Thursday, April 14, 2016

Sunday, we went to a Health Fair. I, again, felt like the type of human mushroom known as a schlub. It was really cold and wet outside and I had my winter coat on over a sweatshirt and my gigantic pants and I just felt like a schlub. 

Like, no I don't want yet another hidious tote bag and I don't want one of your refrigerator magnets and no, I wouldn't like to enter a drawing for whateverwhatever for me and six of my friends and FOR SURE I don't want some crappy ballpoint pen because they're reproducing like bunny rabbits in my condo which used to house art pens exclusively(okay not really but I had good sharpened pencils for which one could at least properly illustrate a schlub), but thanks. 

Thanks anyway. 

(I did take an organic banana because they lady said we could have a taste test to see which one we liked better and I was exhibiting such spectacular poor sportsmanship I thought, come on. Take a banana already.) 

We shuffle along(okay it was me that was the shuffler. P THRIVES on these events and had the worlds longest conversations with everyone who is anyone while I try to find a place to lean on the wall where he can see that I've got about 1.5 more minutes of patience on my patiencesometer and they are burning fast)and we get to a local kinda sorta expensive-ish, trendy, climbing-wall, women who wear hairspray/lipstick to work out kind of a place. 

(I said to P, hey do they still make grey workout sweats like Rocky used to wear? How romantic that he scored me a pair. Woo.) 

Mister Mc I Played Football in College Until I Hurt My Knee looks the two of us up and down. 

"Heh heh heh heh heh (nervous sales pitch approach type laughter)Hi!" 

Oh God, I think. Here we go. 

"Heh heh heh heh heh, heyyyyyyy guys, do you two work out?

I look at him like, Heyyyyyyy jackass, Do we LOOK like we're currently "working out"? But my mouth is much more polite than I am, thank goodness. 

UmmmmNope, says I. (Later P says I should have mentioned our 3 flights of stairs but whatever.) 

"Heh heh heh heh heh, wellllllll do you wanna work out?"

No.

"Heh heh heh heh wellllll would you like to enter a raffle for a free half hour work-out?" 

And like that. 

*Sigh* 


This week, I talked to a very young woman (who resembles a ballerina) who had to go back for a second surgery two weeks after the first one because one of her other bones splintered. She was dragging herself on to the El by way of an actual elevator(she was-at that point-not able for the stairs) and some lady says to her,"Just takin' it easy today, huh?" 

We were talking about how people said well meaning things like: Hey! Now you can catch up on your netflix and that her husband would come home from work to find her in the dark, laying flat on her back staring at the ceiling. 

She was swear-wording all over the place and then thought to apologize and I was like, oh God no, you go ahead. It has to come out. 

Not all the days are cheerful yo. 

----

I wrote to an old friend. She's either a friendapist or a therafriend, yeah friendapist but I sent her 4 chunky-style paragraphs of all this life crap that's happening(because cancer doesn't happen in a void, right?) with the heading: I need help. 

She got back to me with some good thoughts and ideas and I remembered that when I was in the hospital, a social worker came to visit and told me I was eligible for one more visit with her. I had totally forgotten about it. I think I probably tried to call her twice since September but she never got back to me and I forgot all about it. 

I called Loyola and I think it took about a day to hear back. I was driving through a neighborhood we wouldn't visit if you came here for a weekend, the phone rang and I answered. 

She said the wait to talk to a social worker was-get ready-FOUR TO SIX MONTHS. 

We briefly went through my laundry list of stuff and as I'm saying it out loud to another person, it actually doesn't even sound that bad, really, but we both agreed that having all this life stuff happening at the same time is 'a lot'. 

Did your Mom have those books called: Your Child from 1-3. Or Your Child from 3-5. As soon as I could read, I always read ahead on these things so I could know what was coming up but if I saw: Your Child At 54? I might have tried to skip that year entirely. It's like an f-ing snowball fight, ya know?  

The Loyola lady briefly went through my records, told me what great surgeons I have coming up-which is smashingly fantabulous and all but surgeons are like one day best friends, know what I mean? Most interestingly to me, she said words to the effect of: In six months, everything's going to be different.

She gave me another number of a place to call and I'm waiting to hear back from them. Oh yeah and I said, what do I ask for? And she said: Coping Strategies. 

Cool. 

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I bought myself a plant. I went to the Jewel in a nicer neighborhood and guess what? The 12.99 plants are HUGE. 
A Peace Lily is supposed to pull toxins from the air and for me? The fact that I dragged this thing up three flights of stairs is pretty impressive, no? 



To have a model in this photo cost me a piece of cheese. Totally worth it. 


Next appointment is tomorrow at noon. Cat Scan in which one has to fast for 4 hours and drink goo on command. Gaaaaah. 


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