Category Archives: Fear

The Diagnosis is Right

During my latest annual kidney cancer screening, I anxiously sit in the waiting room until the x-ray technician throws open the door and shouts, “Cindy Valleley, come on down!”

I jump up and down as I run toward him, my old-lady boobs alternately slapping my knees and face as Paul and I try to hug each other. The three of us race down the hall to the examination room and high-five people carrying blood samples, sometimes smashing the vials against their palms because we’re all just really glad to be on TV, win or lose.

When we enter the x-ray room, I get to play a game involving golf, math, and beating a clock. I’m not good at any of these things, but I try. When I lose, it doesn’t mean I have cancer for sure, so I still get to have the x-ray. I’m having a great time as I wave to Paul in the audience.

Then the tech pins my x-ray to a huge wheel. There are two giant sticky notes above and below the picture of my lungs. One says, “Cancer,” and the other one says, “Suck it, Cancer!”

I give the wheel a mighty spin and cross my fingers as I hear Paul shouting “No cancer, Sweetie!” As the wheel slows, I start to sweat, and just when I think I’m going to pass out from the excitement, it lands on “Suck it, Cancer!”

I can hardly believe my insurance pays for this. I’m grateful they do, and I’ll never tell them how enjoyable the experience is just in case they believe suffering is the only thing they should subsidize.

I’m already looking forward to next year’s CT scan. It’s so much fun to lie in the tube and rapid-fire punch the panic button when I get bored. The techs love it when I do that.

V0025809 The "sink or float" method of seeking out witches. Woodcut,
Float Test in the ancient game show, “Are You a Witch?” Same one my doc uses at CT scan time. Given my body fat level, I’m gonna nail this one.

 

That Time I Dated Henry Kissinger

Or just had a dream that I did.

I felt so perturbed by this that I told Paul in order to offload the creep factor, but he seemed more bothered than I was.

In my defense, I said, “But it was when Henry was younger. You know, in his salad days. When he was bombing Cambodia.” This did not have the calming effect that I hoped it would.

Plus I started thinking, “What’s the origin of the phrase ‘salad days’ anyway?” Apparently it comes from this quote:

“CLEOPATRA: My salad days,
When I was green in judgment: cold in blood,
To say as I said then! But, come, away;
Get me ink and paper:
He shall have every day a several greeting,
Or I’ll unpeople Egypt.”

I think Cleo’s saying, “If I don’t get to be pen pals with Caesar, I’m going to slaughter every one of my subjects.” I wish I could love like that. Sometimes literally.

I suppose the “green in judgment: cold in blood” part applies to Henry’s ambition to murder lots of Cambodians who were provocatively going to school or the dry cleaners, or maybe out to eat, so that works.

But then I remembered that there was literally salad in my dream. I was sitting at a counter in a diner, and a lady brought a salad to me while I sat there spinning lettuce in a spinner (which is much more efficient than throwing it at an oscillating fan).

I can’t decide if this dream is telling me I need psychotherapy or more roughage. Maybe I’ll just take a therapist out to lunch and spare myself money, time, and insight.

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Salad is boring and Henry is, you know, ick. So here’s a photo of Liz Taylor. ‘Cause damn.

 

 

Confidence is My Faux Finish

Every time I believe I know what I’m doing with finances, it freaks me out.

That’s usually when I find out I’ve forgotten to pay the electric bill or haven’t checked our bank account in two weeks and now we’re overdrawn by several hundred dollars or, as just happened, miscalculated our IRS tax payments, which caused our anticipated refund to drop by eight hundred dollars.

Even when I get things right, I experience heavy sweating, just waiting for the next fun monetary surprise. I’d like to feel good about the little things I do well, but that feels like total hypocrisy.

What’s it like to experience a sense of confidence that doesn’t lead to a panic attack?

Anyone?

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                                                                                      Liar

 

 

That Time I Shot a Piano

Or very nearly did, anyway.

I’ve developed a new psychiatric disorder: Dysfunction Envy.

The other day I started reading The Liar’s Club by Mary Karr. In her introduction, Karr relates an anecdote about bullet holes in her mother’s kitchen walls. This is on the first page, and she hasn’t even started the memoir portion yet. What a hook.

Although I’m enjoying the book, I’ve fallen into a funklet (not bad enough to be depression, but I’m not giddy either). I’ve recently written a few things I’m not happy with, which is okay. I don’t mind trashing or savagely editing stuff. But for some reason, Karr’s book has me worried.

Have I run out of dysfunctional material to mine for my memoir? Is my nine-month class this fall going to consist of me sitting there, doing nothing, while my classmates turn their trauma into gold? Where’s the gunplay in my story?

Then I remembered that time when I was twelve, and I found the .22 pistol that Mom kept under her pillow, loaded, with the safety off. For my protection.

As you know, I’m not able to offer much defense for my parents’ exciting decisions, but there was an incident that caused her to believe that a loaded firearm in our house was the best choice for her daughter. I’ll talk about that situation another time.

