Ghost Knife – Two tankas

I had forgotten
the sharp knife of loneliness
that carves grey into
flesh, bone, leaving gaping holes
Nothing fills them. Nothing. Nothing.

 When will I remove
my wedding band? When you stop
ignoring my words.
Searching for why, for answers
to questions I never asked.

EmmaLee

Eyes closed, does not matter. Anywhere, everywhere

Change, deny, anger, grief. Cannot escape, still

I see the shadow of your tomb there.

 

Remember tears of a time when every hair

you lost trailed hope by the pitchful

Eyes closed, does not matter. Anywhere, everywhere.

 

And apricots and placebos and clinicals were

the daily dosage locking up the door.  Still

I see the shadow of your tomb there.

 

Moonface,  bloated Sobibor.

your purpled flesh, bones now fragile

Eyes closed, does not matter. Anywhere, everywhere.

 

Counting months, counting up to safety year

drop and shatter the magic eight ball

Eyes closed, does not matter. Anywhere, everywhere

I see the shadow of your tomb there.

 

Sunrise, Sunset

My son stands, hip deep, in the Atlantic

thin flowered dress plastered to his thighs

walking along the surf, pushing his curls

behind his ears, the long, thin fingers

topped by  bitten nails.

Delicate eyebrows shade his blue eyes,

the same shade of blue as mine.

I am mesmerized by his beauty.

Blessed with ignorance

that he has already started

weekly injections

into those pale thighs.

In a few months,

the blood will stop flowing

from his shriveling uterus.

My son turns, smiles,

blows me a kiss.

A wave drenches him

and he laughs.

For his 18^th birthday,

he changed his name.

I say kaddish for my daughter-dreams

and rock my new born son

in my arms.

2nd Place, Gwendolyn Brooks Award 2019

Published in Revelry 2019

Celeste

“Unfortunately, there is no mistake,” she said, closing the file.

“You can’t do anything? Anything?”

“I can call around, see if there is space at one of the courtesy hotels, but we’re booked.”

I looked at my friend. She shrugged. “Fine. We’ll stay. Two beds, right?”

“Your reservation is for a king.”

Celeste whispered, “It’ll be fine. A king bed is huge. Let’s stay.”

But I didn’t want the bed to be huge. I was going to be in the same room, the same bed as Celeste, for three days. Agony. 

“It’ll be fine. Chill. We’re going to have a good time here, I promise. You’ll pick up all sorts of new skills, meet lots of people. For me? Please?” Celeste smiled, the dimple in her right cheek peeking at me.

“Okay, fine. Let’s just do what we came here to do.”  The desk clerk handed us the keycards and vouchers for complimentary cocktails to compensate us for the inconvenience.

Great.  A conference I didn’t even want to be at because I’m not a writer or a poet or an agent or anything.  One room, one bed, and alcohol. Lots of alcohol. Celeste had picked up a few boxes of cardbordeaux, some white zinfandel, sangria and a case of some limited edition IPA for me.  Our plans were to get plastered together, but not to be plastered together. Man plans and gods laugh. Ha ha.

She put two six-packs and the white zinfandel in the mini fridge. “I’m going to donate the sangria and the cardbordeaux to the greater good, take them down to the office later,” Celeste said as she lined up her toiletries in the bathroom and hung her clothes in the closet.  “Two big towels, two hand towels, two washcloths.  That’ll be fine. I’m going to shower. Be a doll and get some ice, I don’t think five minutes in the fridge will do anything for it.”

I filled the ice bucket and returned to the sound of running water and singing. Celeste liked to sing in the shower.  She claimed it muffled her atonality, but that wasn’t true.  The atonality, not the muffling.  I loved listening to Celeste sing, in the car, on her porch, and now, in the shower.  It was a nice change from listening to her cry.

Celeste cries a lot. With me, anyway.  Guess I’m the shoulder of choice for this girlfriend did that, that boyfriend did this, her parents sucked, her job was meaningless, her friends were thoughtless, yadda yadda.  Singing was sweet.

I filled a large glass with ice and zinfandel, opened an IPA and drank.  The water stopped, but Celeste continued singing, something about a hippopotamus for Christmas, then segued into Rascal Flatts’ “Broken Road.”

And then she opened the door.

Celeste was naked except for the towel wrapped around her hair.  A pair of Dias de Los Muertos skulls surrounded by roses were tattooed over her mastectomy scars.  She smiled.

