Nursie-poo says I need to come back, all the scary test results returned with a HALLELUJAH negative, but there weren’t enough cells for them to complete the scariest of all. She also rambled about my thyroid – which has behaved itself to the best of my knowledge since that radioactive iodine uptake over ten years ago – but I’d already checked out.

Let’s back up. What. The. F___. Not enough cells? For what, cloning me? I’m pretty awesome with my grey streak and sharp wit, but let’s not go overboard. How many do they need? And really, when you’re shoving a toilet brush up my hoo-hah so far I actually used the sweat sock covered stirrups to bear down, I’M CERTAIN you got more than your fair share of my fleshy bagel.

But yeah, okay, I’ll cut my over-earned vacation short to come for a bad boomerang visit because it has to be a certain time in my cycle and you’ve got a drunk frat boy working in your lab. Sounds like a hoot!

So I get there painfully early (as I arrive everywhere painfully early, a side effect of waiting on my perpetually tardy father during those dark days before cell phones) and sit reading and guzzling water in the lobby for half an hour next to a woman and her one month old who are chaperoned by every woman in her family over 30 because she clearly can’t be trusted to carry this precious cargo to a check-up on her own, or because they’re that bored. The latter is more likely since they were passing a cell phone around & yammering on in Spanish as the clock ticked like tar and I intermittently checked to see if their volume knob was somewhere I could reach.

When I couldn’t take it anymore – and by that I mean I figured it was close enough to my appointment time that I could check in without being judged – I went upstairs to find a continuation of my nightmare that will surely catapult me straight to hell for even considering documenting.

A creature I’d never fathomed was in the waiting room: a blind woman screwing with her cellphone that talked to her while babbling to no one in particular about how loud her phone is and how it doesn’t allow her privacy. Ohhhhhkaaaay. So for the next 15 minutes I endure her telling someone at the office how to sort files by type in Windows Explorer, and when it was finally, joyously over snapping her phone shut and muttering a hostile remark about mentoring.

Both impressed and annoyed (I had never contemplated a blind woman going for a pap smear and my imagination now has far too much fodder), I was not to be outdone.

When my name is finally called, I shift my mindset to a single focus: to be the first person to ever heed the request of the lab tech via her pleading post on the wall of the sterile loo – to write both my first and last name on the specimen cup. Oh, but wait. I plan to take the game to a whole new level and do so legibly.

Not to toot my own horn, but I accomplished my mission with execution that should earn me a gold medal, and don’t think for a second that I wasn’t tempted to take a picture. The only thing stopping me (with the exception of you seeing my legal name) was that in the time it takes to launch the camera on my nearly antique iPhone 3G, the nurse surely would have assumed I was taking an atomic poop. Which I wasn’t. In fact, I’m shamed I even wrote/typed that word. No one but the lab tech and I and I may ever know how skilled I am, and you, if you believe. Do you believe, Peter?

Off to delousing station #3, where I get to do that thing we all dread and push the red button on the wall and wait…eyeballing the tiny torture instrument on the counter and attempting a telepathic ceasefire with an inanimate object.
I swear it looks just like the little device I’d get from my orthodontist when I wore braces with bands to get the chunks of Wonderbread out of their homesteads between my brackets.

They look like this, and I bet my GYN pays more for them than I would at CVS.

Now, boys; I encourage you to imagine having that bit of modern medicine shoved up your pee hold and swept around a bit, because that makes you even with every woman reading this whose knees just clamped shut at the memory of her last visit and filled with dread for her next. Unless you’ve had children, in which case you’ve seen and heard worse and I’m sorry for that, but let’s be honest, that’s your own damn fault.

It’s all normal from there except for the part where she talks about my misbehaving thyroid while my ass hangs out the back of the threadbare sheet on my lap I attempted to pull around me. She asks if I’m tired. Sure I’m tired, but am I tired because I’m aging and had a 5 year bout where the most exercise I got was standing for 3 hours at a time during a Tweet-Up, or am I aging and tired because of the thyroid?

