It’s time, once again, for my regular Sunday Night Wallow. Aaaaaahhhhhh. Doesn’t matter how long or action-packed my week is, I can settle right back into that familiar time-triggered neurosis as if I never left. It’s familiar, and comfortable; I relax down into the invitation of a hot bath and then am stunned to find myself drowning in a chilly swamp. I’m kind of like the lab rat who can’t stop ringing for kibble even though each pellet comes with an electric shock.
The children have one week of school left. Kindergarten graduation–which promises to be a gala event, judging by the flurry of preparations and what little tidbits I’m gleaning from the Chickadee–happens this Thursday evening. Then Friday is the last day of school, and then I get to wonder what I was thinking until Labor Day.
I have two weeks to go before my surgery. I plan to spend that time doing the expected things. This week, while I still have three school days to myself, I will take care of any “business” things that still need tending to. The next week, the kids and I will clean house and grocery shop and I will try to create some Quality Time. Oh, and I will get them packed for their trip to visit Fun Daddy’s Family (otherwise known as “the people who pretend I never existed”).
Interspersed across those two weeks, I will eat a lot of cookies, and do a lot of sit-ups (the theory being, the stronger your abdomen is before they slice it open, the sooner you can get out of bed without grimacing), and according to a piece of mail I received yesterday, I will attend… four pre-op medical appointments. One appointment to talk about what I’m doing and ask “all” my questions. (I will never ask ALL of my questions. I am, however, keeping a running list of those that are especially pertinent and/or don’t make me look like a total idiot.) One appointment for a pre-admission hospital interview. One appointment for a pre-op physical. And one appointment for pre-op bloodwork. My paperwork also contains my surgical date, with a hand-highlighted footnote cautioning that “Surgery time is very tentative.” I would like to know exactly how many appointments you get if the surgery time is firm…?
So, truth be known, I’m a little nervous. Okay, a whole lot nervous. Kind of terrified, actually. But I know everything is going to be fine. I do. I just wouldn’t be me if I didn’t dream up every possible morbid complication or tragic ending to this little life detour. Ditto for sharing my warped humor on these things; it’s the speaking aloud and mocking of all my worst fears that renders them less powerful. So my friends should indulge me, and laugh, dammit, not just look really uncomfortable when I comment that I just got my hair done and boy will I be pissed off if I have to have chemo.
So yeah baby, Sunday night! Lay it on me. Mile-long to-do lists, one baby tooth hanging on by the merest thread (but its owner shrieking if I so much as look at it), air conditioners needing installing, laundry, and oh yeah, a buttload of woulda-coulda-shouldas. Maybe, if I’d been, well, psychic, I would’ve set up some childcare for this summer (and hit the lottery to pay for it, too!) and so I wouldn’t have to be so stressed out about recuperating and tending to the kids. Maybe, if I’d been… hmmmm… someone else, I’d either still be married or be in a relationship, and not facing this alone.
Fact: I felt more alone while married, most of the time, than I have ever felt while single.
‘Nother Fact: Any time I catch myself pining for a significant other my stomach turns and that episode of the Simpsons with the Malibu Stacey doll replays in my mind. “Math is hard!” “Let’s go make some cookies for the boys!”
Most Annoying Fact: I am so not alone, but Sunday night with the TV on just for noise because you’re the only adult in a very large and lonely house is not interested in how many wonderful friends you have. Sunday night is an obnoxious bitch, that way.