GPOYW, Drains in the Belleh, and a Conversation with Smith

So here I am on a Wednesday, hair looking a little Robert Smith-ish, slightly tired. Once again wearing my beloved black Vans t-shirt, even though it has holes in the armpits and probably qualifies more as charcoal grey than black.

I was off work today, Kid was in school, Hubs at his office. I had a lazy morning (kind of -- it's not really lazy if you're cleaning bathrooms and washing sheets) and then headed to my doctor's office. (In case you're not familiar with my medical saga, I've been having problems with my belly since my C-section in 2008. I had a hernia, had the hernia repaired, had my gall bladder out, and had to have the hernia repair fixed. It's been a giant pain in the you-know-what. And of course, just when I think it's done, something else happens. What happened this time? Mysterious, excruciating abdominal pain paired with yet another lump in the area of the hernia.) Anyway, I finally saw my surgeon today. I explained what was going on, and he did a quick ultrasound that revealed a big pocket of fluid where my hernia used to be. One giant needle later, he'd drained about four ounces out of it, and told me I should be fine. He said the pain was probably being caused by all the pressure of that accumulated fluid.

Well, I'm not fine, of course. I'm home and in worse pain than I was before he drained the stupid thing, and it's already filling back up. Lumpy's Revenge. Now I have to go see a radiologist and have a drain installed (that just sounds wrong!) in my belly. The hope is that if the fluid can drain continuously, the pocket where the hernia used to live will close up and that will be the end. In the meantime, I've been given a prescription for pain meds. That's awesome, except that when I have to come OFF the pain meds, I'll go through that ridiculous sugar binge cycle I run into every time I take opiates or oxycodones or whatever they are. *sigh*

I'm trying really, really hard not to sit here and wallow in self-pity. I mean it. I don't want anybody to feel sorry for me or stroke me or hold my hand (although delivery of Thai food, Vogue, and a gin & tonic would be lovely). I just want this to be over and done with already. I've wasted so much time dealing with medical problems. I know I'm supposed to learn something from all of it, that there's a greater plan, that it's all happening for a reason, but right now I just want to stomp my foot and shake my fist at the sky and yell, "ENOUGH ALREADY!"

At least now I can stop speculating about what's going on in my abdomen. I wouldn't call myself a hypochondriac, but I do tend to imagine the worst when it comes to any sort of medical problems. Smith loves to give me a hard time about this:

Me: "My belly hurts. I think I have pancreatitis."
Smith: "You don't have pancreatitis. You need to stop looking at WebMD and go take a poop."

Poop. If only it were that simple!

The Dreamlife of Angels

As of this week, I'll be doing all of my writing here at FvF. Three Days in October has slowly but surely become a photo blog, and I'm fine with that. It's easier to track my writing if it's all in one place, anyway.

So this morning, I'm going to share with you another of my bizarre dreams. As usual, it was extremely vivid, but this time instead of jotting notes and doodles in my sketchbook, I typed out a synopsis using the Notes app on my iPhone. My original typed notes, complete with spelling and typographical errors:

"Dreamed I was married to an older German man, an artist who did photographs/performance art. Wolfgang massage instructor/helmut newton type. He made me take pregnancy tests that were inconclusive. I peed everywhere and water was getting sprayed from a hole in the wall where he wa drilling into a pipe. He had art scene friends at our house and I hated it. I went to smith and his wife's and Pete was there, he had a lamborghini. He was vacuuming. I had to leave Kid and groceries and childhood dog nappy because my husband (now Hubs) wanted me home. Pete came with me. There was a fire truck at my house and I stole the horn from it. The firemen thought it was my car. I yelled that it drives like a Cadillac. I went inside my house and tried to take another pregnancy test but couldn't. In another part I was at an ob gyn office waiting to be seen,I talked to the receptionist about tortilla chips. The clock was moving in an odd way. I was nervous about time because smith and his wife had come home while I was at their house and I wanted to go back there. While I was at their house and they came home smith asked to hug me and said something about wanting a certain type of hug with hearts together. Trying to get back there or to the doctors office I got lost and ended up at a mall with a kids shoe store, as I went to leave the mall a bunch of black girls were on my jeep and I had to get them off. I was telling them they should be glad to work for their boss, an older black lady. In another part I was driving thru a neighborhood and almost hit a little car with two ladies in it. That was right before Iade the turn that got me lost, to the mall. The whole time I just had the feeling that I had to get back to smith and his wife's house no matter what. And I didn't have my phone. I kept thinking it was going to be too late."

That's a doozy, eh? I'm amazed that I typed that much, half asleep at 1:30AM.

The characters are pretty interesting -- Wolfgang, for example, was a German man who taught a Lomi-Lomi massage class I attended. Helmut Newton, if you don't already know, was an amazing photographer (one of my favorites). Pete is Smith's wife's brother, whom I've only met once. Smith loves to tease me and tell me that I'm secretly in love with Pete. I remember that the medical receptionist looked and talked like one of the girls from nail school, and I think the black girls on the Jeep and their "boss" are probably my other classmates and my instructor. The two ladies in the car? I have no idea. I do remember now that one of them looked a little like Reba McIntyre.

There's a few plot points that make sense, and the rest is kind of nonsense. The art scenesters, well, I've always loathed them. Pregnancy tests? Water everywhere? Not sure about that. I'm sure Freud would have something to say about it.