“I told you there were just enough towels. Oh good, I’m so thirsty. How ‘bout them Mets?”  She picked up the glass sipped, and winked at me.

It was going to be an interesting three days.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

Staring at the out of focus mirror, at the baby smooth skull, I smile. There is a safety razor on the edge of the bath, and I know the blades will be counted later.
I’m not allowed to keep the extras, not since they found out that I’d found out and tried to make a quick and almost painless blink but since then I’d acceded to their wishes,
drank the Kool-Aid and lain in the hum hum hum machines.
They do give me a little bit of privacy.
The soap lather is slick, squishy, making quick work of my final depilation.
If I make myself bald now, then I will be bald all over.
Head
Eyebrows
Arms
Legs
Toes
Groin
I can’t reach my back, but I think that’s pretty hairless anyway.
I look like one of those very naked mannequins, hairless and sexless.
I won. Not them.
I tricked them, tricked them all, not waiting for the hum hum hum machine to take my hair, take my sex, take my me.
I’m going to use a whole bottle of lotion now and make me feel pretty.
And then I’ll count the stitches on my ribs.

Shattered Glass

Dunk wash rinse place repeat
I transfer plates glasses utensils from one sink to the next and then to the rack to dry
moving each piece from left to right
like writing the directions for a screeplay
The warm water, the clanging of the pipes, the tiny rounds of water fighting air pressure and losing
Soothing in its simplicity, necessity
I pause, my hand deep inside a long narrow goblet
the edge almost touching the spigot
Have I forgotten?
Has it been long enough for fear-born-of-scar-tissue caution to be lost?
If this glass is too thin, if it taps the metal just right,
will it shatter?
Will the fragments shatter my hand, my precious hand, kaleidoscope it, filet it to the bone?
Will I be able to clamp, glue, stitch, anything
to staunch the spurting blood before it dirties the other dishes?
I pause and ever so carefully remove my hand from inside the glass and put all the rest into the dishwasher.

how the internet has replaced my address book

i have a tradition.

when ten persons in my address book have died, i replace it.

i have four address books and no longer keep one, storing addresses in my computer software or in my phone.

i was scrolling through my list of favorite blogs just now, scribblings, rants, recipes, poetry, knitting patterns and the like.

three of the authors i follow have died in the last few months.

when it hits ten, do i replace my computer? delete all access to the internet? what?

Polly Wanna Cracker

I should be used to it by now, to death walking through the door and sitting on my shoulder, squawking, "Polly wanna cracker, Pretty Boy, Polly wanna cracker."
I'm not.
I've done this for years, long enough to see babies conceived, born and walking in on their own, asking if they could please have some milk and cookies while they wait.
But I'm not.
Used to it, that is.
"I'll be doing this as executrix for the estate, filing on his behalf."
"I found your name in her papers. What do I do now?"
"Do you need to see the death certificate?"
"Can you help me?"
I'll never get used to it.
Especially when it knocks on the door from the inside, when it's here and now, sitting on my sofa, not on someone else's shoulder, but hovering over the dinner table, salting the food with bitterroot.
She doesn't know.
I know, but she doesn't and ignorance is bliss, sweet bliss, chocolate covered pretzels, whipped cream with slivered almonds, a fig tree, comfort with apples, letting her function, smile and concentrate on important things, whether the black and turquoise top goes better with the white jeans or the khaki shorts.
Priorities.
Don't snatch this from her, Polly, don't.
Eat my crackers. I don't need them any more. I am fat. I am a feast.
Eat my crackers, Polly. I'm ready. I've been ready for years.
Give her a chance. Let her stack crackers, crumble them, enjoy them with dabs of jelly.

Leave her alone, Polly.

Modern Medical Miracles

"Just take a deep breath. Yes. Another. Another. Good. Now, roll up your sleeve. That's fine, just going to hook this up so we'll have a constant read. What? Oh, it's an electronic blood pressure cuff, we watch your pressure right here on the computer monitor. It beeps if your BP goes too high or low, so we can adjust your drip. Yes, there is new technology every time you blink. This is so much safer, before one of us had to sit and watch you. Now, we can take care of other patients and the machine alerts us if there is any aberration. Excellent. Okay, then, you relax, the doctor will be with you in another minute or two, the anesthesiologist, too. Relax, honey, you'll be fine."

She blinked. It'll be fine. They'll start the drip, 100, 99, 98, 97, 96 and when she woke up, in five or ten or twenty minutes, it would all be over.

