to lose my thoughts)
2. 2:30
a.m. – 4:00 a.m. Every DAMN morning. As my favorite doctor and one of the best
daddies ever says, “Mama’s wake up in the middle of the night and try to solve
every problem in the world. Do you need Ambien?” He’s awesome, and the father
of two of my Owls (as in squad). In his office for my first time, I
looked up to see their photos on the wall. I said, “You know I am best friends
with [Daughter 1] and [Daughter 2].”
He said, “Oh, I can’t discuss them.
HIPAA LAWS."
Huh? Their picture is on HIS wall in
his office. I think HIPAA prevents him from discussing me with them, not vice
versa. Still, I was there to see about Sharky’s hearing, but the super doctor turned
and asked, “Okay, we’ve got him figured out. How about mama?”
Folks, my father died in 1993. In
that moment in the doctor’s office, I couldn’t remember the last time a man
asked me how I was doing. I immediately got emotional, and said, “I’m tired.”
He talked to ME about ME for a while. I’d tell you what he prescribed, but he’s
big on HIPAA, and I’m big on him, so you’ll have to guess.
3. Hands
down, I do my best thinking in the grocery store.
My office is in my home, a ’56 rancher with quirky
parts from the crazy lady who lived here before Tall Child and I bought it. My
office contains hundreds of books, hundreds of photos, Tall Child’s desk from
grade school, tables, bookshelves, paintings, stuff, stuff, stuff. NO curtains
on two huge windows. A Bird feeder I can see from the inside is suction cupped
to the left of my computer. There is almost no blank space, except for the
floor, where I roll my estate sale $40 leather chair from corner to
corner to expedite my work and keep my train of thought intact. In more
concise terms, I need LOTS Of stimulation to think.
So, anywhere I go that has lots of stimulation helps
me think. Sometimes that’s good. Sometimes that’s bad. During those two
reflective, self-loathing weeks, I went to the grocery store twice. I thought
of this theory. Whatever we carry, we carry into the grocery store, so: We shouldn’t suffer alone, especially at
the grocery store.
I took my self-pity and a list to Kroger. I also
carried something “different in my right breast.” I’m on a low-carb diet with
Tall Child, but I was starving, so I stopped at the deli. When I’m in one of my
“states” my appetite leans toward easily digested carbs. I am sometimes too
dang sad and nervous to chew. Amen? Is that why, at funerals, we eat casseroles
and cake?
Anyway, I got a small container of forbidden pasta
salad from the deli. And a fork. And a Diet Coke. I ate that as I shopped, then
threw away the slimy container in a trash can over near frozen foods. I kept
the top of the container so I could pay for the now digesting food. Not only
was I cheating on my diet, I made a dumb move. I threw away the part of the
container with the price tag on it. Ugh. So, when I finished unloading a week’s
worth of groceries that would feed three gobbling guys and me, I said, “I also
had this pasta salad. Here’s the lid so you can scan it.”
The young cashier said, “There ain’t a tag.”
"Huh? I saved it."
“No. There ain’t. Where is it?”
I said, “Dang. It’s in the trash over by the frozen
foods.”"Huh? I saved it."
“No. There ain’t. Where is it?”
She said, “What do you want to do?”
I said, “Well, I could go to the deli on the other end
of the store and ask them to make a new tag. Or, I could go dig through the
trash. Or Kroger could just give me a cup of pasta. What do you think I should
do? Dig through the trash?”
Reader, remember, my nerves are raw because I had that
“different thing from last year” in my right breast. And, if you read my last
blog post you know I was FIRED from my corporate gig (finance, not writing) in
May. My life and self-esteem feel fragile these days. I wasn’t rude; I was sad and
needed help. I didn’t have the energy to go to the deli. I dang sure wasn’t
going to dig through the garbage. She said, “They can’t make a label without something
in the box. I guess you’ll have to get it out of the trash can.”
I said, “I’m not doing that.”
She said, “I don’t know what to do.”
I said, “I think Kroger’s doing okay. I think you
should just GIVE me that food so I can go home. I’m really tired.”
She sighed and walked off toward the deli. I looked at
the bag boy, who was an old man. He shrugged, “She’s young.”
Ha!
Meanwhile, the chick behind me is pushing her buggy
right up my A$$. I did not make eye contact. No way. That would not be good for
anyone. Cashier girl came back and said, “How much was your food?”
I pounced on this ridiculous opportunity, and said,
“One dollar and 85 cents.” Reader, I have NO idea how much that pasta salad
was. It was like impromptu Price is Right! Pressure! She punched it in the register, and finished checking
me out. I guess a non-kid employed his/her autonomy to my benefit.
I keep making mistakes. I keep embarrassing myself.
Maybe I’m losing it, or maybe my Theory “If folks think you’re crazy, you can
breeze through life” was bad karma.
I teared up on the way to my car. I tasted emotional
defeat almost as strongly as the basil pesto from that salad. I don’t like
basil. Why do I keep eating it?
Other people struggled through the grocery store that
day. Let’s go aisle by aisle and think outside the barn. Every aisle contains
triggers.
Flowers: Carnations scream death. Or, worse, wedding.
Or, disappointment in men. When I finished graduate school, I bought myself
a huge bouquet. The last time Tall Child bought my flowers, I was pregnant with
Sharky (now 15) and it was TC’s mother’s idea anyway, so it didn’t count. Yep,
I said it.
Deli – Divorced/Widowed, thus the appeal of single
servings.
Diapers – Infertility or worse. Been there. Sucked at
it. Wrote a book about it.
School supplies –Struggling student? Teacher who can’t
get hired?
Candy – Diabetic? Fat? On a freaking diet again?
PASTA – Diabetic? Fat? On a freaking low-carb diet again?
International – Illegally living in the USA? I bet you
think our American version of “ethnic foods” are terrible. I’m sorry. I know
you are homesick and doing the best you can, more than most Americans can
comprehend.
Meat – Broke? Been there. See you on the pasta aisle
where you can feed your family for $2.00, but you’ll wreck your blood sugar and
your low-carb diet.
Soup – Old? Taking care of someone old?
Wine – Alcoholic?
Family planning – Husband committing adultery? Should
you make him wear condoms? Was your teenage daughter just here?
Cigarette/express lane – Bad habits suck, huh?
Especially when you pass by a smorgasbord of temptation every time you need cat
food.
I pondered this as I searched for snacks in the
olive area and almost head-butted a college kid. An overweight man (likely
there for the same foods), saw my flustered attempt to apologize to the kid,
and said to me, “Ah, the humanity of it all!”
YES! Humanity is all up in that grocery store. But,
there’s good news! Always.
We do not suffer alone. Once, years ago, when I was in
one of my “states” after taking yet another negative pregnancy test (I
took 65 negative tests altogether), I sat in the parking lot and cried for a
good half-hour before I sucked it up, put on lipstick, and left my car to enter
the store. When I returned, I saw a white paper on my windshield, and, of
course, thought it was an advertisement. It was no such thing.
It was this note from a stranger, and it immediately
changed my spirit.
That was at least nine years ago. I keep it in my
wallet. That scrap paper helped me then, and does so now.
LUCKILY, my mammogram results were good. I had another
cyst, probably because of the toxic combination of items from all the aisles
listed above. I informed my circle; we all praised Jesus.
The news could have been drastically different, and I
respect that. Reader, if I could put that note on your windshield at the
grocery store, I would. You do not suffer alone.
“Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I
am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my
righteous right hand.” Isaiah 41:10
And, to whoever wrote that note, I thank you.
Bug
