Relief

As you probably noticed, I’ve been a little off my game for the past week or so.  There have been no references to glitter.  I’ve broken three drinking glasses.  My house is dirtier than Lindsay Lohan’s crotch.  My fridge is emptier than Sarah Palin’s mind.  Hell, I don’t think I’ve made a vagina joke in days.

Yesterday, while I was trying to find a parking space for the car, Rod Stewart came on the radio and I thought to myself, “Maybe he isn’t SO bad.”

I know.  Who IS this person and what has she done with Elly, right?

As is typical with my brain this week, I completely forgot about my appointment with the shrink…until the alarm on my phone rang a mere fifteen minutes before I was supposed to be there.  Flustered and out of breath, I complained about my attention span and inability to focus since our last appointment.  We came up with several possible reasons: many of her patients are suffering from allergies these days, the heat increases exhaustion, I probably didn’t sleep well away from home.  Then somehow the conversation turned to my dear friend and his blood work.

“And what would it mean if his PSA‘s didn’t drop?” Dirty Diana asked me yesterday.

I exploded a rambling string of words.  “It would mean a much colder, emptier world.  It would mean heartache.  It would mean a deeply personal loss for me.  It would just be wrong.  He makes the world a better place.  He brings me and every person he meets such joy.  I can’t hear his name and not smile.  He’s witty.  He’s beautiful.  He’s generous.  He’s intuitive.  He’s just magic.  He is incredibly dear to me.”  I paused to look her in the eye.  “I’m just not ok with that possibility.”

Dirty Diana paused a beat then said, “Maybe allergies aren’t the only reason for your fatigue and confusion.”

*sigh*  I hate it when she’s right.

I guess I’ve been more worried about my loved ones and their battles with cancer than I fully realized.  It’s funny how the brain works…and how it doesn’t.  How it shuts down to avoid what it can’t process.  How it constructs detours around those sensitive areas so technically you’re still functioning, but at a much diminished capacity.

But this morning, the good news came.  His PSA’s dropped.  The chronic pain from the tight scar tissue in my chest is gone and I can breathe again.  Which is good because I can’t stop these random tears of joy and you can’t blow your nose without a good inhale first.

So I need to send Yoko Ono a thank you note.  That wishing tree of hers really seems to work.  Maybe I’ll wait until we get Sarah through all her stuff and send Her Royal Yoko-ness a fruit basket.


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13 thoughts on “Relief

  1. You know when people talk about this or that being the best feeling in the world? They’re wrong. RELIEF is the best feeling in the world. I’m delighted you got you some relief. And I wish your loved ones the very best.

    Also it wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t a BIT crude in a comment, so BALLSACKS!

  2. That is awesome news.

    Not so good on the Rod Stewart bit of him not being bad. I am having ovarian cramps because of that and I think one of my ovaries hiccuped or vomited.

  3. I’m with VegAss.

    Also, you explained it perfectly.

    “It would mean a much colder, emptier world. It would mean heartache. It would mean a deeply personal loss for me. It would just be wrong. He makes the world a better place. He brings me and every person he meets such joy. I can’t hear his name and not smile. He’s witty. He’s beautiful. He’s generous. He’s intuitive. He’s just magic. He is incredibly dear to me.” I paused to look her in the eye. “I’m just not ok with that possibility.”

  4. By the way that wishing tree DOES totally work because I’ve got Stewart chained to my radiator right now.
    Yoko Ono, you may have really annoyed the other Beatles but you are okay in my book.
    The universe works in mysterious ways. With you unable to utter a vagina joke my own child took up the cause and broke down barriers by making it his new favorite word.
    See how things end up?
    Seriously though, so glad your buddy is okay and by the way I’m imagining your shrink as Barbera Streisand in Prince of Tides.

    1. She’s actually my age and super hip. So you know, intimidating as hell. I haven’t tricked her into saying vagina yet. Then my life will be complete. You know, after we get arrested at BlogHer.

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