These poop jokes keep writing themselves.

I went to consult with the surgeon who will be performing my colectomy yesterday and she told me I was booked for October 29th.  So I'll be missing Halloween, which blows since it is my very favourite time of year.  I made the decision then and there that I would NOT cancel my pending Halloween party, which has kind of morphed into a Halloween slash "Farewell to my colon" party.  I toyed with setting a theme of "medical malpractice horror stories" but I thought that might just be in a wee bit of poor taste.  Besides, I barely have time to plan the party let alone think up a new costume, especially when I had mine all planned out before this shit hit the fan.

A weird side effect of my upcoming surgery is the tendency to snicker at any reference to shit or butts in my day to day language.  In fact, just now, when I typed "any" I SWEAR TO GOD that my iPad tried to autocorrect it to "anus".

The well-travelled one made a joke tonight about telling people at work that I was having my "Give-a-Shit" removed and I nearly freaking lost it.

It's funny cause it's true!

I'm glad I can take some of this lightly (stage six: inappropriate humour) at least some of the times.  Don't fall under the impression that it's been all good.  Some of the bad days, the waking up terrified and angry and full of despair, have fucking sucked.  This past Tuesday I wanted to curl up under my duvet and sleep until I woke up and this whole bloody nightmare was over.  I could barely function. I sobbed as I attempted to have my morning coffee and when I got to work I stayed in my office and tried to interact with people as little as possible, especially since I am one who cannot remotely hide when I am upset.  Generally, if i have been crying it couldn't be more obvious if someone wrote "Holy Fuck Am I Ever Sad!" on my face in black sharpie marker.

Demi Moore with her single tear I am definitely NOT.  I cry the ugly cry.

At any rate, Tuesday night, at my nephews 5th birthday dinner, I was able to surround myself with family who respected my wish not to talk about everything beyond a simple update on where we were at, schedule and doctor wise.  By the time I got home my mood had lifted somewhat. Since then I've been feeling more optimistic, or at least too busy to dwell.

I'm kind of stoked that my surgeon is a woman, after dealing with a lot of older, male doctors.  Don't get me wrong, they've all been doing well by me and are quite competent, but my rah-rah feminist side did a little fist pump when I found out I had a lady surgeon.  I was a bit nervous by how young she looked (yes, Google is handy) but I believe that sometimes in medicine, what one lacks in experience can be offset by up-to-date training.  Also, you don't generally get to call your self a surgeon if you're just getting off the bus.

My consult yesterday assuaged my fears as she seems like a competent, confident but not cocky, doctor who was very good about answering all my questions while being patient about my inability to answer quite all of hers.  Like I can actually keep track of the times I've been hospitalized!  Chronology is not my strong suit.

Now I have a party to plan, preparations for the kids while I am in hospital, getting my stuff sorted out at work, and I am hosting karaoke next Friday.  So yeah, some time off will be nice.

Has it come to this?

I hate this time of year. 

Way too many bad memories associated with it, and I find it one of the loneliest times of year.. the Christmas letdown, New Years Eve, which is a big fuck-off ball of wrist-slitting fun, hell right up until Valentines day.  In the past, I've been subject to fits of depression around this time of year, and rightly so, when you consider what some of my past New Years' have been like.   The last two years haven't been too bad, last year because around that time period I had met the most recent ex, and the year before that I was embroiled in a bit of drama which although mildly stressful, kept things interesting.  My dark moods tend to come with boredom and loneliness.

In an act of desperation/morbid curiosity/boredom/blind optimism I reopened my Plenty of Fish profile.  Jesus H. Christ.  What a sad place that is.  Honestly, I'm not sure how long I'll be able to leave it up.  First, it took all of a half an hour to discover-most-recent ex on there, and that was fairly traumatizing, and second, I also discovered a dude that I had been talking about a year and a bit ago who turned out to be a bit of a whackjob is lurking around too.. and POF's security settings don't allow you to block someone until they've messaged you.  LOVELY.

So many damaged, jaded people.  So many 'nice guys' (find out more about my issue with 'nice guys' here).  So many people with laundry lists of what specifically they are looking for in a woman.  One guy even referred to 'Attributes'.  Fellow co-workers will understand why this terminology makes me laugh.  Compare these brands and models.  Oi.  So many cheesy topless pics.  Seriously guys?  So much about what they want, and what they desire, and what they REQUIRE, but so little about who they are.

SO many people desperate to reach out and be a half of a whole.  There but for the grace of God go I and other such blather.  Oh, wait...

I give it a week.

In the meantime, a well-suited musical interlude (have I sunk to a brand new low?):

There's love in these arms.

... and on 'em, today.

Today is To Write Love on Her Arms day.  It's supposed to be a day to recognize the daily struggle of people who suffer from depression, addiction and self-harm.  And no, regardless of the title, it's not just about girls.

I've never dealt with clinical depression, myself, but I have had some pretty low points, so I feel for those who have to deal with these issues on  a day-to-day basis, and would like to share a quick story.

In the late winter of 2001 I was living in Barrie, alone with my ex-husband and expecting our first child.  We had no money, no jobs, no transportation, no phone and at times, no food.  We were cut off from our friends and family and frankly, life sucked.  I remember one day having to go to the food bank, which was a forty minute walk from our room we rented.  They loaded me up with bags of food.  I had no money for the bus, let alone a cab.  The Food Bank people took pity on me and put me in a cab home.

One day, I was walking up the long hill from downtown back to our shitty little boarding room that we had rented because it was supposed to save so much money, and I stopped at the bridge on Sunnydale Road and looked down and just stared at the cars whizzing by on the highway below.   I was so overwhelmed with my situation and I couldn't see an end in sight.  I watched the cars and wondered if I had the guts to climb up and fall down to the highway below.

I have terrible vertigo sometimes.

I thought about my baby, and if she really deserved to be brought into such a shitty, hopeless situation.  I thought about my ex, and my family.  I thought about the people in cars below, about the people who would have to live with the vision of my body crashing through their windshield.  But Goddamn, it was so fucking hard to keep going when things seemed like such a goddamned unending struggle.  Eventually, I turned and dragged my feet the rest of the way home. 

I don't ever drive down Sunnydale Road.