You know it’s going to be an awesome night when your surgeon leaves his cell phone number on your voice mail.
It’s hard to call yourself a writer, if you don’t write anymore. At some point, I’ve sold myself to magazine articles and then to term papers. Somewhere in the process I’ve forgotten about creative grammar, spelling errors so ridiculous they can only be made past 3am, and the words spilled across the pages solely for the purpose of being said. Pure writing is for the soul, however antiquated and cliché it sounds.
It’s late. My significant other is slumbering in the room over. Ambien seems to be broken and my mind is on fire. This white couch is comfortable, cozy, it has years of stories, naps, kisses, long conversations huddled over apple spice decaffeinated tea. The periwinkle and silk blanket covering me was a gift several Christmas’ ago. My tortoise shell glasses perch on my nose, and fingertips glide over the keyboard as effortlessly as a classical pianist finds her notes.
Thank GOD for plastic surgeons. This scar won’t be too bad. I’m stubborn as hell and so insist on local anesthetic. All those stories of patients who wakeup mid-surgery make me shudder. I don’t want to be interviewed by the Channel 9 guy on with a microphone shoved in my face, “So, what type of conversations did you over hear? Did you feel anything? Did you have an out-of-body-experience?”
I say no to all of the above. So instead I voluntarily clench every muscle as he injects the painful poison past my epidermal layer. To numb me. He leans over so closely the scent of altoid fumes fill my nostrils. I assume his hands are cold, but the skin on my chest is anesthetized, so I’m not sure. I insist upon bringing my iPod with me. Everywhere. Dentist included. Jim Brickman strikes his final thunderous cords and the harmonious meditation soundtrack is about to quench my nerves and send me into a relaxed state of mind. I’m undergoing a minor surgery to get a cyst removed from my chest. I know, gross. Usually when you trip across my blog I’ll feed you stories about dating or democrats, but today is a happy story about feeling positive when shit hits the fan. Or not. I was told the results from the pathologist would be back by Tuesday or Wednesday.
It’s Friday night. I’m not sad or angry. In fact, the Christian and optimist in me is thrilled! Yay! But, the realist in me and the aesthetic fashionista who likes her scoop neck tees is scowling in the corner. Andrew and I are supposed to be in Vail with our friends right now. We’re supposed to be hitting the man-made snow-slopes in several hours. However due to the lovely phone call we received several hours ago, our plans have been rerouted to the couch and pizza boxes and we’re staying in tonight. I’m jealous that my friends aren’t enduring this. The grass, or I guess the snow on the other side of i-70 always seems a bit more beautiful.
Message from Said Doctor: “Auna, Hi. I just received the results and had a long (emphasize long) conversation with the pathologist, well. I want to talk to you. So the good news is that it isn’t malignant, but I have some other news. So the other news (clarifying there is more news) is that the cyst has the potential to become malignant. (I’m praying he can stop using the M-word). We need to take the rest out, as you know I was not able to do before. (I’m now staring at the huge patchwork piece of Frankenstein skin on my chest from two days ago.) Which is a more invasive surgery and will probably require skin graphing. (Yay!) I want to get you in on Monday so we can begin calling specialists. Here is my cell phone. (He repeats the number.) I’ll be available all night.”
Click.
My first reaction is to jump on the “wah wah wah” bus. News is funny, ironic, whatever. Here I was, expecting to hear option A: “Benign” B: “Malignant”… but instead I got option A with some additional insight. Nobody said, “Auna, you should get this cyst removed.” In fact, every single doctor has said, “Watch it. See if it grows.” But something deep inside my psyche told me to get it out. And that’s when I learned the power of trusting oneself. Which freaks me out even more. Western medicine, my arse…
Reaction B: I turn to my boyfriend, who not only threw me a surprise birthday party at a country western concert, he engulfs food I attempt to prepare, and also has told me I look beautiful at 2am with eyeliner spewing from my tear ducts, and a runny nose… and I cry, “You will love me with a dent in my chest, right?”
He responds, “Of course. I would love you if you had three eyes.”
I'm lucky to have such a romantic. I’ll go into the doctor on Monday and then I’ll go one step at a time. I cannot go any faster. I’m a bit bummed about not going scuba-diving over vacation, but I’m also not starving in Africa, so I’m sure I can get over it. Scars are the reliable reminders that you’re durable. Scars are the souvenirs of life. They’re like photographs and stories you can tuck in your back pocket, so if you’re bummed, alone, frustrated, you have proof there you’ve survived hardship, and you can do it again.
Life is great. And while it took a little (big) pep-talk to remind myself of the obvious; I have the most amazing, healthy and supportive family and friends and lover. (He loves it when I call him that.) Albeit the warm and fuzzy stuff just mentioned, I’d be a liar to say there isn’t something unsettling about the phone call I received earlier tonight. I guess it boils down to making peace without having to make peace about something. I'm aware that sleep is a distant activity far, far away, so I thought I’d do what I do best; type about myself.
I intend to write more. I’ll be raunchier, risqué, whatever you want next time. But in the meantime, I wish something for you.
I wish for you blue skies, true love, a long life and the kind of grass that only grows greener with time.
