<Beth writing> A week ago a radiologist called me at work. A few hours earlier I had a CT scan. She instructed me to report to the Emergency Department immediately because I either had appendicitis or cancer of the appendix. I did not have appendicitis. What followed was a virtual onslaught of phone calls, dates, and emails. Then on Monday a very gifted GI LPN (Licensed Practicing Nurse) managed to push all of the dates forward.

So far my primary experience of having cancer is dealing with the abject frustration of extreme demands on my time.

But my lovely, bleeding heart therapist missed the larger point today. She missed why I feel so frustrated. Yes, it’s daunting to have so many appointments duplicated. Yes, the sheer amount of phone calls stress me to the marrow. No, there’s not anything that endears me to the medical establishment when I have a phone call at 7:35am. I feel bombarded. I am bombarded.

I feel this level of abject stress because I feel like such a piece of shit. I was a sick child. I’ve been a sick, compromised, underperforming adult due to bipolar. I’ve missed a thousand days of productivity due to sinus infections. Where is my call? Why can’t I get a job? What do I have to offer Chris besides more hardship?

A week and a day ago I was a sick person who was struggling. Now everything will grind to a halt. The medical bills will soar. I will be scarred. I have even less to offer. Trying to find a full-time job is farther away. I will be more of a financial imposition. I will need help.

Romans 14:7-9 NRSV says 7 We do not live to ourselves, and we do not die to ourselves. 8 If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s. 9 For to this end Christ died and lived again, so that he might be Lord of both the dead and the living.

I am sure that if the inevitability of death comes closer that I will experience less certainty. That’s fine. Like any bipolar mood, I’ll take that too. I certainly acknowledge that I may be experiencing some measure of latent passive suicide. But honestly, the appeals of this old life are gone except for Chris when he isn’t making me ape shit mad.

Let it fade.