Again.

Again and again and again and again.

They'd start the drip and she'd go to sleep and when she woke up, she'd be peachy keen, right as rain, all things bright and beautiful, neat and clean inside and out, good as new.

Again.

Again and again and again and again.

Why?

What was wrong with her?

She turned, watching the monitor click, the gentle inflation and sudden deflation of the cuff on her arm a warning, a link to everything else that told her what she wasn't. 70/40. Well, that couldn't be good. If her pressure started too low, they couldn't put her under. If it dropped too low, they wouldn't be able to wake her up. Could they? Did they have paddles here? A crash cart? They must, it's a surgical clinic, they had to have emergency equipment. Paddles weren't even anything special. For goodness sakes, Disney had paddles. Restaurants had paddles. And they had transport here, if the paddles didn't provide enough power. She giggled. Maybe they had tazers, those would wake the dead.

Yes, paddles, just in case someone decided to go to sleep and stay asleep, decided it was easier to go on in that lovely twilight of nothing where there was no more trying and failing, no more planning and counting, and certainly no more watching and mourning. Sleep is a wonderful thing. Maybe she would sleep now, for a bit, before the hullabaloo started.

She closed her eyes, head still turned to the machine and lay very still. Another minute and the ruckus of scrubs and sprays and latex gloves, talk talk talk, should we do this, should we do that, as long as we're in here, snip snip, can you make a decision, not making a decision is also making a decision, you won't feel a thing, it'll be done, scrape scrape snip snip, no worries, be happy.

She despised Bobby McFerrin, with his noisy mouth and twisted a capella renditions of classic crock. That ‘Be Happy" tripe? That was the worst of all. How could any thinking person be happy in the messed up world?

One eye open, slow. 64/38. Hmmm. Shallow breathing, oxygen in only the upper lobes. Keep it steady. 64/36. Fine. No more again and again and again.

"Oh dearie, this will never do, no, it won't. We can't have you like this." The nurse picked up her head and shoved another pillow under it. "This simply will not do. You have to sit up, get your pressure up. Doctor can't operate if your BP starts that low, it has nowhere to go, and believe me, you do not want to undergo this procedure without anesthesia.

Procedure. It was a procedure. Not an operation. Not a test. A procedure. Did calling it a procedure make it smell any less foul? She sat up and took a few deep breaths, tightened her legs, balled her hands into fists. 80/48.

"Much better. We'll just keep you up until the doctors come in, there they are." The nurse nodded in the direction of the hallway. "I'm going to watch you myself, I am, after. The feed is right here on my waist. It'll only be a few minutes, but we don't take chances. You keep breathing like that. Excellent. We don't want any problems, now do we?"

She smiled at the nurse, at her own thoughts, at her power. She could do it. She could do it easily, just let it drop-see, 74/46, back up a tad- let it drop until it was done. No more masquerades, curtain drops, fine. She took another deep breath.

"No, we don't want any problems, no we don't. Thank you, nurse. Thank you so much."

Lament of the Broken: Cyclocross Haiku etc

I want to lick the
mud from pink polka dotted
cyclocross skinsuit.

Grass berms climb the stairs
through mud over obstacles.
Urban assault boys
kick the crap out of
sissy tire roadies.

I have to try it.
Grab my mountain bike, clip in.
Take off after them.

My deductible
is met. Future injuries
will be paid in full.

thing i wish would work for me

i'm a lousy typist. i'm reasonably fast, but inaccurate. and i'm an email addict, so i've lost the ability to capitalize. which is all fine. i write in longhand. i like thick pens with heavy black ink and lined notebooks, cheap 70 page college ruled notebooks, pack of 10 for a dollar at target. well, used to be price is now 7 for a dollar, still an amazing bargain. i'll also write in small notebooks [purse or car] on the back of shopping lists, margins of the newspaper, stubs of papers, whatever is in the console of my car, paper napkins [fermat's theorem? is that what was written on a napkin? http://uncyclopedia.wikia.com/wiki/Fermat's_Penultimate_Theorem]
et alteri.

thing is, my handwriting is abysmal. it has deteriorated to the point that i rival my left-handed, dyslexic brother for illegibility.

and i'm prone to tendinitis in my right wrist and have a permanently dislocated right thumb. well, i think that's what's wrong with my thumb, i REFUSE to spend any more money on MRIs or x-rays [2007 and 200 total: over $2,500 out of pocket for doctors to look at my insides and say nothing is wrong, it'll heal itself. that was my out of pocket. none of this was covered by my medical insurance, if i'd gone through the insurance company it would have been $3,800 out of pocket. go figure.]obvious solution: get a mini-tape machine, talk into it.

only that doesn't work for me. i need to feel the ink, be moving my hands, my fingers.

okay, rant over, back to work.

