Hell In the Hallway

When God closes a door, he opens a window, but it's hell in the hallway...

The stats for my blog show that some of my very old posts are being read.  Hello Sister.  Welcome.  I'm a Sister too.

I don't know the how or why it happened, but I have stepped into, or fallen into, or been kicked into, some kind of spiraling vortex of melancholy, uncertainty, restlessness, and heaviness.  Sheesh.  Where did my peace go?  What happened to walking in faith?

I keep tellin myself Lighten up Sister, this ain't life or death this stuff on your plate right now, but my steps are so heavy, as if walking through tar.

Does that still count for walking in faith?

Black black gooey tar dripping and sticking with every step, making a damn mess everywhere.  Stuck in the muck without a dumptruck.

It could be worse.  I could still be on that period from hell.  Whoa.  You try workin and livin and surviving a period after not having one almost a year.  I didn't know what to do with myself, and thought I might possibly need a transfusion.  I thought hot flashes were bad enough.  You ain't lived till you're flashing and on your period.  It's over now but the melancholy lingers.  Oh dear.

Our furry Angel, Cassie, is home - vet sent her home with a shaved puppy tummy, meds, prescription dog food, and a bag full of rocks he took out of her gut.  If you saw the bag of bloody stones, only half of what there was and some as large as golf balls, your mouth would hit the floor as you gasped and said Holy Shit, as we all did.  Poor poor puppy, so happy she is home now.  Recovering.  Back in the pack.

I kept telling her we would bring her home.  She believes me now.

There is a boy in this house who played in his first high school Pep Band at a Friday night football game.  Band jacket and all, with his name embroidered on it, and the year 2015.

I graduated high school in 1976.

I am ancient.

But still getting the periods of a fifteen year old.

In other news, I am as lost as I have ever been settling on who will perform my reconstruction.  There is much to tell you about this, all kinds of appointments, meeting prospective candidates, impressive credentials, and then you look at the photos of their work.

Like Bride of Frankenstein.  Like somebody chopped a boob off a corpse and crudely stitched it onto a living woman.

If technical skill is a given, it all comes down to the art and aesthetics of re-creating a beautiful breast or a reasonable facsimile.  I would prefer a beautiful breast, but may have to settle for a fax of one.  and I'll tell you, the range of what I've seen is astounding, and a lot of it hard to look at and swallow.  As one plastic surgeon said to me "It's hard, really hard."

It's even harder choosing who to trust to do it, and then you hope to God they are In Network.  I just keep doing the homework and hope a clear choice will find me.  If not, I may be strapping the synthetic ones on far longer than I hoped. 

Later this week, I travel to So Cal to learn how to be a "Hero of Hope" for ACS.  When my coworker asked me recently "When you going on your trip?" I told him then confessed "They think I'm a hero.  I'm really just a big chicken who did some brave stuff."

"That's what makes a hero" he said.  Thank you Baby.

I'm hoping when I go, maybe they'll give me some kind of booster shot of heroism and hope, preferably not a shot, more like a spoonful of sugar, really really powerful sugar, sprinkled on top of a cupcake laced with Ativan.

and maybe
they can
help me
clean all of this
tar
off
of
me.

and by the way, when you go through airport security, should you have your fake boobs on, or in your suitcase?  What is the etiquette and appropriate security protocol to traveling with fake chimichangas?

Guacamole anyone?