Drama Llama

I was at my neuro-opthalmogist’s office yesterday, mostly just a check up (my cornea’s good — YEA!) but also to ask her to enter my eyeball med needs into the system for the post-op neuro-ward team. So many loose ends to attend to before I enter this next game!

Now then, I’ve long felt that referring to these procedures as BRAIN surgery, sounds ridiculously melodramatic — like “at least it’s not brain surgery.” Well actually, yes, it is. Still, sounds kinda over the top, no? Lately I’ve taken to calling them “craniotomies” — technically accurate AND less drama mamma-y.

Doc Jacobs surprised me by using that term — brain surgery — to refer to next Friday’s fun time. Huh, maybe it’s not such a Histrionic Harry term. It’s just my weird-ass reality.

Right now, I feel like I’m waiting at second base. The batter who’s up will hit one that'll get me to third but probably not home. That’s mostly on me, not him. He’s gotta deal with the pitch he’s thrown. My pitch, my wonk-ass brain.

There are no promises BUT my cutter is brill, I trust him—he’s not gonna take stupid, ego stroking chances. This really is the only instance when I like the term conservative. Barker won’t be timid by any means but he’s no showboater. Fucking PHEW!

I feel bad for the folks who love and worry about me. They’re stressing right now too. A LOT! I wanna help, put their minds/hearts at ease but there really is only so much I can do. Ultimately, this shit’s in the hands of the Fates, S’ok though, I slipped in a bribe — fancy, high, grade yarn and shit from my brief “oh yeah, I’m gonna join the knitting brigades” days.

I can’t be magically well for them (YET!) but I can refrain from wallowing in fear. I can be realistic without engaging in doom scenarios. I can just be my usual obnoxiously silly self. Best thing I can do is accept my physical limitations (both immediate and, possibly, upcoming), NOT overdo, rest when I’m tired, strive for chill-age AND let them help. Self care helps all of us. While there are days when I want to just have everyone else take the wheel, this is my fucking bus to drive. And, with their help, I will.

Bon bons help. Not those horrid ones with pink insides though— those are always a stone disappointment. The fuck they supposed taste like? Cherry? Raspberry? Strawberry? Jen gets me bon bons from a talented, high toned local chocolatier but STILL, the pink filled ones are more redolent of chemicals than fruit.

Hmmph.

Below is this morning's dawn. Hopefully, in another month or so, I'll be able to get out to take my own pics again. Meantime, mega grazie and shit to Ten!