Assorted Haikus

One: First, do no harm.
Easier said than done. It
bleeds touch, breath, sight.

Rule two: All else is
commentary. Smoke, mirrors
tricks and slight of hand.

Three: It will all work
out. How? When? In my lifetime?
Clock is tick, tick, tick....

In all this, silence.
Refuse to engage, answer.
Guilt, wisdom or fear?

Can I borrow a
cup of sugar, book, scissors,
someone else's life?

It’s Better to Light a Candle than Curse the Dark-Or is it?

She’s lost time. Here, in her box, her special place, there is no clouded noon or sequined night, no visual clue of the natural rotation of the Earth, no calendars with little boxes filled up in runes and hieroglyphics, then ‘X’ed to note another day completed. Not that it matters, how she, herself, marks another day down, another day counted out in this latest cycle. If she doesn’t count, does she count? If she stays in here, where there is no time, does it stop?

There are signs any passerby could remark on, verifying that time has passed, that she’s changed in these months, but not how many or how few grains have trickled or whether the grains running through that narrow opening are salt, sugar, sand or nuclear pellets.

Only her Master knows that.

Master knows everything about her. Master tells her on a need to know basis what day it is, or if it’s time to sleep or eat or drink the luscious soup exclusively prepared for her. Master controls her because she is inexperienced and ignorant of all things and she likes that, not having to think, only having to react. As long as she listens to Master, everything will be fine.

That’s what everyone tells her: listen to Master and it’ll all be fine, it’ll all be okay.

So why did Master leave those matches? This box was her dark place for resting and being, just breathing. In, out, in, out, breathe breathe breathe. Are they to tempt her or encourage her? She can light one and see, but does Master want her to see? Besides, what is there to see? The only thing in the box is her. Does Master want her to ignore the matches, continue in her self-imposed darkness?

She turns around and wraps her arms around her knees. She rests her head on her forearms, trying to find a spot where the pressure on her ulna won’t hurt. When she had hair, long, thick strands of hair, it padded her head. Master took away her hair and flesh, leaving her bony and hairless, spare and beautiful. A distillation, granite after the artist chisels away the parts that impinge his vision. Master is a laser perfecting her every cell.

She lights a match, but blows it out after she sees the bruises, the purple splotches that never heal. Did Master want that, want her to see? The box helps her pretend them gone. It’s easier if she waits in the dark. A few more months and the pretending, the box, the rules will all be gone.

She smiles. She is so tired. Master wants her to sleep. She lights another match. It burns where she used to have fingernails. Master took those, too, because she used to scratch and gouge herself trying to get to the bugs crawling underneath, fire ants and beetles and even tiny lizards frilling their throats and swishing their tails. They lived in the fat layer between her muscle and her skin.

Better purple bruises and naked fingers and bald scalp than the vomit, oh god, the vomiting, and the nasties and the trails of hair falling behind her like breadcrumbs leading her to a place that is no longer home, outside the box, a place her body visits while she waits for Master’s voice to say, “It’s time, Aimee. Come.”

She lights a third match. It flickers. She pulls it close to her face, trying to focus, then puts it out in her mouth.

Heritage of Ashes

Once upon a time, there were two little girls who had little curls right in the middle of their foreheads, past their shoulders, streaming down their backs.

Once upon a time, but that was then, this is now and the birds took the curls to insulate their nests and make them beautiful for the baby birdies,

So the little girls wore wigs of blue and orange and green and red.

Except when they didn't, when their bald heads got too hot or itchy or they wanted to make a fashion statement of some sort or other or they just didn't feel like it anymore.

The little girls grew up to be just like their mommy with long necks and sloping shoulders from too much grief and jutting hip bones where the fat melted away, Holocaust thin.

Just alike.

Except one little girl had deep shadows between the breasts the doctors built and the other had just one, she didn't care if she was lopsided because to her it was a truth not stranger than the fiction of her sister's perky, youthful-for-eternity, what will the archaeologists of the future say about the silicone sacks nestled on her ribs, tits.

Once upon a time, a BRCA1 gene was passed down...