Lambo Pete vacuuming Smith's house is just too hilarious for words. I'm checking on Smith's dog while he and his wife are out of town, and I had actually considered running the vacuum for them while they're gone (for some reason, here in Virginia, dust just multiplies everywhere whether you're home or not). So the thought of Pete beating me to the punch gives me a chuckle.

Let's see, what else...

Getting lost and feeling panicky about time is a pretty common theme in my dreams. I hate getting lost and being late, so of course those anxieties would manifest in my dreams. Same goes for the overwhelming urge to get back to wherever Kid was, somewhere safe.

The part with the fire truck is hilarious to me, only because it sounds exactly like something I'd do while drunk.

Oh! And the hug thing! Another of my massage instructors, Johnny Storm, always made a big deal about hugging so that your hearts line up. Basically, when you go in to hug somebody, you should move your head to the right, and your heart will be closer to the huggee's heart. I've always liked the thought of it, whether it's anatomically accurate or not. I think I told Smith's dad (very much a hugger) about it when I met him (or maybe he already knew about it?) so I suppose it makes sense that it would manifest in a dream as having something to do with Smith.

The only other thing I remember really clearly was Wolfgang/Helmut's "art." He was kind of a performance artist but also a photographer. The impression I got was that he would stage these happenings and someone would photograph them, and then he'd display the photographs. He did weird things, like shave women and let the hair fall all over him, or throw paint on people. I remember thinking that the work was really pretentious and that I hated having all his cronies in the house, worshiping him.

So yeah, weird dreams yet again. I'll be puzzling over this one for a while. Maybe I'll get another installment tonight? Hmm...

La Mer

We made an impromptu trip to the beach today. I fussed a little -- none of my shorts fit, so I had to lop off a pair of khakis. I ended up looking a little like Smee from "Peter Pan," complete with red cap (bandanna). I grumped at Hubs for not packing more towels, or snacks, or drinks. Not a great start to our trip.

I had a minor panic attack when we (me, Hubs, Kid) walked over the hill and onto the beach. There were people -- not a huge crowd, but more than I'd expected. I immediately felt self-conscious and wanted to go home. But I didn't. I wanted my son to play in the sand, and the water, and have fun with his daddy. Hubs, of course, could care less what anyone thinks and walked straight into the water with Kid in his arms, not caring that he was in shorts instead of swim trunks, not caring that people were looking at us like we were kooky European tourists. I stood uncomfortably on the sand, taking pictures with my phone and trying to act like I didn't think everyone was staring at me.

And then it occurred to me that I was letting these stupid, completely ridiculous, self-defeating feelings get in the way of me having fun with my family. I felt like an idiot. Who cares what random people on a beach think of me? Really. WHO CARES?

So I put my phone away and waded into the water, getting my shorts and shirt and everything else completely soaked. It felt so good. I forgot how much I love the water, the sand, the sun, the breeze. It felt so good that I decided on the spot to come back again, and soon, and in my bathing suit, and everybody can kiss my fat, lumpy behind. I want to have fun again.

211

The girls at school are having their own "Biggest Loser" competition, and while I'm not participating, it has made me pay more attention to my eating habits. I've done pretty well this week, save for a little overindulgence in the alcohol department. I was pleased when I stepped on the scale this morning.

My weird and as yet unexplained abdominal pain is still keeping me from exercising, but the urge is there. The urge to go slam out a mile, or two, or three on the treadmill, music pumping and brain shutting off after the first ten minutes. I need it, badly. So, I'm heading back to my doctor's office in two weeks (the earliest appointment I could get) and hopefully he'll be able to figure out the problem (again) and fix it (again), hopefully without surgery.

Oh, and I realized after reviewing my last few blog posts that I failed to report some very exciting and awesome news -- SMITH ISN'T MOVING! So among all the not-so-fantastic stuff I've been dealing with, there's a small ray of light. My number one cheerleader (and ass-kicker) is staying right here. Woo hoo!

Tidal

I remember learning to swim when I was little, not in the pool with my favorite aunt, but at the beach with my dad. He wouldn't allow me to be afraid of the ocean. He picked me up in his arms, turned his back to the waves, and let them crash over us, telling me when to close my eyes and hold my breath. Telling me when it was safe to open up and breathe again. As I got bigger, I could stand in the breakwater myself, bracing my little body against the impact. I remember anticipation, waiting for the dull smack of the water, secretly hoping for a huge wave that would knock me off my feet and drag me out to sea. I loved the disorientation that came when I was trapped under the wave-belly -- where is up? watch your bubbles -- the near-panic of running out of breath and then the euphoria of breaking the surface and gasping for air. Dragging myself back onto the shore, still panting, then running back to do it all over again.

Older and bigger, I stopped turning my back to the waves. I faced them and learned to dive into them, more in control of where I ended up. The thrill of truly swimming, able to outstroke the currents, clear the breakers, and glide out into the deep, deep water where feet and sandy bottom drew further and further apart. Floating on the surface of swells, human sargasso weed, watching the sky and losing my bearings, drifting, drifting, drifting.

Sometimes a storm, sometimes a flat, glassy sea. I swam, always.

I don't remember when it changed. But it did. Fear and caution make a timid swimmer, one who waits for the waves to die down before wading out, eye to the shore, remember where your towel is, don't go too far astray. Self-conscious (who swims in a T-shirt and underpants?), self-doubting (I can't), self-defeating (I never really liked this anyway).

I want returned to me what fear and caution took away. Brashness, and boldness, and not-giving-a-damn. Let the tsunami come; my feet are in the sand and my back is to the sea, I want it, I'm waiting, I'm holding my breath and closing my eyes and waiting.