I've been here for awhile, in the total burn out zone. The cumulative events of the last high-paced year, combined with the emotionally-charged roller-coaster of events of the prior two years, have left me drained.
I'm even more discombobulated than normal. Stretched thin, disorganized, and attempting to navigate way too many competing responsibilities. I can't remember anything for longer than five minutes. I depend on others to provide frequent reminders or some electronic gadget buzzing at me throughout the day to remind me of anything. Before the last year, I prided myself in maintaining complementary goals toward life growth. It's amazing how a friend can effect so much change in such an indirect way.
Of course, I have lots of ideas about what will make me happy. Being more fit, being more active, living at a slower pace, traveling the world, starting a family, trying new things, "finding my passion" that makes me oodles of money, and so on. But what I really need is space. Space from myself.
In seven weeks to the day, I will get that space. I will be going under the knife to have a benign, but large, tumor removed from the lining of my uterus. I'll have nothing to do but to rest. I'll be out of work on medical leave for six to eight weeks. Maybe longer if I screw up on the whole resting thing and break myself.
If you know me, you know how much I hate surgery. Hate and fear. The idea of sedation makes me wig and the anesthesia makes me feel like I'm dying, and I signed the paper giving some whacko I met 15 minutes prior the OKAY. I'm afraid of going to sleep and not waking up. Or waking up in tremendous amounts of pain. Or waking up confused and disoriented. Or waking up and getting bad news. And I won't be able to remember why or what. A portion of my life will be this big, blank, black hole.
So, yeah. I hate surgery.
Making preparations for it has been like preparing for my untimely demise, well, because that's exactly what I'm doing. I want to make sure Jeff and the Dan are taken care of, that my parents are left shelling out anything on my behalf. Do I really want to be cremated, or should I donate my parts to science? Or to a living human that needs them more than me? Or all of the above? Should my remains be deposited somewhere? Or left with a trusted loved one? Or split up among anyone who wants a piece of me? (Wow, total awesome mental image regarding my creditors! Cut off my dead arm and send it to Chase for me, will you? Sorry...that's a little gross. But it's funny, you have to admit that it's funny....)
At the moment, when I need to unwind I'm riling myself up with old episodes of Dr. 90210 on Netflix streaming. I don't like watching living flesh cut into or noses broken with fancy chisels, but it's getting easier. Like watching it happen to others will make my own experience easier.
But it won't.
I'll put on a smile and keep my cool until those Velcro straps wrap around my arms. Then the shivering will begin. Then the silent tears will stream down my face. Some nurse will make a futile attempt to comfort me while I am completely incapable of communicating.... And then she'll wake me up.
From there, all I can do is wait. Kept overnight to rest, discharged for home in the morning. Exiled to the couch unless I get my shit together to get steps for the bed. And there I will stay. Dependent on someone else watering me, feeding me, making sure I get adequate light, and then little berries will...oh, wait.
It will just be me and my healing (and my super awesome friends who I suckered into babysitting me!). No work. No obligations to others. Just some space. Although I hate the means, I'm looking forward to the end. To the rest. To the quiet. And hopefully a metric fuckton of rain, because I know for a fact that makes me happy.
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