Homage to Hemingway

Hemingway is credited with writing the shortest short story ever, "For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn." Every time I read, hear that, I get a chill. Chill? Oh, tell the truth. You don't get a chill, you are ruptured, torn. Your guts are pulled out, displayed, stabbed over and over and over with a dull, jagged knife. No quick clean cut, too simple. This is fluttery edges that never realign, never heal. They keloid, ugly scars like bloated leaches.

Tell the truth for once about how you feel. Me? Tell the truth? You talking to me? The great liar, the greatest liar denier crier ever born? The truth. Huh. What an alien concept. Truthful Robyn, oxymoron.

Fine.

But I don't have to. It's all written down and out in my own illegible cursed cursive that even I find hard to read at times. Especially when the paper is wrinkled, a testament to tears, to what is missing. Here's to you, tears! To you tears. Here's to u-tear-us. Here's to a uterus with scarred walls, too many ridges for a placenta to attach. Here's to a uterus that shakes free whatever it decides has no place within. Here's to you.

You tear us limb from limb and push us out bit by bit, drip drip drip. Days and night, drip drip drip, slow seepage of blood and amniotic fluid as you proceed on your sickening, funereal mission, slowly expelling your dead, one scoop at a time.

Hand me a shovel, let me bury it once and for all. Rapid shoveling, no more of these individual scoops. Weeks, or does it just feel like weeks, until the blessed doctors, oh blessed 100, 99, 98, 97, 96 going under, that sweetness, until they finish the job.

Can't even finish expelling your own dead, you useless u-tear-us. A vestigial organ, a void, no point to having you if you can't do what you are meant to do. 95, 94, 93 and under. Let it be over, let it be over once and for all.

It is written.

Spike.

Eagle.

Drummer.

And Lafite. Grenoble. Clover. All here, the empty books. The oh-so-empty books.

"For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn." Six words.

"Freecycle: Pregnancy diaries. 3/4 empty." Five words.

Pink Rain

Is it hot enough?
Rubbing the soap over me
Too easy.
Take the sponge, the liquid soap
vanilla creme fills the room
Heat rises, expands.
Walls sweat.
Removing my skin, cell by cell.
Bye cells.
Removing all traces
a loofah? A pumice stone goes deeper.
Make it hotter.

I sit on the floor in the corner
Water still scalds the shower stall.
Watch my raw skin sweat pink
Towels stained with blood
Floor covered with them.
I hear the elevator hum, so distant
and wonder when they replaced the flooring with pink tiles.

August is Extremely Slow

Arriving at the outpatient clinic at the ungodly hour of 6:25 am, I enter into utter chaos. I wish. Seriously reader, this is Floriduh, not NYC. In NYC, any outpatient clinic adjacent to an emergency room entrance would be an obstacle course of gunshot wounds, stabbings, heart attacks, strokes and those who, lacking medical insurance or a primary care physician, use the ER as their GP. No. Wait. That was NYC in the bad old days. Now, post Guiliani, post 9-11, ER's are as eerily calm as the forested mountains of Idaho. You can't hear the buzz but you know it lies just under the surface, coiled and ready to strike.
In any case, I enter a ghost town. There is no one at the entrance, the admitting desk, in the corridors. I wander the halls, wondering how I'll get into the clinic. Maybe it's an omen that I should just turn about and leave. It is a medically indicated procedure, but not a medically necessary one. Preventative, ergo optional at this time. I can leave and continue the family tradition of acting against medical advice. I remember the results of my parents and brother opting to ignore their physicians' preventative treatments. Suicide by inches.
I stand there, in that deserted hallway. Turn. Turn again. Consider my options. Which, truthfully are more limited than you might think, as I have no escape vehicle to jump into and take off for parts unknown, exceeding the speed limit just enough to not be accidental. Suicide by inches? Oh no, that is not for me. When I go, if I opt out earlier than my five year allotment, it will be in a blaze of glory. Full tank of gas, skidding head first into a pylon and exploding with sufficient heat to melt whatever I crash into. Or just having the good luck to be on a structurally deficient bridge at the exact moment it chooses to collapse. When I was a child, I envied those who died on the bridge at San Luis Rey. Only a friar questioned their innocence, their reason for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, since there is no such thing as coincidence. I wanted to be one of them, feel the rush of free fall, of knowing that sooner than I could count it would be over.
I turn, in that deserted hallway, pondering my most recent brush with sudden death. How I knew I would be alright, that it was not time. There is a security in knowing it is not yet time. I can live life as the Shakers did: Do your work as though you had a thousand years to live and as if you were to die tomorrow. Put your hands to work, and your heart to God.
Except I know I will not die tomorrow or the next day or the next day after that. I have a reprieve. I still have some time to squander in idleness, although not as much as most. I cannot afford to waste time in illness. Ignoring medical advice will result in more intervention in the long run, more tests, more examinations, more poking prodding sticking drawing. More fear. Ever so much more fear. Chilling, paralyzing fear. Despite my outward calm, my blithe assertion that it is really just cosmetic, preventative, the memory loop playing is of my doctor twenty years ago asserting that, if certain changes were to take place, this procedure would have to be done.
Change happens. The exact changes I was warned about. And I am here. Turning around and around, ever so slowly in the deserted corridor of a hospital triage area. Making myself dizzy, giddy with dizziness, to cover the gut wrenching fear I try so hard to deny.
"Ma'am, can I help you? Were you looking for the main entrance to the hospital? The cafeteria? Outpatient surgery?"
I blink, startled. Look at the nurse as if I've never seen one before.
"Ma'am?"
"Oh yes. Thank you. Outpatient surgery, please. I'm supposed to be here at 6:30."
"Well, you're right on time. Let me get these doors and you just go right on through. Someone on the other side will guide you."
"Is Virgil waiting for me, then?"
"Virgil? No, he's not on duty this morning. I believe Kathy and Julia are doing intake."
She presses a code for the doors. They swing open. I smile my thanks at her and step through to the other side.

