|Winter Beauty, Jan 2012|
The problem was that there's really nothing besides Asmodeus to focus my anger on, and I wanted something external. Preferably something I could punch.
But I can't be mad at me - I certainly didn't cause this mess. I can't be mad at my mother - who knew? I can't be mad at the doctors - they've been wonderful thus far, and are working hard and quickly to pull a team together that will pull me through this. And I'm certainly not mad at my friends - you all are THERE!
So, who do I hit? Before this detour plunked itself smack dab into my path, I was having the time of my life. I mean, if it HAD to happen, it could have waited another six months, don't you think? What was so important about me being sick that it couldn't have waited until I finished touring the west coast?
** Harumph **
Really, I think, under the anger, I'm mostly scared.
Usually, when people go in for surgery, they're already in pain, and the surgery is the first step in getting the pain to go away. That isn't the case here. Except for the lump, which doesn't hurt, I feel fine.
I know that sometime in the few weeks, I'll present myself to the hospital, properly fasted and without benefit of my morning caffeine, to be put under, then cut open. Once the operation is over, it'll be several months before I feel this good again.
It's hard to convince me it's all in a good cause. Even though I know better, I have to admit it - I REALLY want to cut and run here. Logic has nothing on a good dose of fight-or-flight adrenaline coursing through the veins, and mine's been screaming for flight for a good week now. I guess I can hope I'm running out of the stuff, and perhaps by the time they're ready to move ahead I'll be too tired to think about anything but getting through it to the other side.
The path ahead is hard. And I don't like to do hard things.
Ah, well. At least, at the other end of it, there will be lattes again.