Either way, I’m going to take synthroid every day. With all that said, I’m writing this on my yellow tablet (see previous illustration) at my favorite haunt where I waddled in mentally willing that feeble cotton attempt to control the possible aftermath of my assault not to fall out the leg of my shorts (every woman reading this knows what I’m talking about, don’t act like you don’t).

What IS that? I mean I know what it was, but really – “here’s a pantyliner in case you bleed out from my having just scraped 10% of your lady bits off your cervix with a device we haven’t bothered improving on since the middle ages.”? It isn’t quite the antidote I’d go for after such an…interaction.

In fact, I motion that there should be a bar between the exam room and the checkout counter.

That beautiful nugget of innovation? Another of my under appreciated talents.

Yesterday was a blue sky, sun hovering in that sleepy spot on the horizon kind of day here – and eerily, unexpectedly, moderately warm. A rarity these days to be sure, which can only mean Mother Nature must not have known I was planning to go for a walk or she would have made it rain. Again. Always with the rain. As it was she kicked up the wind on us, but too late old woman. Too late.

Had a decadent 5 mile walk with my girl J down The Beltline and around a bit of the park. Talks of singledom and partnerdom and work challenges and heath hiccups passed effortlessly while we waged a strategic stealth assault on my muffin top/bottom/cream filled center.

When I met The Mc, I’d just gone to a wedding where I’d worn a size 0 dress. My wardrobe was full of size 2 suit skirts, I had a six pack and ran 5 nights a week*. Then that courting thing started, with lazy Saturday mornings complimented by Belgian waffles and a pound of bacon and more laziness and the next thing you know, POOF: Stay-Puff-Marshmallow Girl.

I’ve tried – oh how I’ve tried – to get back in some sort of routine to shake these extra 10, 15, now 20 pounds. I tried boot-camp, I tried Weight Watchers, most challenging of all – I downloaded apps to my iPhone.

The fact is, nothing takes it off my like a good routine and having my heart rate up for an hour +, and if I’m out going for a walk with a friend I’m not spending money in a bar/restaurant. BAM!

Last night I snapped at The Mc when I’d slid the pocket door closed in the bedroom and he asked what I was doing. “Taking my FAT picture…gahhhh”. And I did. Profile and front on shots (which should make for a real pretty triptych), and I weighed myself (oh Gad) which I’m not quite ready to share, but eventually. I will. 2011 is my year of transparency, even when it hurts.

Anyway — if you need me, I’ll be walking. Probably to California.

*I was also broke, which helped the whole run vs. eat out with friends program. Pic of 6 pack, NSFW

At least, I think it was love. Either way, it passed like that “headache” I got on prom night.

Perimenopause is like puberty in reverse. Remember the days of sweaters around your waist? They’re back. Never knowing when she’s going to show up? Also back. Not knowing how angry or vindictive she’s going to be when she gets here? You got it. Oh, the joy.

On top of several months of that delight, I had a different surprise last week.

Listening to my body as I do, when something wasn’t right a few months ago, I locked in. I focused and monitored and documented. Like a fat girl and a skinny girl on a see-saw I had it front of mind then ever so briefly and with great effort to back of mind and then it stuck, front of mind. Months later, when documentation was as informative as it needed to be and I had avoided going to the doctor for long enough thankyouverymuch I called and went in. This brings us to last week, and the rookie nurse who left a mark on my arm drawing blood that makes me look like a junkie.

That wasn’t enough, though, and my good Dr. Ruth (shut up! Her name really is Ruth.) confirmed what I already knew – that one of these things is not like the other. That there was something on/near/in the same zip code as my uterus that clearly wasn’t invited or intended. “No, it’s not a pony”, she said. Damn it.

The worst part of any medical malady could be the waiting and the voices in your head that fill that space between identification of the issue and the appointments or appointments and results, or results and action plans, or action plans and a Doctor as the BFF lifeguard of the pool of youth yelling “adult swim over, all swim!” I tell myself that I’ve been through this before – more or less every 6 months for nearly 15 years (has it been so long already!?!). That’s only kind of true, and further proof that the voices in my head are constantly battling and bickering. With my boobs it was early in life, when I was still ignorant and invincible. I’ve grown into it, now it’s just as much a part of me as the gray hair. But this is different. I’m not invincible anymore.

