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| Nails on a chalkboard. |
| Janice's voice! D: |
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 Posted: Mon Jan 29, 2007 6:00 pm
[First Part: Three]
"Is there anything you even want to do besides sleep the day away?"
"It eases the migraine, mother." I turned to face the wall and pretended to fall asleep until I was sure she had left the house.
She thinks all I do in the cold, dark cave that my room has become is sleep because I'm having 'killer migraines'. Like ******** I sleep, and the headache pain is just a bunch of tickling when you compare it to the feeling of stabbing my lower abdomen with a hot knife.
Three doctors. Three doctors have tried to understand what the Hell is causing the pain.
The first one was the head doctor of some run-down crappy bivouac of a clinic. I remember my tall gay friend having to carry me in his arms, because the pain had come so sudden and so hard I just had to bend over. Oh, and this doctor. He was nice, he had a funny moustache. Nice guy, but not a good doctor now that I look back. He tapped the place where I was feeling pain. I planned on smacking him, hard - who does he think he is, patting MY painful jiggly tummy? He asked some questions, gave me aspirine, and told me it was nothing but Mittelscherz. It'd go away soon.
He forgot to define 'soon', because a week later I was still in pain - and hurling in a friend's bathroom. When I was done, I leaned against the door and closed my eyes. Ovulation pain, my a**. Outside were five men asking themselves why girls took so long in the loo; one of them knocked on the door and asked if I was OK. I screamed "Out in a second" as I text-messaged my doctor friend. "I think ur appendix jst went BOOM" was the response. Great, just what I need, my appendix to burst while I'm half-drunk, not at home, and surrounded by male friends. I decided to take my chances and go see a doctor in the morning. That way, I could kill both the b*****d hangover and the pain.
Which takes us to the second doctor. I couldn't believe my eyes when I walked inside her office: icky-sweet floral wallpaper, photos of smiling kids and cherubs, and no. Stethoscope. I flipped out when I looked at the 'examination table'. Or, 'big fluffy OWMYRETINA bright pink couch'. She tried to hipnotize me, I tried to make her show me her license, she got offended and shrieked 'hypochondriac'; and I decided, I've had enough, so eff you and your holistic crap, I'm spending my money on cigarettes. Again, no diagnose for me.
Two more days passed. I did get to sleep then thanks to heavy pain-killers that kept me comatose. The third day I called my thrusted doctor (whom I'll refer to as Doc) and asked for a gynecologyst, any, the pain canceled out the picky. He heard my slurred speech and decided it was important enough for him to take me. My eyes were closed, but I could still see everything spinning around me. I couldn't get 'Paper Bag' out of my head; the times when I used to play it and my gay friend would tell me how I could be the next Fiona Apple. Then the doctor friend frowned, shook her head, and said I was too thin and she wondered how I kept myself alive. I just gave her my trademark crooked cokehead grin.
Three years. Three years clean, three doctors. I tried to open my eyes. Three unfulfilled relationships. Why on Earth does 'three' repeat in my life so much? Three of many things: parents, pillows, kitty litters, anatomy books, good birthdays, abuse experiences. I remember having only one malaise, my lupus, and I smiled.
Somehow we got out of the car and into a cold white office that smelled like too much Lysol. I excused myself and stumbled out to the street, where I vomited violently because I couldn't make it to the trashcan. Good old Doc, he held my head and placed my hair out of the way. He's like an uncle that you see often and come to love like a brother but respect like a father. He helped me back inside after we made sure no nasty surprises would come up. There was this middle-aged man sitting behind the desk. He was a good doctor. Cold, harsh, straight-forward. I smiled and told him I could deal with the pain sometimes but I needed strong analgesics to ease it. He nodded and told me to go to the examination room, strip and put on a robe.
Embarrasing? Very. Here I am, being poked and prodded while half-conscious, with some stranger examining my ... female parts. I don't remember much, only the cold gel he used during the ultrasound. He woke me up - rather harshly - and told me to get dressed and then go back to his office. Doc was there when I came back. They looked serious. Then the good doctor became a b*****d.
