weary, bleary, woeful me

Would that not make an excellent country song title? Hmm?

Due to several concerned messages received via email, I am writing to let you know that all is well. Or, no crimes have yet been committed. Rome wasn't built in a day, as you well know, so I figure a murderous rage won't develop in just ten and a half days. (Note to any law enforcement types passing through: These are the words of a drama queen and no actual harm is intended by them; in fact, there will not truly be a rage at all - murderous or otherwise.)

So really, it's going okay. Am I going nuts? Yes. Do I long for the days when I could come home from work and relax in silence, a silence broken only by the cheery mews of my kitties? Of course I do. Am I embarrassed as can be when she rams the little shopping go-cart into displays at Target? Absolutely. Am I tired of hearing all manner of judgment about everyone else in the universe? Certainly.

But then I get the contrast coming in the form of a weepish mom who expresses a combination of gratitude and shame for being in this position in the first place. Balance, yin-yang, and so on. How bad is my life really? Not bad at all.

I have to believe that I will come out of this stronger, a better person. Or perhaps I will be completely batty and won't know -or care- if I'm better or stronger. Either way, I do know that I'm (we're) doing the right thing. M. is doing quite well - better than I expected, actually. Although to be honest, he was away on business last week and is again this week. And he golfed on both Saturday and Sunday - the two days he was in town. So he's had a bit of a break. But again, it's not his mom. (But if it was, I have a bright, shiny nickel says he'd still have had a bit of a break!)

Off the mom-topic briefly (and lastly, before I collapse in a soft heap in my bed): I mentioned that I have some unwanted stuff in my body. That would be a sizable (but not grossly enormous) fibroid in my uterus, several on an ovary and one or more small ones somewhere else. (I'm tired, forgive me for both forgetting my entire diagnosis and being too lazy to reach my arm slightly to grab the doc's report.)

I see a new doctor in several weeks to discuss what to do. My doc says the uterine fibroid must go - and I heartily agree. I've had a ton of pain and other symptoms (that fall into the discomfort / yucky zone) and would like it to stop. I'm even toying with the idea of a hysterectomy. Yes, yes, perhaps too young. But I think I also mentioned that my labs indicated I'm in early menopause, so what would the harm be, really?

Kids, you ask? I can always take one of Madonna's cast-offs if necessary. But cats will do. And I'm married, remember - there is often a fine line between husband and child. (Don't you tell him I said that, Richard!)

So I take my fibroid and cyst-filled body to bed. Because I am weary and bleary, but not truly so woeful. Not woeful at all.

Blogged with Flock