Blogging is one part catharsis, one part exhibitionism, one part nourishment of ego. I would argue that no one ever wrote a poem for different reasons. I would say that not only my own poems, but the poems of every poet in the history of words existed in their respective little microcosmic embryonic stages in that same combination of feeling and its lack: catharsis/exhibitionism/ego. Again, I can name my logical fallacy. Again, I dare you to prove me wrong.
Now we're going to have some cussing. Stop reading now if you don't like cussing. Granted, it's the most appropriate cussing you've ever read in your life. In all the grand history of cussing, this is the prototype for its appropriate application in the English language.
When the surgeon told me yesterday that I had Ulcerative Colitis, if it hadn't been for the anesthesia, I probably would not have said, in front of my grandmother, "Well, fuck." The other thing that would not have happened is that I would not have then proceeded to publicly sob for a solid twenty minutes. Public exhibitions of real life emotion are, after all, "not really [my] thing."
I have proof:
Last Thursday, March 10, I had my consultation with the surgeon who was to do my "diagnostic procedure." I went alone because I'm not one of those people who can't do things alone. After we discussed my symptoms, he did a quick physical exam. He continued to ask me questions while he looked me over. Right when he got to the pulse taking portion of the program, he asked me about my appetite. My pulse quickened, my voice cracked, my eyes welled...you get the idea. If I were being honest, I would have told him that food is the worst thing in the world. That food is evil. That I blame food for ruining my life. That I would rather sink my teeth into the slow melt of famine than ever have to eat again. That every bite I take is a sacrificial gesture made on behalf of my daughters. But I am not always honest. So I made a lame self-deprecating joke about how sad it was that I can't eat food anymore, because I love it so much. He laughed, sat down, and looked me in the eye. He asked if I was ok. I said no. The rest of our conversation was composed of talk about cancer, inflammation and infection. He told me the most likely culprit was UC. He told me people who have this disease are usually not ever fully free from symptoms. He told me that if I had this disease, I would die with one fewer major organ than I was born with. I swallowed hard, paid my bill, and walked out to my car where I sat and cried so hard I couldn't see. Then I drove to my grandmother's house and cried on her kitchen table. Because there are no strangers at my grandmother's house. My grandmother's house is not public.
Flash forward: back to yesterday, March 14, the eve of my 27th birthday, 2 AM: I decided on a themed birthday party for myself. If I did have cancer, I wanted a banner that said, "SOMEDAY YOU MAY BE ABLE TO EAT ICE CREAM AGAIN!" If I had Ulcerative Colitis, I wanted a banner that said "YOU DON'T HAVE CANCER!" Of course, I don't have the energy to participate in festivities. But, it was a nice idea. It helped me focus on the positive. It gave me a slogan no matter the outcome. When, if you google your symptoms, the vast universe of medical websites replies with a resounding, "Seek emergency medical attention," you can bet your sweet ass the diagnosis probably isn't going to be a bucket of roses. At least I could find a single comforting remark to make to myself in either scenario.
Approximately 7 and one half hours later, at 9:30, as I was being wheeled back into my room, and the doctor that I liked very much was telling my family that my new chronic disease was extensive and I'd most likely lose my colon in the next 15 years, I was high on drugs. Mostly Versed. Hence the fuck word. Hence the bawling. None of that should be surprising, considering the circumstances. It's how it all happened that surprised me. I said, "Well, fuck." Like I was commenting on a nasty storm cloud when I had planned to fly a kite. This made everyone chuckle. Then, when I suddenly proceeded to bawl, everyone else cried too. The surgeon had to leave the room to compose himself. Somehow this combination of laughing and crying still strikes me as very funny. There I am, in my hospital gown and new lighter body, pocked with new battle scars, bleeding from new wounds, with my black sunken eye sockets and my dull gray skin: Sick Jes, whose body hates her, about to turn 27 years old--bawling like a two year old in public, managing to suck five full grown people into her utter despair and sense of desolation. No one else seems to get the joke. It was like writing a poem: Catharsis/Exhibitionism/Ego. And in the end, no one can really get what it means. Even if they think they do. Even if they wrote it or found it written in their flesh.
So, now, I'm shooting for remission. The surgeon doesn't like that word because it implies complete freedom from symptoms. I understand I may not have that. I understand that the cure for my disease is removal of my colon. I understand that I have to take my medicine every single day, even though it costs nearly as much per month as the mortgage on our first house. And you know what? I'm really glad I'm not dying right now. Damn pleased, really. I am not devastated by this news. Worst case scenario, I lose my colon. Guess what? I can still watch my daughters grow up. I might not be quite my rotund, robust self, but I can exist in smaller portions. I have not cried since the drugs wore off.
I would like to get passed feeling like a wrung out, run through VooDoo doll. So I need to:
1. Try and get my calorie intake up above 750/day. [I feel like that will never happen. I try.]
2. Cross all my fingers and toes in hope that the steriod will quickly remedy my horrendous joint pain.
3. Find a hypo-allergenic moisturizer for my other new chronic condition, Rosacea. Because let me tell you, nothing looks worse on a zombie face than rosy red cheeks.
Here's to 27, and the hope that 2011 doesn't find other weapons in its search for ways to kill me.
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