"It looks like you have a tumor in your left ovary. We'll schedule a biopsy within a month." He wrote the name of some too-strong analgesic and handed me the prescription. "Come back in a few days for your smear results."
Smear? Biopsy? Tumor? What the Hell!?
"Those are cancer tests." I stammered as I looked at the Rx paper, a shocked Doc, and the Ob/Gyn.
"Very smart girl. You'll make a good doctor if you keep learning the terms," he muttered as he scheduled me for some day in February. "We're not sure if it is cancer. If it is, however, a TAH-BSO should take care of it."
"But she's eighteen - " Doc started to say.
"Precisely. She has a good deal of life and studying ahead of her, and there's always hormone treatment and adoption." And I didn't need a medical dictionary to figure out what a TAH-BSO was.
He gave me a ride home. We were silent all the way; he was too busy driving and I was fully conscious and too distressed to talk. We went inside. He talked to my mother in the kitchen while I sat in my room. Trying to digest the fact that I could have the Big C, that I could have most of my womanhood scalpeled away, that I could eventually die ... gave me a big migraine.
It's been almost a week since my diagnosis, and shy of two weeks before the biopsy. She no longer comes in to wake me up. She doesn't even go to my room. She figures it's no use, and anyway I'm either too drugged to care or in a sleep too deep to notice.
But I'm not. Last night, I wrote all of my 'trios', and listed the most recent: SLE, cancer, and a deep deep depression.
Short story I wrote this morning. (Also, first good post in a while. =D Yay me! I'm back!)
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Posted: Tue Jan 30, 2007 3:53 pm
'Sgood.
Sad, but good.
Are you gonna follow up on this at all, tell us if she really does have cancer or not?
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Posted: Tue Jan 30, 2007 4:50 pm
Eventually, I shall. *evil laugh*
Oh, wait ... that wasn't nice. Sorry >>;;
And sad how? Sad as in, tears and hankies; or 'God this is a blasphemous piece of crap' sad?
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Posted: Tue Jan 30, 2007 6:01 pm
Sad, like tears and hankies, sad. cry
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Posted: Tue Jan 30, 2007 6:21 pm
Reese_Roper Sad, like tears and hankies, sad. cry
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Posted: Sat Feb 10, 2007 8:00 pm
[ Second Part: Loved ]
They didn't have you where I come from
Never knew the best was yet to come
We're lying down in my couch, together. And rain is falling outside, a cozy thunderstorm. I'm awake, but he's in a deep sleep, his chest against my back. We're warm and happy and nothing could be other than perfect. He squeezes me and kisses my cheek. He's up, and he loves me, and we're here together, and he kisses me and holds me and loves me. And I love him and his strong arms because they're good for holding me. Yay, yay, double effing damned yay.
Life began when I saw your face
And I hear your laugh like a serenade
He's so tall, or am I too tiny? I turn around to face him and kiss him softly. But wait. Why does he smell ... oh no, please don't let it be ...
And poof, I wake up to the tought of "<******** dog" and to a German Shepherd slobbering all over my forehead and hair. See, this is why his dog, and not him, is kissing me: he accepted a job in Quebec and left behind old Barabbas, so now he sleeps in my mattress. Damn it.
How long do you want to be loved
Is forever enough, is forever enough?
How long do you want to be loved?
Is forever enough?
'Cause I'm never, never giving you up
This is what I really like sleeping: dreaming. You know how Freud says dreams are an expression of the repressed conscious mind? Well, I have a lot of them 'repressions'. You can say my biggest one is ... love. Being with the one I love. God, I miss him so much. I wish he hadn't left.
"Have you told him yet?" my friend Cecilia asks as she pulls gently on my hair to get my attention.
"About the biopsy? Or about the tumour? I'm not telling him any of it. Never, not ever," I continue channel-surfing, "because then he'd come back." And she gives her trademark 'God-girl-stop-it' sigh.
"So? You need him here. 'Sides, I'm kind of getting tired of baby-sitting you," she teases. I smack her with a pillow.
