Happy Valentine’s Day, Messpots. Today isn’t just a day to share the love with others, it’s also a great opportunity to practice self love. I finally broke down and decided to get an appointment with my doctor to talk about my increasing desire to start hissing at people. Not really. Well, maybe sometimes. It’s really more how I’ve been feeling so overwhelmed with stress. Sometimes my anxiety overwhelms my thoughts and I simply can’t focus. Hissing seemed like the logical next step. It was better than biting. Truly neither are the best approach.
As I talked with the nurse about why I was there, I had trouble putting it into words. I know that I feel irritated with the world some days and chest pain some days, and some days I feel both. I know that even though my mind says I’m 21, my body knows it’s not. I’m getting to that age when a woman begins to understand why PMS was just the pre-show to the real event.
Maybe I’m already there? Maybe that’s why I want to resort to hissing and the occasional biting? That’s the question today. Am I ready to start wearing my Bea Arthur collection and start calling my mother “Ma” in an Italian accent? I don’t know but I just don’t want to be labeled crazy even if I am.
Naturally, when I told the nurse about the chest pains, she suggested an EKG. That’s not a bad idea except for the fact that I’m wearing about 16 shirts today. As I stripped down, she asked me if I have any metal in my bra. To which I instantly replied no since I cannot wear demon wire bras. I seriously do not care if my mammaries are dragging the floor like Quasimodo’s arm, I will not wear them. But I forgot that my bra had a little decorative metal piece in the center. Why? Who thought a little dangly gold circle the size of a tick was the international symbol for big busted women? Instead of letting my Basset Hound ear boobies flop to the floor, I asked for a pair of scissors. I am certain it was at this point the nurse knew, she just knew. “This chick is nuts.”
I gracefully took the scissors, and took my glasses off since I can’t see up close with them on, and proceeded to cut the dangly gold obstacle out of the way. She asked me if I wanted to keep it. My face probably showed what I was thinking. If I can’t see to cut it off, pray tell how would I see to sew it back? Shall I take my big mama jama bra to the seamstress and request this ridiculously small adornment be sewn back on? No. Insert mild hissing.
After she tossed it into the trash, I thought about teasing her and say, “oh wait, can we get it back? I think I do want to add cross-eyed to my list of afflictions.” I thought better of myself and let her proceed to attach the EKG stickers to my baby soft skin. I didn’t wake up baby soft. Bath and Body lotion helped me get that way and also encouraged the stickers to slide all over the place. I figured by the time she got done with it, I would be hauled off in the ambulance after a false positive for heart failure. Luckily, it was all fine.
Then I had to put back on my gaggle of shirts. As the nurse was making her exit, I became quite entangled in my shirt. How? I’m glad you asked. I wore a shirt with a button at the back of the neck. This button got caught on the bobby-pins that were in my hair. Picture the nurse half way out the door and I, as a grown woman, have my head stuck in my shirt. I can’t see so I’m flapping my arms around begging her not to leave. It was at this point, I told her I was probably not coming back since this experience was going to be seared into her brain, as well as all of those watching from the hallway. Embarrassing does not begin to cover it.
On with the point of this story…with my inflammatory diseases, I end up in a vicious cycle. The pain causes irritability. The irritability causes anxiety. The anxiety causes pain. Throw in the occasional hot flash and stabbing headache. And, repeat until you feel like a candidate for the psych ward. I couldn’t deal with it all. There’s got to be a solution. My desire is not to be a martyr for psoriatic arthritis, rheumatoid arthritis, menopause, depression, or any of the myriad of things that could afflict me. Solutions don’t just walk up to us. We have to recognize when we aren’t ourselves and then do something about it.
That’s what I decided to do today. I didn’t want to end up in an orange jumpsuit or in stripes. Both clash with my hair. They certainly don’t give you fancy lotion in jail or allow you to wear dangly flamingo earrings. Straight up, that’s where I was headed if I took the hissing and biting route.
I’ve given it to God. I’ve exercised my faith that He will hold me through it all but I firmly believe God expects me to use the resources available to me. I don’t want to be like the one who was drowning, waiting on God to reach down with His hands to pluck them from the water. The helicopter came, threw down the rope, and they said, “no, I’m waiting on God to show up.” Duh, where do you think the rope came from? Faith without what is dead? Action.
We can’t do what God does but we can do something with what he gives us. Today, my action was to provide comedic relief in the doctors office and use the resources God made possible to help me. It may not be the ultimate solution but it’s a start. Happy Valentine’s Day to me. It’s better than ending up hissing, biting, and making my one phone call.
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