THE MAMMO WHAMMO
I had my follow-up mammogram yesterday. I asked the technician whether she could tell me why I was having a follow up. "Your doctor should be discussing that with you."

"My doctor hasn't said anything to me. I got a call from you guys last week telling me my mammogram was abnormal. Can you tell me anything about why it was abnormal?"

She answered something that I can't remember and tacked on sarcastically, "Fair enough?"

Then I got to sit in a semi-public waiting room with a couple of guys (all of us in our gowns) while I waited for the ultrasound. Once I got in there I asked the technician if she could tell me anything about what she was looking for. "I wasn't told to look for anything. I was just told to look at specific areas."

I explained to her that I had been told to come in for a follow-up but had been given no information as to why I had to follow up. She said that she would speak to the doctor when she was done.

After it was over she came back and found me. Apparently there was nothing wrong, just that my skin had gotten bunched up somehow while my breast was being smashed for the last mammo and they needed to do another one just to make sure it was accurate.

I'd love to make a sarcastic comment here, but I just don't have the energy. Hopefully the account I've described here speaks for itself.

I've been thinking a lot about Red lately, God only knows why. Remember him? I met him at a concert over a year ago. We exchanged emails & he seemed very interested in meeting up with me after he discovered I'd recorded the show. 6 months later he had barely made any effort to re-connect with me, so I mailed him the CD of the concert just so it wouldn't be sitting around my apartment reminding me of him.

I'm going to see a concert in October that he might be interested in. I'm wondering if I'll see him there.

I've also had an epiphany. I have heard that in order to love and be loved, you have to make yourself vulnerable to the other person. I have no fucking clue how to do that. I've never had the luxury of being vulnerable. Thanks to my passive-aggressive bitch of a mother, my father who alternated between silent and angry, and the crap I had to put up with at school for the better part of 9 years, I've always had my guard up. I don't know how to let it down.

I wish I could meet a guy and say to him: I want to fall in love. I want to trust in you, but I don't know how to do that. Can you help me learn how to do that so that I can do my very best to make this relationship work?" But it doesn't work like that. You have to be all cagey and coy and subtle. Like I've often said, love is this big fucking chess match and nobody bothered to give me the rule book.

My boss is taking all of next week off. This means another week of not having much to do before the hurricane hits. I swear, I spend more time updating my FB page than doing any real work, and the powers-that-be act like I'm some kind of miracle worker. I'm wondering why they keep bullshitting me like this. Mind you, when there is work to be done I do it. But it seems like I have way many more days when I'm not doing anything than when I'm doing something.
- posted by Pat @ 10:32 PM | 0 comments

 
THE AFTERMATH (OR LACK THEREOF)
I went to a concert tonight (technically last night, since it's now after midnight) and the night before. Same as ever. I felt good while I was there watching it, but now I'm home and I feel empty.

So last Friday I mailed the birthday package off to Mr. Married. It included the item I custom ordered for him before I found out what a compassionless bastard he was, a hand-burned CD which I didn't bother to label because I didn't feel like going out of my way for him, and...a couple of massage books and a handful of condoms. I won't go into how I obtained these items because it's not really necessary, but I included a note explaining that these weren't really gifts, just stuff I was getting rid of because I knew I would never need it.

A few hours after I mailed the package I headed into the city to get a routine mammogram.

Monday was his birthday, but he was out of town. Tuesday he sends me an email to thank me and says we'll talk about politics later. I sent him an email back saying that I no longer had the energy to fight with him, and that he could celebrate his victory as soon as he could figure out exactly what he had won. He sent me a couple of brief emails after that, but I didn't answer them.

Wednesday I get a phone call: "This is XYZ Radiology following up on the mammogram you had last week. The doctor wants you to come back in and get another mammogram and a sonogram on your left breast." After I hung up the phone I started looking up stuff on the internet while simultaneously shitting bricks. The World Wise Web says that follow-up mammos are *usually* nothing to worry about.

I'll keep that thought in mind, but I'm also thinking maybe I'll get my wish to die young and be rid of this miserable loveless existence after all. My only hope is to outlive my cat. I'm the only human he's ever lived with, and I'm sure it would affect him if he lost me. And once I lose him, I'll have no viable reason to want to stay alive.