"I don't, I'm a big girl." Lie. "He doesn't have enough money to come for a week or two." Big lie. "I doubt he even wants to take care of me after the surgery, you know how I get." Big, fat lie.
Worst of all, she knows they're lies. "He's stuck around. All I ever hear when we talk on the phone is how much he misses and loves you. Sickening, really." She slips Barabbas a pretzel.
"You don't get it, do you? He's living the chance of a lifetime! It's the job he loves, in the land he loves, with a paycheck I'm sure he loves most of all. He can't afford to come back just for me." I stop my rant and breathe deeply, so as to not cry.
Ceci's eyes turn understanding as she hugs me. "You love him that much, don't you."
I slip in bed when you're asleep
To hold you close and feel your breath on me
Tomorrow there'll be so much to do
So tonight I'll drift in a dream with you
How long do you want to be loved?
Is forever enough, is forever enough?
How long do you want to be loved?
Is forever enough?
Cause I'm never, never giving you up
I remember the day I had the car accident and how somehow, there was an extra mattress on top of my bed. Now it was too tall for me to sleep in - the fall would be quite nasty, and how would I ever get to the top anyway? We pulled the top mattress down, groaning and huffing, but we did it.
"You never liked sleeping on beds," he shrugged, "and now the floor won't be too hard for you to sleep on."
"But it'll be lonely," I sat down and opened my arms as if to hug him. He tackled me. I yelped as I fell backwards with him on top of me, tickling me, and we laughed again. Then he kissed my shoulder and pulled me close.
"Marry me, Annie."
He didn't say 'will you' or 'please'. And after he said it, the only thing I minded was the sound of our breath and his eyes on mine; and then I felt his hand on my face. His lips on my forehead. His arms around me, my arms around his neck. I tucked my head under his neck.
"Yes," I said. And really, could I answer anything else?
As you wander through this troubled world
In search of all things beautiful
You can close your eyes when you're miles away
And hear my voice like a serenade
He asked me to marry him here. And now, he isn't here. I grab Barabbas's rubber ball and angrily toss it at the wall. It bounces off and hits something. It must be hard, because it makes a soft thud.
I stare at the ceiling. Don't you cry, the little voice inside my head scolds me. He's having it hard at work, he doesn't need you calling him crying and pleading pathetically. You're your mother's daughter and you'll be strong. And you won't cry.
I fall asleep, too tired to continue arguing with myself. School keeps me from thinking about my surgery, and tomorrow I'll have to study and go to a lecture. Finally, something good to look forward to.
How long do you want to be loved?
Is forever enough, is forever enough?
How long do you want to be loved?
Is forever enough?
Cause I'm never, never giving you up
Third night in a row I dream of my first night as a married woman. I heard myself at fifteen: "screw veils and churches! I'm getting married in my jeans, in a small ceremony, and I'll have my party at a fast-food place!" I laughed and stared at my wedding ring, a silver band with moons and stars engraved. A Wiccan wedding with only the priestess present, a reception at a McDonald's? Talk about self-fulfilling prophecies.
We get home, drop down tiredly on the mattress, and stare at each other. "We're married," I giggled sleepily. "I love you. So, so, SO ******** much. And you make me happy. And, I love you." I rambled on as I started to fall asleep. Before I did, I felt his lips on the side of my head.
It's weird: I almost feel them as if they were real.
How long do you want to be loved?
Is forever enough, is forever enough?
How long do you want to be loved?
Is forever enough?
Cause I'm never, never giving you up
The alarm goes off, and I open my eyes. No sunlight. Rain sounds fill the air as I stretch my legs - but they bump against something. I move my hands and reach behind my back: there's someone behind me. I turn around and grin widely at what I see.
He kisses me gently. "Five more minutes?"
"Ceci told you, right?" I hold him tight and pinch my arm. Pain, lots of it, and the possibility of nasty bruises. So it's not a dream.
"I booked the first flight here the second she told me," he pulls me closer. "Did you really think I'd leave you alone? We're married. Your pain's mine, too. Like your sleepiness. Five more minutes." I rested my head against his chest. We fell asleep together.
Is forever enough?
Cause I'm never, never giving you up
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