Yesterday, I called the Surgical Wait List Hotline*, because I have yet to hear of a surgery date for this laparoscopic hysterectomy of mine. When I last saw my gynecologist on the 1st, she told me that the surgery would likely be sometime in July and that I would hear when it was within the next week. That was last week, and now it is Friday of this week, and I am beginning to sour on this whole patience-and-fortitude-cancer-patient-with-a-halo bullshit.
As much as I don't like the idea of having my uterus and cervix excised remotely by tiny instruments and then pulled out of my vagina, I am really not into this whole waiting around for weeks bit. My dreams are flooded with uteri and fruit and my mother organizing my closets and drawers; my waking hours are spent working and drinking and writing and watching television in order to avoid any stray thoughts; eating food is fraught with tension, as it is either healthy, which reminds me that I have more of a reason to be eating healthy now, or it is unhealthy, which reminds me that I am using food to cope with the fact that I have more of a reason to be eating healthy now.
And on top of all the worry and sadness and whatnot, there is a generous dollop of lassitude. This situation has grown seriously boring. It is one great, huge, fat yawn to have the same fecking thing on my mind for weeks and weeks. What was once very dramatic and interesting is now, like, so last season. I feel as though I could fall face first into my yogurt parfait. If you, too, have fallen face first into your keyboard or bowl of cereal or whatever, I completely understand. Webster's has agreed to enter Schmutzie's cervical cancer as an illustrative example under the colloquial definition of lame.
Of course, I am not just bored. I have also been battling fits of deep, nihilistic depression the like of which has not been seen since I was fifteen and found myself internally conflicted after reading both Jean-Paul Sartre and a book about transcendental meditation by Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. (Oh why, oh why, did I not just stick with My Friend Flicka and the Sweet Valley High series?) I fall into the trap of negating individual experience and start to wonder why it matters that my body has gone awry when so many die well before my age or are never born at all. What does it matter when death will erase my life from me anyway? When I was in my twenties, I would have spent the weekend blissed out on acid and resolving my despair on another plane, but now I do it by drinking three pints of beer and eating cold pizza. I was thinner in my twenties.
And now you have fallen into a mad crush on me, because my having cancer, being depressed by my having cancer, and then whining about it is hot with a double T and italics and all caps. HOTT. Say "cancer", but do it through your nose so that it resonates gratingly through your nasal passages, and draw out the A. Caaancer. Your heart wants more of me, but your mind says no, Schmutzie is a married, monogamous person. Her tragedy is magnetic, but I must be strong. It is not to be.
If you can keep your hands to yourself, we can still be friends.