Yesterday I wrote. I birthed a flash fiction story. It was like passing a kidney stone. Painful, long process for something so small in the end. I was blubbering like a fool, crying so much I just let the tears fall because otherwise I’d have gone through an entire box of tissues just wiping them away. It’s as raw as you can get, as ugly as the memory that sparked it was. I pulled no punches. Today I kinda feel like a cancerous growth has been surgically removed from me. I’m about 5 pounds lighter. That deep thought process has ended, for now. I got out what had been simmering away and bothering me so much.
While I’m thrilled to have done that, and done it so successfully I can genuinely SMILE again, I am NOT thrilled with some of the shit that’s gone down since I’ve been in la-la land.
The counseling center my brother is going to is the same one I’ve been referred to. Basically, they gotta fix him – and do a fucking good job of it, too – before I make a phone call and let them get their clutches into me. So I’m VERY unhappy to know how unhappy HE is at the moment. He had an appointment yesterday and they’ve told him he must stop smoking marijuana FOR A MONTH before they’ll put him on any medication. A MONTH. 30 fucking days. He won’t fucking LIVE for 30 fucking days with nothing to slow him down. He’ll be bleeding out from his gut before a week goes by. And if somehow he manages to keep his underweight frame alive, he’ll have a fucking psychotic break or some such shit. AND I’LL HAVE TO BE THE ONE HERE WITH HIM, GOING THROUGH IT.
Goddamn fucking doctors telling everyone fucking shitty advice. THEY don’t have to be there when the shit hits the fan. Oh, no. Then it’s make a fucking appointment, sorry, no room today when you have a fucking emergency, you should have thought you’d have an emergency 5 fucking days ago so you could have made your fucking appointment ahead of time. Bullshit.
He got angry at them yesterday; said they did the scribble thing on pads while he yelled at them about not being able to slow down or sleep or rest or eat. He told them they were being judged, which they probably thought was some sort of delusional complex on his part, when he actually meant to say my sister needs help from you motherfuckers, too, and if you don’t pony up and help me, she ain’t comin’ in to hear your shit.
I did manage to get out yesterday to help myself. It wasn’t noon, it was 3 p.m. And I went to the chemist first, to see if there was an over the counter something that could help. Geez, I never looked at the over the counter section before here in NL. You know what they got? Aspirin, paracetamol, TUMS, and candy-coated syrups that don’t do shit for a cough. Didn’t realize they were that tight-assed on meds here. I knew they were tight, but DAMN! That’s tight. So I picked up some more paracetamol and headed to the doctor’s office. Unfortunately, my doc was leaving early ’cause her kid was sick (hmmmm….something going around, then). Seeing her tomorrow morning. I’m feeling a little better each day, but at this rate it’ll be sometime in late September before I feel my ears have finally unclogged….
How strange it is to need to see a doctor for a head cold or sinus infection. I mean, I was always TOLD that in the states – go see your doctor. Eighty bucks for them to take your fucking temperature kept me away from doctors. And that was in the old days. I’m sure it’s more now. I’d do what so many in the states did: go to the local Walgreens and pick up some tincture or pill over the counter. Stay home from work for as long as my checkbook could handle not getting paid, then back to work whether or not I was healthy because damn! You gotta make rent. So I feel kinda stupid for actually going in and making an appointment, because I spent so many years having to disregard my health just to keep alive. But things are different here. Doctors want to see you for every little problem. My doc actually takes notes on my symptoms and progress. And she’s mastered her caring face; I don’t know if she’s really that empathetic or not, but she can sure put her facial features into a look that reassures me that she’s listening and she gives a damn if I’m in distress. And it helps a LOT to not have to pull out your wallet every time you see the doctor. Doc fees are part of health insurance. I don’t have to even BRING my fucking wallet when I see the doctor. Or pick up meds. It’s all included. (My sincere apologies to everyone who is jealous of my situation. I wish you could all experience this type of social care. I think it’s criminal that you don’t have a system like this. I also think it’s important you understand what other people in the world have access to, so you know what to fight for.)
*sigh* Logistically, there’s just a lot of shit to do right now. Shit like cleaning and dishes and shopping, oh my! Gotta step back up to the fucking plate. Doing a little more each day but still getting my ass kicked with exhaustion after about an hour. Cat napping; out cold for 15 minutes then restless. Getting sick of pounding juice. Feeling like I’m all liquid inside, don’t squeeze too hard or I’ll just piss on the spot. Wish my fairy fucking godmother would get her ass in gear. She’s several decades late, and I could sure use a wave of her magic wand to clear up everything and do my hair in the bargain, too.
And ya know the funniest thing that’s still hanging in my head? Coming back from the doc’s yesterday I passed a jogger who checked my rack. Undeniably; eyes slid down and FASTENED on my tits. Wow. I’m 49, sick as a dog, and a guy is checking out my boobs. Gotta give myself credit again; the upper body work from swimming has done loads to give my chest an extra popped out look, even tho I’m pretty small in breast size. The craziest thing is, I felt this perverse pride when the guy was checking me. Like, I still got it. Old and sick and out of shape and I still got it.
The dame’s still got game, people.