So I’m standing in the living room with the pistol aimed at my piano. My finger’s on the trigger. The whole room’s in soft focus except for the piano, and everything gets quiet like our house is made out of a giant pillow fort.

When I decide to pull the trigger, it occurs to me that if I shoot the piano, I might not be able to practice my lessons, and my teacher will be disappointed in me.

As the rest of the room becomes visible again and the sounds of the world return, I switch the safety on the pistol so that at least it won’t blow Mom’s head off while she’s sleeping, and I tuck it under her pillow.

I never told her how close I came to shooting the piano, mostly because she was busy with Glen, the womanizing truck driver she pretended to marry in Tahoe, who later left her for a gum-smackin’ poodle groomer with a platinum up-do, frosted nails and lipstick, and leopard print miniskirts. Her reason for the sham marriage is part of yet another story.

I also believe Glen was Mom’s last-ditch effort to be heterosexual, and that leads to another story for another time.

The tales I’m telling now are reminding me of so many I’ve forgotten, and there’s no evidence that this twisted river will run dry in the near future. What a relief. It seems I’ve got what it takes to compete in Dysfunctiondome.

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At least my finger isn’t on the trigger. Yet.

The Malicious Mind

I’m starting to wonder if my brain has a vendetta against me. There doesn’t seem to be a limit to fears it can invent.

Paul knows that when he leaves the house in the morning and I say, “Be safe,” what I’m really telling him is:

Please don’t get into a massive fireball of a car wreck. Generally speaking, come home alive, preferably not maimed.

He’s pretty cool about it because he’s a freak who sees the positive in life. He always gets the great parking space, so why wouldn’t he see sunshine everywhere? It’s irritating.

I might be pushing my luck, though. The other day I finally confessed a new paranoiac low that may include a trace of the psychotic. He headed out the door to go rowing, and of course I said, “Be safe.”

Then I told him what I really mean:

Please don’t be murdered by a sniper hiding in bushes along the canal.

I know, right? But this fear seems reasonable to me. All they’d have to do is lead him a little.

My mind keeps telling me this is a legitimate concern despite the fact that I’ve never read a news report involving snipers and rowers. So whatever I did to piss it off, it’s not done punishing me. Bastard.

Paul’s finally shocked. Well done, me?

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Bonus: fewer snipers

Serenity is just a Word to Me

The other day Paul met a cheese he didn’t like. I never expected this. I’ve seen him savor cheese platters that smell like an autopsy being performed in a college locker room during a natural gas leak. My world suddenly made much less sense.

Just as I was recovering from the shocking cheese aversion, he made the bed. For the first time in twenty-two years. I panicked and asked, “Why would you do that?” in the same voice I’d ask a home invader, “Why here?”

Paul said, “Because the people across the street can see our bedroom.”

I blurted, “But they’ve been able to see our unmade bed for five years. Why is this important to you now?”

He shrugged and ambled away, leaving me reeling in confusion and anxiety, somewhat like when my surgeon told me I had cancer. The fact that I’m reacting at all similarly to a bed-making crisis and life-threatening health news may surprise you, but not me. I have a long track record of overreacting.

Like that time in Buffalo, New York as it was approaching Christmas during our first year there. I heard a fire engine siren a couple doors away, so I chucked Muriel the cat into her crate, jammed my arms into a coat, and shouted at Paul, “Fire! We have to evacuate! Now!”

Paul complied, taking what felt like an ice age to get his coat and shoes on.

I burst into the foyer of our duplex, wide-eyed and sweaty, Muriel’s cage dangling from my hand. Her eyes bulged with terror as Paul slouched behind me with his hands in his pockets.

The couple next door were standing just inside the main front door with their three young children, all relaxed and smiling. None of them were dressed to evacuate during an Upstate New York winter. I understood nothing at this point.

They turned from gazing at the fire truck, and I shouted, “Where’s the fire?!”

The littlest kid pointed toward the truck as the vehicle slowly made its way toward us. He said with glee, “It’s Fire Truck Santa!”

I looked again, and sure enough, that sadistic holiday bastard was waving his Christmas cheer at all the happy kids in the neighborhood.

The three of us slunk back into our unit (as much as a cat trapped in a crate can slink) to the sounds of laughter. I mumbled, “Merry Christmas” as my face turned a bright Rudolph-nose color.

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Yes, I am Chicken Little, although I’ve never been this adorable.

I suppose that wasn’t as bad as the escalator incident at Sea-Tac Airport. A tank-sized drunk guy passed out at the top and hurtled backwards, landing on a tot and his mother (they were fine).

Paul and I were standing nearby, and as I was unaware of the embarrassingly obvious red emergency stop buttons on escalators, I did the next best thing. I spread my arms out at an angle, and in my most commanding voice yelled, “Stand back! My husband is an occupational therapist!”

At six-foot-five, Paul did his best to be invisible as he slowly sidled away from me. Sadly for him, at this point there was no hiding. He came forward to help—which he would’ve done anyway—but his facial expression said, “Good God, I hope no one thinks I’m the guy she’s talking about.”

I probably should work on the overreaction thing, but I worry that Paul might be staying with me just for the entertainment value.

