I write to process. There has been much to process but inadequate words. I need more words in my brain. I think I want to carry around a thesaurus just to feel capable.
Every time I move to a place in my life where Chad is in my past he sends a text “I’m checking on you” and it’s the text I cling to because I don’t actually talk to anyone. I wish he weren’t the person that gets all of my emotional vomit. But then I get a text that offers to go to the doctor with me. I think to myself that I must be some fantastic loser to need my ex boyfriend to go to the doctor with me.I can’t take him up on this offer and I secretly wish everyone could see this side of him. I get done with the doctor and text him that I’m done and at the coffee shop. I’m about to launch into a huge text about the visit when he says he’s leaving his place and will meet me.
I have good/bad news. I do not have lung cancer or breast cancer. I do have a pretty advanced emphysema despite having never smoked. I’m being referred to a pulmonary specialist to start management treatments. That’s all the information I have. That isn’t all the emotion I have. Coffee and tea and I manage to not flip the table over in a fit of rage.
He quietly listens as months of holding in well… everything.. comes flowing out of me. I should have declined his offer. Except that when I repeat these things to my daughters or my friends I need grace. And so he gets my jumbled up mess inside my head and offers me a cigarette. I think he’s an emotional masochist and needs these interactions as much as I do. That’s what I tell myself. He gives me bubbles, gives me details about choking his girlfriend out (a hard limit of his he refused to do with me) and tells me my shirt is ugly before he leaves. Perhaps we are both emotional masochists.
I was born into health issues and have scars from fighting to stay alive. I have scars inside my brain from surviving the 500 hall and fighting to stay alive. I have a scar slashed across my chest. I’ve done more than my fair share of fighting. I’m still here. But I’m so fucking tired. I will take the new medication and go see the new doctor and do all the things that need to be done.Again. Bright side: it’s not cancer. I like breathing, it’s among my favorite things. Of course it’s going to be hard. Of course it is. That’s the way it is and I’m trying to get to the place of graceful acceptance as quickly as I can.
The doctor is recommending cardio. Cardio.
Well alright then.