There was no other title for this post, really.
Raw sums it up quite succinctly.
It's like I've been sitting on a windy beach, sand twirling around me in small, stinging tornados. My towel is turned up at the corners and half-buried. I huddle in my clothes, pulling a hat over my face, and digging my toes down to where it's cool and calm.
I've cut back a bit on my anti-depressant, just on certain days, to try to mitigate a certain side effect that I do not like at all. So maybe the wavering serotonin is to blame for my emotional sandstorm.
It started innocently enough, with a physical (which, incidentally, has nothing to do with my anti-depressant) and was only because I was due. I got the usual blood work and my platelets came back low. Much lower than they were a year and a half ago when I started to realize that I might be lupus-y. (God, I hate that word so much. Why can't it be named something more exotic like Sjogren's Syndrome or Hashimoto's thyroiditis?) Not quite get-thee-to-a-hematologist-right-this-second low. But low enough to be somewhat alarming. To need to go see the blood doctor sometime soon.
So, I'm waiting for my hematologist appointment in early August. And of course, am enjoying a constant mental ticker tape of Please don't let it be leukemia please don't let it be leukemia please don't let it be leukemia.
Worrying about cancer (or any other horrific disease) is a hobby of mine. Not as satisfying as, say, photography. But, my brain tends to go there when I don't keep it on a tight enough leash (Oh, it goes everywhere everywhere everywhere I don't want it to when I neglect to keep it in its spiked choke collar).
Lupus sucks, too, yeah. But isn't as ominous. At least not immediately. I suppose there are other options. Less sinister. More commonplace. Not as meaty, though, so my brain won't chew on those.
Max and Claire were both in camp this week. Separate camps for which neither was excited. To keep them away from the Screens and to give myself a chance to theoretically inhale, exhale, and think, I signed them up and ushered them back and forth anyway. Watching them depart at the beginning of the week kind of killed me.
I watched Max at drop off, sorting his lunch from his snacks and stooping over to work on the morning's craft project, his sweet, nine-year-old-boy vertebrate bumpling out his camp-issued t-shirt. He was so mature. Nervous, but willing. And even though I knew he was in a good, safe place, I wanted to cry.
Same with Claire. I brought her into a gathering of girls who sang songs and made food and painted things under the trees. She knew many of the others there from school, but she was uncomfortable at first, shifting from foot to foot, trying to be brave. I had absolutely no doubt this was good for her, but I broke every day as I walked away from her and back to the car.
We had an issue with Claire's ear lobe, which has only been pierced since March. Evidently, I let her leave a pair of earrings in too long. And, though she cleaned them daily, I wasn't checking her work. As it turns out, it is possible for flesh to swallow an earring back whole.
When we realized this last night, we were mortified. Claire wept because she knew she'd need a minor surgical procedure to have it removed. I wept because I felt like such a loser parent for not having taken better care of her.
I'm relieved, however, to report that after visiting two doctors, enduring six lidocaine shots, and suffering through lots of poking and prodding in a very sensitive and small pad of tissue, Claire's earring back is now in the garbage, she's wearing teensy 14k hoops with no backs and no dangle to catch on anything, and we are past this (barring MRSA or a flesh-eating infection, of course).
J. is wondering what this will all cost us. He was not for the 7th birthday piercing to begin with and that walloped me with another layer of guilt. As he said tonight, "There's so much." I agree fully. There's so much to spend money on. And I do most of the spending because, well, I'm here with the kids. I guess I should just stop this thread because there exists is a big, complicated financial dynamic that encompasses J.'s job and all that I hate about it and our separate and joint priorities and the guilt guilt guilt. Blogging about it will hurt us both.
Back to the windstorm. Eff the Celexa side effects right now, because I need that substance like a cat needs sunlight. I'm back to popping my daily 40 mgs.
If you have any to spare, please send positive energy to me in Seattle. I'm kind of a mess here, trying not to let sand cake my mouth and eyes and hair.