This morning The Mc was every bit the generous and kind spirit I fell in love with. He drove us to the hospital, trying his damnedest to keep my spirits up as I pounded the 32 oz of water in an hour (!!!) prescribed, even if I kinda think he was trying to make me pee and the hoisted spirits were a byproduct. His smile and hand squeezes were the only comfort I could ask for.

After the seemingly eternal check in with said 32 oz of water sloshing around in places I don’t like to think about, the radio tech took a quick peek at my belly via ultrasound from the outside, then insisted on looking from the inside. That shit right there should be illegal, my friend. I’m pretty sure she was up there so far she went back in time.

And now, we wait. The Mc worked from home this afternoon and after a nice lunch together and some cuddles, I took off to process and do intern homework and write a bit.

I’ve called my tribe together to meet me tonight at my favorite pub – to talk about anything but this, to laugh and love and bridge part of the gap while the 2-3 days between now and the results trickle past.

While [rationally] I’m sure it’s nothing, right now [emotionally] I feel old, and fragile, and broken. I’m a little angry that I did everything right and there’s still something wrong, and I’m a little bitter about the piddly crap people – me included – whine about when there are bigger, uglier, scarier issues out there (feels a lot like when my folks passed, oddly enough). In the end though, the beauty of it all – if there is anything beautiful about it at all – is that love takes the edge off. I’m thankful for those in my life who have love to spare and who share with me, and I’m thankful I’m able to ask for and receive it.

It all started when I learned that my very, very healthy father (seriously…the body of a-40-year-old inside that of a 70-year-old man) failed a stress test and then a heart catheterization, revealing he needed immediate quadruple bypass surgery. Yes…open heart surgery. You would think that would make the walls close in, right? But it didn’t. I took that one right in the gut and then started planning how to get there. It required me to jump ship from a very important global meeting at work…right in the middle of the heavy activity…egos flying, masses of people from around the world trying to make their mark in the corporate headquarters…very entertaining, really. And, boom…I had to walk in and say, “I know this is the most important moment of the year for most of you at work. I’m sorry, but I have to leave now.” They all seemingly understood, shuffled me out and went about their business.

In two hours, I changed my plans 3 times due to the time of day and the fact that I had to get from Washington DC to Florida where my father’s surgery was taking place 1 ½ days later, but I also needed to stop off at home in Georgia to get more clothes and explain to my family why I would have to miss our planned family trip for the weekend…just a beloved Aunt’s 70th birthday – an Aunt from my husband’s side so my father’s health and well-being didn’t really affect her until now. So, off I went — rushing through DC traffic to the airport, headset on, calling travel agents and airlines to get me home and then into my car the next day for a 7 ½ hr drive to the hospital in Florida. Still no closing in walls…no look of terror hoping I could blow this popsicle stand and never look back. Just a very matter-of-fact planning opportunity.

I arrived home late that night, assuaged my 12 year old’s fears and frustrations that Grandpa was sick, that I’d be missing her drama performance at the end of the week and wouldn’t be taking an air travel adventure with her and the rest of the family later that weekend. I got up in the morning and explained it all to my very annoyed and clingy 7-year-old and then hopped in the car to head off on my long journey toward the hospital a state away. On the ride, I took conference calls for work and jumped off to manage the family calls. The last two hours of this exciting drive was a torrential downpour that required me to drive 40 mph without being able to see much through my windshield, even with wipers at full speed. Finally, I arrived. I made it to the room to find my father alone and waiting looking scared shitless. My tough father looked like he might weep like my 7-year-old son had done that morning. Still, no urge to run creeping up on me. I walked in confidently, gave him my “you’re strong and can do this, but you’ve got to make it all mind over matter” speech. And, waited as family and friends trotted in and kept time moving.

