Building A Better Mousetrap
I have spent so much time waiting through tests since September 2006 - pap smears, a colposcopy, a LEEP - that it now feels like I am being rushed through the stage I bitched about waiting around for, the actual hysterectomy. It is on July 3rd. That is NINE DAYS from today. That is craziness.
Until now, the hysterectomy as it related to me seemed unclear. It was an idea I could think about that was happening to another part of my life separate from this one in which I go to work and hang out with friends and write things. What I did not take into account, or was previously unable to piece together in my brain, is that I can compartmentalize the different parts of my life all I want in my head, but my body still inhabits each one of those parts. It is like I simply neglected to remember that I had to bring my body to the hospital when this whole thing finally went down.
Disembodied Schmutzie: So, I'm here! What's next?
Gyno Extraordinaire: Um, look, you're going to have to run home and get your meat suit.
Disembodied Schmutzie: What? Why?
Gyno Extraordinaire: Because the cancer's in that and we don't have the proper equipment for anaesthetizing spirits.
Disembodied Schmutzie: Damn. Why you play me like that?
Now I am in this mode in which I feel like I have to fit everything I ever wanted to do over the next six months into the next several days. I want to see every single person I even like just a little bit, buy those silk pajamas I am usually too practical to buy, clean this entire apartment for once in my adult life, read books, become famous, win the lottery, lose ten pounds, write an extra fifteen poems, travel to Cosmopolis to see the fine Cosmopolians, find the perfect body moisturizer, and figure out what kind of bird it is that makes clucking noises just down the street. [take a deep breath] I want to start that photography project I've been concocting, go for long walks around the lake, buy summer clothes, answer all my e-mails, finish up all my work stuff so that I can recuperate with a clear mind, be nice to strangers, track down an old friend, and build a better mousetrap.
Something tells me that all this obsessing is an exercise in removing myself, once again, from the reality of the situation. I am going to write a self-help book called How to Avoid Harsh Realities and Lead a Stressful Life.