Lackluster

Quote of the Day: 

My 'fear' is my substance, 

and probably the best part of me.

~Kafka~

Current Local Weather:

Compliant cloudless complacent complaints.

Currently on my iTunes:

"Mad World"

Michael Andrews

Currently Reading: 

This is How You Lose Her

Junot Diaz

Dear Family, Friends and my Family of Friends, 

Sorry it's been since August since my last blog. Everything between then and now has sucked. Ok, moving on. 

There are always going to be things in this world that you, or YOU, can't control. Wars, accidents, baby booms, hurricanes etc. However, I'm starting to believe this: For everything you can't control, there's something you can. You may not see or know what it is right away, but eventually it will surface. When it does, you need to hold onto it in the best way possible. LOVE IT. Don't loathe it or treat it like the black sheep of the family. Hold it, love it, squeeze it and then fix it to your best ability and set it free. 

However, you should know that just because you feel like you're completely out of control, you're never lacking in substance. LACK: Love, Apathy, Compassion & Knowledge. Those are words that should be part of your universal definition. Always. You begin to lack these things and you'll perish. FAST. Life is not a game and it's not something that you can win or lose. Period. You treat it as such and I guarantee that you'll lose at whatever game you're in the middle of. 

So, this blog originated fifteen days ago. I had originally decided the acronym would be the "F" word. But the last fifteen days have changed me significantly. I mean, not in theory, in the flesh and bone kinda way. The kind only doctors, nurses and those that have watched me go through it and that have been through it themselves will and would only understand. It's not something I can describe, but just know that even while you were sleeping, I was changing not just in size, but in mentality and emotionally, too. Fifteen days ago, I was able to "eat" food if I wanted. I was able to sit down with a friend and have an icy cold beer and know that it wouldn't take much to get me drunk. I had scars that were settled and complacent in their vast void of my abdomen. Now, not so much. 

But fifteen days ago I was admitted to the hospital. This was my third gigantic admission since September 26th. This marked my month and a half mark of hospital days. This also marked the first time that a doctor decided to listen to me and what was on my flippin, frackin', mind. And he didn't dismiss me as a hypochondriac, he said, I know. You're more sick than most people your age. As a matter of fact, if I don't help you, you'll die. Soon. You're physically starving. You're already in menopause. Your stomach isn't working. Another ten days and you'll be six feet under. So, what are you doing tonight? Busy? Plans? How bout an anesthetic cocktail and a trip down to the OR? 

Apparently I agreed to this zany adventure. Docs, crazy folk etc. All the same to me. I'm thankful for the ones that take care of you and the ones that try to hurt you. They're all the same, they're human. 

And, you guessed it. I'm writing this blog to you from my captive bed at Skyridge Medical Center in Parker/South Denver, Colorado. I've stayed in four different rooms at this hospital, this time, since the hospital was kinda overbooked for the week before the holiday, I'm in the pediatric ward. Kinda cool and if you hit the right button on the TV menu you can watch funny animal videos from you tube right on your screen! How cool is that? I digress. 

This admission was only four days in length. I'm getting easier to "treat" as far as my symptoms, making my visits to this pie in the sky hotel, shorter. Thank the good Lord. However, my diagnosis keeps getting worse. 

The night before I drove up to this hospital on my third admission, I knew I was going downhill, and in a very major way. I could feel it in my gut. Literally. If I sit around and think about what this all means in the candy dish we call life, I get angry. Depressed. Emotional. Scared....and if I dig even deeper in this bowl, I start finding those parts of me that are complacent, thankful and dare I say it, free. In the fabulous tune by Coin Hay, "Invisible," he sings, I'm invisible...now I can be free. And most of my days are spent feeling invisible. Free. Lackluster, but still me. I'm no longer hungry. I'm not feeling sorry. I'm trying to forget about the fact that I'll probably never be sexually active again or go on a date to the melting pot for a bottle of wine and kissing afterwards...so, I believe most folks call this PROGRESS. 

But when I tell people about my 50+lb weight loss in two months, I get a sigh, sometimes a look of disbelief and then inevitably they pat their belly and say, "Dude, can I have what you have?" And then I ask, really? Would you REALLY want to take this away from me just so you can lose the weight the doc tells you that you need to lose. Because I don't think you would. I'm a woman that loves to cook and cook for others. I have an entire catalog of my own damn soup recipes and I'm the woman down the all-American street in any town, U.S.A. that can't eat her own food. I'm suddenly lacking a big, metaphorically and literally, fat, appetite. A stomach. A life that goes beyond my computer screen. 

Everything that I thought was making up my core body. I'm lacking in style for goodness sakes! I wear PJs more than not and ya know what, they're never in style. Trust me. Go to the people of Walmart site and you'll see what I'm talking about. And what has replaced all this goodness? Suffering. Pain and more days of Crazy than I'd like to publicly admit. 

But what I do know is that beneath all this crazy is still a beating heart, half polished toe-nails (Someone please come to my house STAT to do a mani/pedi on me!) and a great soundtrack playing through my muddled thoughts. So yes, my battle wounds have proved fatal for my looks and love life, but my scars are healing and proving to be regenerating and recharging for the soul inside. And although I'm lacking in places, I'm never lackluster in my thoughts. I'm butchered but not dead...yet. 

Yours in letting go, lackluster lives and lovely souls, 

Cicily