Just How Slow is August, Anyway?

For a very minor outpatient procedure, not only have I been poked, prodded, pinched, x-rayed, MRI'd, ultra-sounded, squeezed but anything and everything else you can imagine. Much of this manhandling under other circumstances, the world being context and meaning only determined by what frames the context, I would have considered pleasurable to some degree or other. In another frame. Not in this one.
Does my life start to remind you of "The Perils of Pauline"? Shall I change the name of my blog to "The Reversals, Ravages and Raw Deals of Recidivist Robyn"? Please feel free to comment and I will feel free to ignore, as usual.
In preparation for the latest, I spend part of the day in "pre-op". Pre-op starts with a jaunt down the turnpike, exceeding the speed limit by 5-8 mph. Exiting the traffic-free turnpike, I am most appreciative of the heavy volume of vehicular (rhymes with one of Dubya's favorite words) transportation adding to global warming. As if we'd notice here in Floriduh anyway.
Locating the hospital where I will be sliced, diced and julienned on Wednesday, I gave reception/intake my medical cards, credit cards, ID cards and the passwords to mine and my children's fiduciary accounts. Mi dinero es su dinero. Cuanto? Todo. Todo el mundo es su dinero. Next!
They took blood. LOTS of blood. They took urine. They took blood pressure. FYI 100/45, am I dead or alive? They took resting pulse, 56 bpm. They did an EKG. I'm not sure why they bothered. Anybody that actually knows me would tell the doctors that I am a heartless, soulless cruel little bitch. If they want to know my state of being, they should do an EEG and watch the synaptic connections in my head, which have been compared to Epcot fireworks and various laser light shows.
Finally, a chest x-ray. Still looking for a heart? The tin woodsman is standing in the forest. He has a purple heart. How apropos. A purple heart for the walking wounded. If I had a heart, it would be purple. And broken. Snapped, crushed, shattered. A story for another day perhaps. Only modern fairy tales have happy endings. And Friendly's. I am a traditionalist. The only happy ending is to live another day. Step into the shards. Bleed. Step over them. Heal a bit. Have the chance to wipe your tears. Grow. Learn. Perhaps tell your tale so someone else can benefit from your mistakes. Perhaps.
Perhaps not.

