If My Aunt Had Balls
Negativity ain’t the way to be. “I gotta get my head out of the dirt,” I coach myself, here, trying to get the pain out of its control and into some kind of box I can manipulate into nothing or some such shit – that’s my plan, the outlook I’m trying to foster. But the pain is stronger, I fear, and I’m up, again, after barely an hour of sleep this past attempt, with my side afire and throbbing and- It feels like I’ve had a spear put through me there. It’s tough to bear.
“You got this,” I say, forcing the words lightly through my lips in a hiss… Not really believing I “have” shit. It’s got me worried about everything from the DISH I’ve been diagnosed with, interfering with nerves, to kidney stones or even cancer.
What if it’s cancer?
The fatigue’s caught up with me. Had me stumbling about by the end of the evening, concerned I would collapse or seize out, next. “Get yourself to the bed,” I urged me, before I might possibly fall. Not wanting a trip to the ER, tonight, I reasoned. I’m sick of the hospital, the ER most of all. And I’m angry. I’m admitting anger. Doctor’s concerned with my spine as it runs through the neck, right now – not allowing the address of the real pain at the moment. The imaging center and spine center seem confused as to her orders to scan my neck, thinking she’s focused on some manner of pain, there, but that’s not where it’s at. Literally.
“My neck’s not hurting,” I’ve reported, surprising both. Then I explain what the doc’s got in mind. “She’s checking on DISH progress, there, in relation to nerve issues in my extremities,” which is itself an issue at hand, yeah, but it’s not my primary concern. The doc seems to be ignoring the roaring pain I’ve got in my right hip and kidney area, and that’s got me angry, as it’s this that’s keeping me up at night, both in worry and in pain. Yeah, she’s got me doing physical therapy and we’ve gotta follow steps in sussing out what’s going on, it’s true. But, with each passing night of restlessness comes further doubt that I’m being heard and it’s got me pissed. I’ve given up on another night of sleep, having moved over to my desk and keyboard. I’ve got little positivity to offer, I whisper to myself. Desiring to better put forth some image of- I dunno. Strength? Heroism, even?
“You’re strong,” friends have suggested. But I’m not. There’s certainly nothing “heroic” about me, either. I’m here using words to exorcise a physical demon and I’m not caring how weak I appear, I just wanna vent. I’ll write as much as I can get out there if it makes me forget even some of the pain while doing it, across the time of doing it. It’s not about garnering sympathy. I’m sure everyone’s tired of seeing it, hearing about it. Y’all have your own shit; few have the time for someone else to heap theirs before their faces. I want to be understood. Although being understood has less importance to me as I grow older. Some need to understand me. Some, like my care team. Others can’t be expected to care more than they’ve already expressed. And that’s okay. It’s gotta be okay. So why do I keep coming around, whining about my world?
The beverage I’ve selected to get me through the night is a K-cup’s-worth of coconut mocha coffee, its brand escaping me. By default, I was set to include a snack, but acquiesced to not as the pain’s got me more nauseous than normal. It flares up to this level now and then, however; when it does, I gulp down Pepto Bismol and hope for the best. There’s always a bottle of Pepto at hand. I don’t know if it helps. It’s more a- Where are my words. It’s comforting, having the Pepto close by, comforting to use it. I don’t think it’s doing anything for me, though. Nope. I can feel the progression. The shit’s getting worse, growing in affected area. I know it is.
Crap. What if it is cancer?
Shrug. “What if… What if…” If my aunt had balls, she’d be my uncle.