I've actually had to pop a few xanax this week. I think I'm going to pop 1/2 a remeron before going to bed. I need to do laundry tomorrow, but other than that I have nothing scheduled. It's supposed to be another hot wknd, maybe I'll just spend it lying in bed being useless. I'm so damn good at it, I ought to stick with it.
- posted by Pat @ 12:34 AM | 0 comments

 
A CLEAN SWEEP
I mailed the birthday package to Mr. Married today. It contains the item I ordered for him before our last IM conversation. It also contains a 2 page letter basically letting him know that if he's going to thumb his nose at lower-class working people without health care, he'll be doing it to me because I've been there. I also gave him a hand-burned cd, because I can't resist an opportunity to expose people to different kinds of music, even if said people are people I currently want to smack. Finally I gave him a bunch of condoms that I picked up at my college (long story) and a couple of massage books that I ordered in 1998 when I moved into my first apartment because I stupidly thought I might have the opportunity to use them someday. More than a decade later, I've never cracked them open.

I included a note with the sex stuff telling him that these weren't exactly gifts, just stuff I was getting rid of and didn't want to throw away. I've finally come to terms with the fact that I'll never need these things, so I might as well give them to someone who will put them to good use.

So I had a couple of weeks off a while ago, during which I scheduled 2 medical appointments--my annual physical, and my annual dentist visit. Here's what resulted from those 2 appointments:

*I'm back on Lipitor

*I have a vitamin D deficiency and have to start taking supplements

*I have a congenital heart abnormality and need to see a cardiologist (still need to schedule that appointment)

*I have to start getting mammograms now that I'm an old woman (did that today--and I'd just like to state for the record that this was NOT a good day to schedule a test that requires one NOT to wear deodorant)

*I had a cavity that was caused by an improperly placed filling (the filling was preventing me from flossing the area properly because the floss would get stuck on the filling)

*Got the cavity filled, and I STILL can't floss there because the second filling prevents me from flossing there! (Yes, I think it's time for a new dentist.)

I think I've mentioned before that I've been looking into Wicca. Wicca considers dreams important because they allow us to look at our subconscious. Wicca is also highly focused on nature. So here are some events that have happened to me this week, which may or may not be relevant:

*Mr. Married posted a couple of photos on FB of a goldfinch that had been hanging around outside his windowsill. He acted like it was some freaky bizarre event out of the Twilight Zone or something. This bothered me because goldfinches are the sweetest little creatures that don't hurt anyone. They're just pretty little birds that eat thistle seed and don't have any reason to bother anybody. I actually posted a comment on his photo (the first time since his offensive IM conversation) to tell him that they were harmless & he should enjoy them.

That day as I was walking back to the bus I saw someone wearing a shirt with the name of his favorite band on it.

That night I had a very disturbing dream that an alligator had somehow gotten into my apartment and was going after my cat. I was trying to protect my cat but couldn't because I was too afraid of the alligator attacking me. This dream disturbed me so much that when I woke up I cried most of the next morning. Yes I know that's silly, it was just a dream, and there aren't any alligators this far north. But it really upset me for some reason.

That same morning Mr. Married posted a link on FB to an article about a drunk guy who climbed into a zoo pen and tried to ride a crocodile.

When I walked back to the bus that day, I saw someone wearing ashirt with the name of his other favorite band.

So what does this all mean? I'm not sure, but I don't think it's just pure coincidence. I think maybe I'm the goldfinch and he's the alligator, but I'm not sure how or why. Maybe I'm the goldfinch because many people view me as disturbing and freaky, when I'm really quite harmless. (Unless you piss me off, then you'd better batten down the hatches.) Maybe even Mr. Married is starting to think of me that way. And maybe he's the alligator because I want to defend myself against his bigoted behavior and a the same time I'm afraid of him hurting me.

I've also come to the realization that I've wasted an awful lot of my life trying to convince people (the little shits I went to school with, my DNA-providers, idiot bosses whose asses I could easily kick in any battle of wits, college cliques I had the misfortune to live with, men for whom I've fallen, etc., etc., ad nauseum) that I'm a decent and worthwhile human being. You know what? I'm fucking sick and tired of it. If you want to hate me, go ahead. You think I'm a loser? Fine. Whatever. You've got a problem with the size of my ass? Kiss it. I'm not a horrible person, but I'm tired of trying to convince the entire world of that fact. As they say in Kansas, when you argue with a fool, you've got 2 fools arguing.
- posted by Pat @ 10:36 PM | 0 comments