August is a Slow Month

Having gone through every hoop you can imagine to obtain my precious MRI's, it is with great joy I receive the copies into my sweaty little hands. It only took twelve phone calls from me and four from my doctor's office over the course of five business days before the center could manage to print out a set for me. I suppose it being the depths of summer, there are much better things to do than print films and reports for women wondering if they are in imminent danger of losing superfluous body parts. No, I am not referring to my appendix. And this being Orlando, the depths of summer cover from May until December, dissimilar to Camelot, that's for certain! I am thankful that the young man at the reception desk was mortified at the records room's the lack of follow-through and made it his personal responsibility to get me the copies.
I open the file to gaze upon my insides. Grey blotches. It looks like my mammographies. Grey blotches. I read the report. Incomprehensible except for one line: No significant masses detected. Does this mean there is such a thing as an insignificant mass? Or that I may have masses, but they are not detected? Or do I have insignificant masses which are detected? It makes no sense to me, four pages of gobbledegook. I slide the films back into the oversize envelope and wander out into the rain.
The next day, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, I meet with the specialist. Hand over the various photos of my insides and await his decision. Dr C shakes his head sadly. Turns on the sonogram and gels the wand. Slides it over the surface of my breast, around the edges, eyes inches from the screen. Back and forth, slowly.
"Fascinating. This confirms it."
"Confirms what?" What the hell is he looking at? All I see are more grey blotches.
"Your breasts. Your breasts are dense."
"Dense? My head is dense. What do you mean, my breasts are dense?"
"It means that despite eight years of breastfeeding, the hormone breakdowns resulting from the approaching menopause and just plain age, your breasts are young."
"That still means nothing to me. My breasts are dense?"
"Breast density is related to age and child bearing. Your breasts do not indicate either."
"Bet you say that to all the patients."
"Only the cute ones. In any case, your breasts are 25 years old. The rest of you is forty-eight. So while they're having a fine time, you need your rest. And geritol."
"Oh. Cool. So I can leave, everything is alright then?"
"Oh no, I'm not done with the examination. There is still the unexplained growth on the anomaly."
Oh fuck. What's he talking about now?
"Anomaly?"
"Yes, this growth. It should have been removed years ago, but better late than never."
"Why? Why remove it?"
"It's politically incorrect to leave it. Remove it before it becomes a problem. It has gotten larger. It'll get rubbed and irritated where it is. Off now while it's a piece of cake."
"Any idea what's involved with this?" Thinking to myself, how much is he going to make from this procedure? What's the BC/BS pay scale?
"Honest, you could do it yourself with a paring knife or a scissor, but you'd pass out before you did the dirty deed..."
"Fine. Let me consider it a physical enhancement."
"This week. We can do it this week."
"I need time to waffle."
"No waffles, no pancakes, no grits. This week."
Why is he in such a rush? What is he not telling me?
To be continued....

We've Reviewed Your Files

As if I don't have enough tsuris, now this?
Between my kinda sorta homelessness and unemployment, my beloved psychotic perpetual victim older daughters and my youngest who is truly otherworldly at times, and that not in a good way, I still need more?
That which the gods would destroy they first make great. I'm not great.
God does not give you more than you can bear. Sez who?
That which does not kill you makes you strong. Knock me over with a feather.
I am neither great nor filled with fortitude nor strong. So what am I? In any case...
Not enough to have every other brick in my tower tumbling down, burying me, the foundations crumbling neath my feet. Not enough to be dragged into an abyss, tentacles twined lovingly around my ankles. "Would you like a glass of water, dear?" So says the torturer. "Drink deep." So says. Now to have this trivial stress added?
"Ms W, we've reviewed the results of your recent MRI. The doctor would strongly advice you to see a specialist. We've already referred your files to Dr C. You should call him ASAP to make an appointment. Here's the number."
You've reviewed? The doctor reviewed? WTF? Two damn months ago the doctor reviewed my files and sent me for the MRI. NOW he looks at the report? WTF?
Okay dear readers, time to spill. Because you have to understand something not obvious. This was NOT an MRI of my brain. We all know what an MRI of my brain would look like: swiss cheese. Moldy swiss cheese. Drippy moldy swiss cheese.
No, this was an MRI of another body part. I should use the plural to be perfectly accurate, it being a pair of body parts. The body parts which are specific and used to easily and obviously identify the female of the species. So to hear the dreaded words, "We'd like you to see a specialist," especially when the hearer is well aware of how high risk she is, does not make for a good afternoon.
Except....
They waited two months to call me on this? Is this for real incompetence and inefficiency (we are in floriduh) or does the doctor have August billing doldrums? Back in NYC, if there was an anomaly on an x-ray, test, MRI, you were called in a day or two. Surely this necessitated a call within a week if there was real cause for concern? Surely?
Because while I may love going topless, I do not look forward to being topless. At least not for a few more years.
So. I can give credence to this and worry my freshly dyed head (more grey, so much more grey than a week ago) OR...
I can make chocolate mousse.
I made mousse.

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