I washed my sheets last night.
Which it turns out, is right up there with washing your car to induce the rain.
Because this morning; I woke up to a bloody massacre.
How’s that for some disturbing imagery?
Alas, it would appear that Jack The Ripper is in town. And my insides are less than pleased.
I have to be honest though – it’s not as bad as it was last month. Yes, there are cramps. There's even the hint of that sting beneath my rib cage that I'm trying desperately to ignore. Yes, I’m bloated. In fact, I actually gained 5 pounds overnight. My back is killing me, my skin is a mess, and I kind of just want to be in bed sleeping, but…
I was functional. Completely and totally functional without even needing to pop a single ibuprofen.
OK, so my day probably would have been much improved if I had popped a single ibuprofen, but I was on this mission. This completely bizarre mission that I’m pretty sure only paints the picture of a girl who has clearly stepped into hypochondriac territory.
I wouldn’t let myself take anything for the pain today, because I convinced myself that I needed to be fully aware of exactly how much pain I was in so that I could attempt to preemptively determine what Thursdays appointment may tell me.
Yes, I’ve lost my mind.
The thing is, in my full ability to function despite Jacks visit, I’ve started to question if anything really is wrong at all.
I mean, if it were coming back – wouldn’t I be doubled over in pain? Wouldn’t I be reduced to tears and unable to eat? Wouldn’t the bloat be pushing me up two pant sizes and the ache in my back rendering me incapable of walking?
Wouldn’t it be as bad as it once was? Or at least somewhere nearing that same level?
I’m starting to wonder if maybe I wasn’t making up the aches and pains I felt over the last 2 weeks. There were a lot of things going on around here. Work has been chaotically busy, and as happy as I’ve been with life in general – there have also been a lot of changes and rearranging of almost everything. I know I was stressed last week. I was taking everything in stride, and those around me kept commenting on how calm and rational I was being about a few of the bumps that came up along in the road, but… I know I was stressed.
So maybe in that stress, I made it all up? The pulling, the aching, the discomfort. Maybe it was all just a figment of my imagination?
Or even a physical manifestation of that mental discomfort?
I don’t know. I want it to be that. I want to go into this appointment on Thursday and have them tell me that I’m crazy. That there isn’t a single new cyst in sight. That I’m the picture of health.
I want to believe that it was all just stress.
But I have to admit – I’m terrified that it’s not.
I managed to spend my weekend laughing. Spending time with one of my best friends and forgetting about all that plagued me. I managed to ignore the state of my insides.
But right now, it may be all I can think about.
As I force myself to go on without pain pills. Solely because I need to know I can.
For the first time in 4 months though, I have pulled down my heating pad. I had a heck of a time finding it, and I kept reminding myself how blessed I am for that fact alone. How amazing it is that this once permanent fixture in my life has been so absent that I couldn’t even remember where I last put it.
But now, here I am. Lying in bed with the heating pad affixed to my back.
Willing Jack the Ripper away.
But at the same time, bidding him to stay.
Because at least with Jack in town, I have an explanation for the pain. A reason that makes sense. That doesn’t necessarily indicate sickness or disease.
I don’t want to be that girl again. The girl who is in pain. Who is exhausted. Who is broken down and losing pieces of herself to a disease she cannot control.
I don’t want to be that girl.
And I just don’t want to go in on Thursday and find out that she is on her way to returning.
I don’t want to be her. I don’t want to see her ever again.
Because as far as horror flicks go, she is more frightening to me than Jack The Ripper ever could be.
ADSPACE