I got a kick out of the nurse…Debi…who kept speaking to my father in baby talk. It seems they had forgotten to feed him and she came in to apologize by saying things like “Did they forget your yummies, sweetheart. I sorwy.” I had a moment where I almost stood up and popped her. I held back but did feel a bit of awe at the fact that I was feeling no emotions at all except anger and frustration. Sadness, not yet. Fear, not really. A bit of love, but the most relevant feeling was a general pissy-ness. I chalked it up to travel exhaustion. And, when visiting hours were over, I went to dinner with my sister and my Dad’s wife and tried to laugh with them. I even showed them a series of You Tube videos of Bon Qui Qui on Mad TV to give us some common humor to get through the next day. It was tense and forced, but light-hearted…I’m sure you can imagine.

We got about 5 hours of restless sleep that night and returned by 6 a.m. to the hospital to see my father off to his surgery. At this point, his fear was palpable and I did feel some nerves myself but…still…no need to run and hide. We sent him off, had our coffee and tea, went out and made some calls and waited and waited. We took some visitors while waiting and got calls from the operating room along the way…his veins have been harvested…then, he’s on the bypass machine….much, much later…he’s back on his own heart…and then, 7 hours in…the doctor came out to tell us he did great. He’s in great shape and should recover really well. We breathed a sigh of relief. I ran to get us some lunch. The hospital food was nasty and I knew my Dad’s wife would like something different. I was trying to be supportive of her. After all, my Dad really seems to love her a lot.

Several more hours passed before we could see him. When we finally could, he still had a breathing tube and couldn’t talk to us but he made hand motions to let us know he was doing fine…thumbs up…charades for “what time is it?” and “my leg hurts the most.” We left for them to remove the breathing tube and returned 45 minutes later to feed him ice chips and hear his story. He was in decent spirits and had more color. There were tubes full of blood and other bodily fluids coming out of him everywhere and people in nearby rooms moaning, but we had a sense of relief, love and happiness. Still, no need for me to bolt…it wasn’t even on the horizon. He was tired. He asked to sleep. His wife wanted to stay even though we’d been told not to.

So…this is where I should say… his wife is lovely by most people’s accounts. She has been a recent addition to our family …in the past 10 years…she’s a bit of an “I will do anything for my man” petite little southern thing who I probably wouldn’t see eye-to-eye with in the real world, but for family visits 3-4 times a year and the fact that my Dad is content and happy and settled, I think she’s just fine. She’s pretty ditzy and gives way too much affection to him in public for my tastes…grosses me out a bit and makes for good, old-fashioned step-mother stories for me to share with friends. So, when he was lying there all tubed up and she kept trying to rub him, I was a bit over it. I suggested she stay on if she’d like and I’d go home, do some quick shopping and make us a light dinner that would keep until whenever she got there.

I think that’s when things turned. She looked at me as if I had spoken another language and said… “That won’t do. I don’t eat red meat.” I guess that would be an appropriate response if I had said I was going to make steak or a big meal, but I said light AND I’ve been a vegetarian for the better part of 20 years. So, it was a little off. I chalked it up to a stressful day, laughed it off and told her to come on when she could.

So, after the long, long day, my sister took a swim in their backyard pool and called friends, while I shopped and cooked a dinner. When, the wife arrived home, dinner was 10 minutes away from completion. She began downing wine and making odd phone calls. Before I knew it, dinner was ready and she was still wandering the house with the phone to her ear and wine bottle in hand…she managed to drain the entire thing in about 45 minutes on an empty stomach and stumble around after that. We asked twice if she’d like to eat and she waved us off. We ate and then she came out afterwards and decided to dig in. It was then, that my family — my husband and kids — had a problem on their trip to the Aunt’s birthday up north, and I began to get phone calls of need…their rental car wasn’t going to be there when their delayed flight arrived; they didn’t have a place to stay or know where to go. So, I got on the phone to fix it. When it was all said and done, I came out and sat where the wife was sitting…well kind of lolling…wine drunk and all. I vented about having to handle that after such a stressful day. She listened a bit but got up to half-ass clean the dishes and ended up not being able to focus long enough so that, a few hours later, I found the food I cooked sitting open on the counter congealing.