 

I am a BLT

I have a confession about one of my biggest fears: becoming a bag lady, with cats. It isn’t like having cats is a fear, but combine that with bag lady, and there’s something disquieting and stereotypical happening there.

I can’t even look elderly female panhandlers in the eye because I’m terrified they’ll peer into my soul and see the future bag lady within, give a little wink, and say, “See you soon, dear. Just remember this is my corner. And I have a knife.”

Recently I told Paul, “I need a little wheeled cart for all my trips to the store.”

He freaked and blurted, “You’re not that old!” But when I assured him that he didn’t have to be seen with me and the cart at the same time, he started breathing again.

I’ve found a pretty stylin’ trolley that can handle the thousand pounds of cat litter we have to buy every week for Mimi, so I’ve been feeling kinda hip as I trundle around the neighborhood.

That is, until I came home from getting groceries and Amazon packages the other day. Then it hit me: I’ve become a Bag Lady in Training, and I might need to accept my destiny:

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Just need a hairnet and some semi-used tissue in my pocket for a complete ensemble.

* By the way, my cart is called “The Sholley Trolley.” I’m not getting anything for telling you about it, but I just have to share the info ‘cause it’s great for local shopping without a car: https://smile.amazon.com/gp/product/B00S75L252/ref=oh_aui_detailpage_o02_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1

Also I think some people assume I’m pushing a baby stroller around. I’ve noticed a little smile until they get closer. Then there’s a look of dismay as they begin to suspect I’ve got a child in there, and it’s not allowed to breathe. Just another bonus.

Toileting Choices

Every time I prepare a lesson plan for tutoring at the local college, I wonder if I’m making a positive difference.

Then I remember the sign that’s in every women’s bathroom I’ve visited on campus (and with my old-lady bladder, that ain’t no small number of visits)*:

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If maintenance has to post this, I think I should keep trying to help.

* I added the “women’s” because I was concerned you’d think I was visiting men’s rooms. Why does my brain do that?

 

Vet Bill Fatigue Syndrome

After some boisterous fan base clamor*, I realized it’s been a while since I last posted. In my defense, I’ve been suffering from a malady known as Feline Über Costs for Kitty Tests, Hospitalization, and Imaging on Seniors (more commonly known as FUCKTHIS).

Having two simultaneously senior cats is overwhelming sometimes.

We’ve had Molly since she was a baby, but now she’s eight. Or nine. Or 65 and preparing for retirement. What is cat retirement anyway? Sleeping twenty-five hours a day?

PAWS thought Mimi was three when we got her two years ago, but her doc thinks she’s about a hundred. She’s great and all, but it’s like buying a car with a gently used exterior and discovering it’s powered by an asthmatic hamster lumbering in a rusty wheel.

To celebrate her eighth birthday, Molly recently enjoyed a bout of pancreatitis. She got better, but not until we spent $600 on visits and drugs (most of which are still sitting in the kitchen because it seems she was able to get well on her own).

I was terrified because she wouldn’t eat. Trying to get a sick cat to eat is exhausting and demoralizing. I find myself on the kitchen floor, rattling the food dish and coaxing Molly, saying things like, “Please eat your food. Mmm. Nom-noms. Hoooo’s my ‘ittle baby hoo want to eats?” At this point, no one within earshot wants food.

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 That does look yummy.
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But I think not.

We don’t have to worry about Mimi’s appetite, though. She’s our Amazing Hoover-matic, and there isn’t a food that’s safe.

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 Gimme a treat, or the ankle gets it.

But thanks to remorseless kidney infections, she has a drinking problem. I think she caused Seattle’s last drought.

And the pee. Good God, the pee. You could knock out a water buffalo with those clumps. And it’s not just plentiful. She has fun aiming issues too. Thank goodness I’m married to an occupational therapist who specializes in geriatrics. Got waterfalls? No problem. Just use incontinence pads.

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 Seriously.

But Mimi pops pills like a happy little addict, which is cool because after Molly got sick and needed drugs, I’m down to six fingers.

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And you’re going to do what with that pill now?

There’s something relentless about this process. The second we get through Molly’s ordeal, the vet wants to figure out how to get Mimi off the drugs. (Which I understand, but how about intervention? That’s free. “Mimi, we love you, and we think you have a problem.”)

No such luck. “Let’s do an ultrasound!” chirps the doc. “We might figure out what’s causing this!” (I think she charges extra for the exclamation points.)

So $500 later, Mimi has a shaved belly, and the specialist says, “We found evidence that she’s been suffering from chronic kidney infections.” We’re officially at the diagnostic stage known in the medical community as No-Shit, Sherlock.

Now Mimi needs to see an internal medicine specialist, and my question is: “Didn’t you just look at her fucking innards?”

We have more pharmaceuticals for two cats than many human seniors, an occasional river of pee (possibly more often than many human seniors), and enough vet bills in the last three years to buy a used car.

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 Is it worth all this?
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Duh.

 

* Fan base = Paul

Clamor = Paul asking, “Doin’ any bloggin’ today?”