Suddenly, all of Picasso's work from 1901-1904 makes complete sense to me.
In the spirit of "keeping it real", I feel like I should 'fess up and tell you that I am feeling moderately depressed. I am not usually depressed, or if I am, I can somehow think my way out of it. Summon the Pollyanna within. Figure out a reason to smile or be grateful for things going as well as they have.
But right now, I feel more like I can identify with those women hugging their knees in the Prozac ads. I don't like this. If anyone reading this has depressive tendencies, I feel the need to validate you. You have a tough row to hoe. Hang in there, and I hope you can get help, because being depressed sucks.
I can't figure why I can't think my way out of this one.
IN MY FAVOR:
The sun is shining outside, and we have a lovely view of Lake Washington from my house. There is a bald eagle soaring right above me, as I type, not even flapping his wings, just coasting. Lucky fellow. The city looks marvelous. The snow-capped mountains look crisp and clear. I've had THREE friends stop over today (bearing food, no less!), I've got loads of friends willing to help with the kids, no questions asked. My garden is blooming. I don't have a chest tube anymore. I've got a great husband. The only cancer I have is so small, one surgeon couldn't even spot it on the scan. I'm good enough, smart enough, doggone it, people like me. What the hell is my problem.
CASTING A SHADOW ON MY DAY:
I spent most of the last two F#@&ing weeks in a hospital. I spent most of the last two F#@&ing weeks in severe pain. I spent most of the last two F#@&ing weeks in a hospital bed, not allowed to get up, since I was attached to suction on one side and an IV on the other. I wasn't even allowed to go in the bathroom--they brought that to me! Sayonara, dignity. I had four invasive lung procedures, none of which proved particularly effective, for all the trouble. Each time I thought I was "better", I'd have to go back for another longer stay. Now, I probably can't go to my college reunion next week. Now, it doesn't really make sense to take my 2-week Ohio trip, since I'll have CyberKnife smack in the middle of it. I am tired. I am sore. I can't exert myself or I might blow another hole in my lung and repeat this process. I don't feel like eating. I don't feel like doing any around-the-house projects (Pollyanna would tell me this is my chance for those very things!) Like the amp in Spinal Tap, I like to live at 11. Yet I am living at a paltry 3. And: The only cancer I have is so small, the surgeon couldn't even spot it on the scan. But...lest we forget, I did use the word "cancer".
BUCK UP, BUTTERCUP.