As it was coming up on 10 p.m. and we’d all had a long day, I went to find her to see if she had an idea of how she’d like to get to the hospital the next day…together, in shifts, early or late? I found her in my Dad’s typically fastidious office with papers spread all around – she had decided to tackle his expense report that evening — but I caught her in the act of pouring another glass of wine and playing solitaire on the computer. “Any plans for tomorrow?” I asked. “Want to go together in the morning or would you like to split it up?” She looked at me somewhat cross-eyed…kind of like the look after I suggested making some dinner earlier in the evening, but more drunk…and said, “I’ll get up and go in the morning.” “Great,” I responded. “If I’m not up, please wake me and I’ll go with you.” She laughed, drunkenly. “Oh…I’m not getting up early…I’ll wake when I wake. You’ll be up.” “Okay, then. See you in the morning,” I say, backing out of the room and really, really starting to feel just plain annoyed at the ridiculousness of this woman. I’m no prude…I had wine that evening too, but a reasonable two glasses and a full meal over about 4 hours. But, she was getting a bit out of hand.And, then, she stopped me. “Can you sit down please? I know this is a bad time. But I NEED to talk to you,” she said.

And it hit…those walls started closing around me. I knew what was coming. She wanted to discuss our relationship. And, for the first time in my entire life, I wanted to run from a situation. I mean, I felt like a trapped animal and wanted to weave and dodge and get out. I said, “Oh…I’m so tired. Can we talk another time?” But, I was directed to sit. And, in she dove. “Why don’t you like me?” Here’s the thing. You can’t pick your family right? She’s not a blood relative but she’s family. My Dad picked her. He loves her. She’s pretty benign, but I don’t really like her as a buddy, a friend, a pal. She’s my Dad’s wife who my kids love and my Dad loves and I get along with. And, I’m sure she senses that limitation. And, I do feel bad I can’t give her more, but I can’t. And, I am way too kind to tell her that in this moment…or any moment really…but especially this one. So…I stammer about how we get along fine and I do think she’s great and how my Dad loves her, and I try to get up about 3 times trying to leave and she doesn’t pick up on the cues. I eventually convince her of her position in the family and my respect for it and her need to be okay with that and that it’s all my fault because I’m not very emotive. I talk her off the ledge and I hate her for it and myself for it, and I’m exhausted and worried about my Dad and I’m all alone.

When I finally find my way back to my room, it hits. The desire to run…just take off…say, “So long suckers…get your own lunch and make your own dinner…work out your own transportation…decide what the right questions are for the doctor yourselves. I’m out of here.” I consider it long and hard while I look in the mirror like a crazy person, quietly laughing to myself and whispering, “I can’t believe what just happened.” But, I’m way too tired and I’m way too conscious of the unspoken role my Dad needs me to play…the sober, voice of reason. So, I sleep and get up and go to the hospital alone in the morning. I was there for the doctor’s rounds. I was there to watch my Dad act like a nut-job on morphine after a major, major surgery. I sat with him until his wife re-appeared (3 hours later) and then made an excuse as to why I needed to get away for a bit. I went and found lunch on my own, returned to the house for a nap and then back to the hospital to sit bedside. I met my mother for dinner later that night and returned home to ask the wife how the rest of the evening went, begged off a drink with her due to exhaustion but, really, if I’m being honest, out of fear. And, I repeated the same pattern the next day until it was time for me to drive the 7 ½ hours back to my home, my family…knowing my Dad was on the road to recovery and they would be okay in the odd little world they’ve built for themselves.

I still have a gnawing feeling though that I may never be able to return, may never be able to sit alone in a room with her again. I still want to run. But, she made it clear that I should return home now because she’ll need me there again in a few weeks. So, I’ll likely do that…come back and help her then.

What worries me is that I could see in her pleading eyes, that she’ll need me to like her then too…present her with more. I’ve always been pretty direct, pretty healthy in my relationships. But, all bets are off. I like this feeling of potentially ditching…like many people I know have done. I get it now. Sometimes, facing into the wind is just too hard and you’ll get knocked and tumbled and thrown to the side. So, maybe I’ll take one quick step across the road and just keep going.

Maybe…or maybe, I’ll show up in a few weeks and run errands, and cook dinner and keep my mouth shut. I think I know which one will win out, but the fantasy is nice, isn’t it? And, the stories of the crazies in this little family snapshot are my honest way of sharing one normal woman’s life…warts and all.