Making anger productive

Means I just spent two hours cleaning my house that was beginning to look like a hoarder lived there. I should have spent those two hours reading. Eric's advice as he left this morning: take care of one thing at a time. Sure, because I can only physically take care of one thing- but, in his mind, that also means only thinking of one thing at a time. I find, with him as the perfect example, that leads to paralysis. And, as we all know, things don't necessarily come at us one by one. And right now, my plate is full.

Katie's first birthday is next Friday. I can't wait. I've been planning it since before she was even born. But I think that will be the bright spot of the summer. See, this blog is partly cathartic- I'm a writer who lost track of that fact, and rather than keep a personal diary, I keep this blog. I've always hated journals and diaries, anyways. I unraveled on my Mom this morning, completely unloading all the shit that's going on to her, and I don't think I'm done unloading. I reminded Eric around July the 4th, after he rudely told me that his uncle rudely asked him at the family reunion if we were expecting again, that he married a writer. He laughed and asked, nervously, if I had posted his uncle's question on the blog. I hadn't-yet- but I had thought about it. And so now, I'm in deep need of catharsis. Deep, deep need.

I'm blessed in many, many ways. We have a house full of things that we wouldn't have, namely, a crib and furniture for our baby, if we didn't have wonderful family members. I'm deeply grateful for all of this. But right now, I'm just so freaking PISSED about so many things, I just want to let it go so I don't carry this shit with me for the next fifty years or however long I live. I don't want to talk about the same shitty things that happened to me like some people I know for the rest of my life. I want to get over it, so down the road, I can laugh at it. Or avoid the topic of conversation altogether. But I know some people who bring shit up out of nowhere- and I don't want to be that person. I need to draw the bitterness out, and fair warning: in the process, a few other demons might (already have) escape(d).

Two years ago, after what should have been a preventative and routine surgery to remove my humongous thyroid, the pathologists discovered it was cancerous. Ten days prior to receiving this news, my dad had bought my plane ticket to Peru, where I was supposed to spend eight weeks learning Quechua for a kick-ass dissertation topic. Instead of Peru, I spent the summer languishing in shit-hole Iowa, skin and hair drying up, tired as hell and depressed to boot from the thyroid hormone withdrawal that preceded the radiation treatment.

School started back, although I wasn't sure it was the place I wanted to be at that point, and four months later, we found out I was pregnant. The best news ever, and I firmly believe I would not have gotten pregnant had I not had my thyroid surgery. I don't think all systems were online, if you get my point. Because I was pregnant with Katie the following summer I couldn't have the routine cancer follow-up, which, unbeknownst to me, involved the same process (which lasted 10 to 14 weeks all told) as the initial radiation treatment. The doctor ordered an ultrasound instead...

...which found possible residual thyroid tissue. I cried when I got the news. I was so sick of this thyroid shit. I've had issues with it since I was a kid, and I'm done with it. I was ready to take my pill religiously every morning, get my levels checked once a year, watch for my kids to have enlarged thyroids as they grew up, but otherwise, to be done with it. I wanted to just get on with my life.

The last time I walked into doctor's office, waiting to get the "have a nice life!" I was disappointed, too. That was after my first surgery when I was 20 and had an ovarian tumor removed. Expecting to get the "Nice to know you" at the end of the appointment, I got the warning that I could get a tumor on my other ovary...

So I'm sick of this. Sick, sick, sick. I'm not even 30, for God's sake. My pregnancy was a series of near misses, too: almost diabetic- gotta get my fasting levels checked occasionally, now; almost pre-eclamptic. Next baby, who knows- I can't wait for that next baby, I should note...

But, because I was pregnant, and because the levels in my blood indicated that the cancer was probably okay, we decided that I could wait until I was done breastfeeding to have the follow-up. This has been a specter looming over me all year- is it cancer? is it scar tissue? Who the fuck knows.

A mistakenly canceled apointment later, and I'm finally able to have the full follow-up. This time, no withdrawal, but some expensive as hell simulated hormone shots, an ultrasound, and bloodwork. But that ultrasound- dammit, that ultrasound. My lymph nodes- enlarged. Come back again.

Then the floods happened. We left town. The follow-up was postponed. Three times. And when I finally got it: stable and enlarged lymph nodes in left neck. Translation: they look the same as last time. The kicker: if thyroid cancer spreads, it's to the lymph nodes. So, now, I have to have a "fine needle aspiration" to check it out.

This is when I get really mad. I mean, screamingangryfurious mad. The test date: July 28. My comps start August 18th. The semester starts August 25th. And, in the occasion that I have cancer, and have to have treatment, in order to keep my stand-alone course in the fall, I have to hold these dates NO MATTER WHAT. In order to keep my teaching load, which will almost compensate for no work in the spring, the worst case scenario is me, writing my five exam answers, during which I sneak in some radiation treatment somewhere.

This isn't just because my department is spiteful. I mean, they're weird, but not just spiteful That's too obvious. Oh no- if I postpone my comps, I can't teach my stand-alone. That means someone will have to teach that class- and I know exactly who's smug, shit-eating face it'll go to. And I can't tolerate that, because they've been handed too much over the past three years, and I've sacrificed too much.

So, come August 18th, I'm going to truck into my department and write the hell out of my exam question. I will cut off my nose to spite my face. I actually think of Jesus in this case, and the bible. And you know what? Jesus stuck up for himself. He stood his ground. He may have turned the other cheek, but all the while, he was preaching the Word. He kept on doing his thing, despite the shit going down around him, and being pelted at him.

Because I should be in Peru right now, this very moment, doing my field work. I had a wonderful dissertation topic. It was in the bag. I would have had jobs lined up. I could have been exploring South America right now with my husband and daughter (God know, Eric doesn't have a job, so he could have come with me). But I'm not. I'm two semesters behind the departmental golden children, making decisions between my livelihood and my health while they get paid to write their dissertations.

All I know is, if there's ever that moment, you know, when you go around the room and tell what your summer was like, or, what you've accomplished lately, I won't list passing my comps and I won' be able to list passing my dissertation proposal defense. But I will be able to say, I watched my daughter walk for the first time- I was the one she took her first steps to- and she celebrated her first birthday. And then, I'll say, I dealt with cancer- what did you fuckers do?