On Sunday, I began a pet-sitting gig. I know, I know! But, before you start sending me ‘WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?’ messages, please know I have already been adequately lectured and understand the poor judgment I exercised when making this decision a couple of months ago. When I found out the date of my surgery, I canceled all my pet sit jobs, for obvious reasons, but this one I kept, because my only requirement was to take care of two delightful, low maintenance cats, and this place, in all honesty, is a little slice of heaven. It is nestled in the forest and is very tranquil, and I felt it was a perfect place to spend some time during my recovery. Luckily, the world has mostly stopped spinning, and my antibiotics have worked well enough to allow me to keep up my end of the bargain. In hindsight, and based on the pure shit luck I possess, I should have known better than agree to be somewhere so soon after surgery – sometimes, though, I simply forget who I am. I would have looked like a real jack if I had to cancel just days before their vacation, but thankfully, here I am.
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One day last week, my friend sent me a text to see how I was doing. I sent her a text back telling her what was going on, and her response was super appropriate, and hilarious, ‘You must have been a giant asshole in a past life or something.’ My reply to her, ‘Was I ever!!’ I suspect that during one of those lives I was downright abhorred and had no friends whatsoever. Though I am currently dealing with the fallout of the choices I made lifetimes before this one, it comforts me to know that I am now only an accidental asshole (I ALWAYS SAY SORRY YOU GUYS) and am surrounded by totally kick-ass friends. Thank goodness that, in this life, I am doing something right. I am not going to lie, though, it has been tough the past 14 days dealing with the consequences of the assholery that was practiced a lifetime or two before me.
When I woke up yesterday morning and raised my body to get out of bed, my first thought was ‘FUCK. THIS.’ It was not a Folgers-in-your-cup kind of morning. Instead, it was one that elicited tears and made me wonder how much better I would feel if I were dead.
Not only is my uterus trying to destroy me, but I have a pain in my back that is so extreme simply existing is taxing. When I met my Chiropractor for an assessment of my back, he asked me, with a hint of gleeful anticipation, ‘What makes your back feel better?’ and my deadpan response was, ‘Not breathing.’ The x-rays he took confirmed the no breathing thing, and his assessment was that I was totally not messing around. I needed help. My back is in bad shape, and since ‘not breathing’ is not an option, he devised a plan of attack intent on relieving me of the horror plaguing me on a daily basis.
The phone call I have been waiting for, for months, finally came on Thursday. The co-ordinator from my surgeon’s office called and told me that there was a cancellation, and my surgery has been scheduled for June 1st, instead of sometime in September. ‘NO. WAY?!’ I screamed in her ear. It was the best news I had received in a very long time, and it was impossible for me to contain my enthusiasm, so I didn’t even bother trying. Finally, I could see a flicker of light at the end of the very dark hell tunnel I have been living in and felt lighter than I have felt in a very long time.
What surgery am I having, you ask? Please allow me to take this opportunity to tell you. My surgeon is going to remove my asshole of a uterus from my body, by pulling it out my vagina.
WHAT? You asked! Well, okay, you didn’t, but you were probably wondering. Moving on.
A couple of nights ago, I had a plane crash dream. Not a big deal, I have been having plane crash dreams for years – which I suppose contributes to my need to shit a brick every damn time I board a plane. But what was unusual about this one was that I was actually inside the plane when it crashed. Now, typically what happens during this recurring hell dream is that I am standing somewhere watching a plane takeoff and immediately afterward it crashes. Like, it plummets to the ground right in front of me and explodes. If I am lucky, right before it hits the ground, it turns into an inflatable whale, gently lands on the ground and old men with walkers all safely disembark by sliding down the emergency exit thingy (hmm, thinking 20th Century Fox needs to hear my pitch for Cocoon 3).
On the morning of August 28th, 2014, at 9:45 in the morning I was sitting in a window seat on flight AC7738, and in the distance, perched atop the low-lying clouds, like a flawlessly crafted piece of art, sat the Manhattan skyline. I couldn’t help but notice how small, and insignificant it looked from so far away. But I already knew from my time previously spent there; it was anything but that. And it was for that very reason I was on that plane, that morning, anxiously awaiting touchdown and my first breath of New York City air. New York City is the love of my life, and as we approached – its vastness beginning to reveal itself – I sat hopeful, that somehow on the streets far below, she would be able to fix me. I was in desperate need of healing, and it was her I chose to help me. So, when I exited the airport shuttle in front of my hotel, I closed my eyes, inhaled the Manhattan air into my lungs and surrendered my broken self to the city…my love.
I was born in 1971, which means I am a true child of the 80’s. If you were born in the 80’s, sorry, it doesn’t count the same. You were just getting started. Meanwhile, I was sprouting hairs down there, riding out the angst of adolescence to the beat of Def Leppard and REO Speedwagon and driving around in a tree scented white Camaro with Rockaberry Cooler discreetly stashed between my legs. While you were learning to tie your shoes, I was outsmarting the local police department, and sporting stupidly teased bangs. I am a product of the 80’s. Not only was I raised in all its neon and hair teasing splendor, but I also survived to tell the tale.
Most of my friends are married, own homes, are parents and are on a career path that’s going to end with a well-earned pension. They all seem to have their shit sorted, are settled down and are adulting like normal people.
Then there’s me.
When I am out walking a dog and weaving my way through a new neighbourhood, I see not just homes, but lives. I see roots being planted. Stories being written. A place people call home. And I think, ‘How wonderful.’ But then. Then it happens. I hear the sound of a vacuum in a driveway and see someone cleaning out a minivan, see an open garage with boxes piled high – chaos stored within its walls, smell the scent of fresh laundry, notice unfinished renovations or see someone weeding their garden and instantly, I become anxious. What I see and smell reminds me that alongside all the ‘wonderful’ are things like chores, compromises, resentment, anger and unfulfilled dreams and I can’t help but wonder, ‘Are these people actually happy?‘ And as I continue on my way, I feel relieved, lucky in fact, that it’s not me. That nothing and nobody is waiting for me at home. I find domestication suffocating and thoroughly insufferable. The destiny that awaits me isn’t a white picket fence and routine. Oh no, out there waiting for me are lessons to learn, words to be written, Horizons to fly towards, and experiences that will lead me…to me, and my dreams. What has yet to make sense in my life, finally will, if I just stay on the path, I am on. Alone.
Yesterday I began pet-sitting for some new people. It did not get off to a good start, and I am now of the belief that it is imperative I stay extra on top of my game while I am here because it seems like if I don’t pay attention for even one second, something is going to go catastrophically wrong. Like for example, the cat is so large that when she lays down, she looks like a bath mat. It makes sense that this would be the week she explodes.
*This blog post was written in real time. I don’t even know if it makes sense. I have also decided I am not responsible for any of its content. I thought I was going to die. OKAY?*
My biggest fear in the world is flying – which is so weird because one of my dreams is to travel and see the world. My fear guarantees that when my dream comes true, I will spend a portion of it shitting my pants – a small price I am willing to pay if it means I will spend eternity reminiscing and celebrating instead of regretting.
Right now I am on a plane, and I think I am about to die. We are ascending, and I almost passed out twice already, due to the G-force I am experiencing. The pilot decided it would be best to head straight for the moon, instead of Calgary, like, right fucking now. (Dearest Pilot – HAVE YOU NO SOUL?) I have flown many times, but this ascent is unlike any I have ever experienced. So, I am documenting my final moments.