It's not as bad as cancer
Ugh. What a night.I went to a "party" to visit with my grandmother and my favorite out-of-town uncle. What happens?
- My grandmother, in worsening health and living in an assisted care facility, hardly speaks anymore. When I get her alone and ask her how she's feeling, she says, "Blue." Just "Blue." One word. And not even a happy word at that.
- Uncle Hugh, in town from California, is a former plastic surgeon specializing in hands. I knew he'd level with me about my possible diagnosis of Kienbock's. He said, "Well, it's not as bad as cancer." Yes, well, thanks. That inspires me to ever-higher levels of optimism.
- Also, I told my mother I was suicidal. Um, oops?
Eh, there's some residual anger at Paul because he told me yesterday that he was under an NDA regarding his research and that I wasn't on a "need-to-know" basis. I understand the whole secrecy Men In Black government research crap, but if he ever tells me I don't "need to know" again, he needs to know he'll be sleeping on the couch. ::grins::
Mostly, I'm just out of sorts. I have PMS and I'm on pain pills.
Still, I told my mother I was suicidal. My mother. The one that worries about little stuff, like whether I'll be abducted while walking to my car after work. Bad move, Kate. >_<
And, as for my hand, it's not as bad as cancer.
What the hell does that mean, anyway?
posted by Kate at 10:58 PM
Copyright 2001-2009, L.K.C.S. It's MINE, all MINE. If you wanna use it, gimme credit and a link, okies? And don't run with scissors, because you're just going to poke somebody's eye out with that thing. No, really. 
4 Comments:
It's like Marty Feldman said in Young Frankenstein,
"It could be worse. It could be raining."
I think your uncle was just trying to put it into perspective. Everything is relative.
Being stabbed with a fork is not as bad as say... being shot with a shotgun.
Being spit on by your grandfather is not as bad as being peed on by your grandmother.
Accidentally cooking and eating your dog is not as bad as accidentally cooking and eating a neighbor child. Its all relative.
I know its hard to see from your point of view right now, but things could be a lot worse. Now nobody's expecting you to jump up and down laughing and shouting "Yea, I don't have cancer!", just keep it in perspective. I think that's what your uncle was trying to do. I mean, think about it. No chemo. No radiation. No chance of it metastasizing into your lymph nodes. It could be worse. It could be raining.
Oh, and that suicidal stuff, just remember that life is a ride. Keep your arms and leg inside the car at all times and please, wait for the car to come to a complete stop on it own before you begin to exit.
I had a coworker at my last job who, whenever one of her children were crying because they couldn't get/do something, would say "Cry over cancer." I suppose I agree with the big picture of what she's saying, but man, you know her kids are either going to be sniveling wimps, or emotionless zombies.
Silly question time: Wouldn't a pain pill, any pain pill, relieve some of the symptoms of PMS? (I'm a guy, so if that question is completely retarded, just smack me. Smack. Smacky. Get it?)
Smacky: See this page for the finer details of PMS. A pain pill relieves pain. I find a heating pad does just as well.
It's those other hormonal symptoms (mood swings, changes in sleep patterns, incredible irritability) that generally can't be fixed with medication.
I was so lucky (from my perspective) because I was amenhorrheic until I started birth control at 21. Some women think their period is what makes them a woman. Yay for them. Now that my body is making up for lost time, I'd rather go back to the days of no pain and no mood swings. (I'm sure hubby agrees.)
Hang in there, Kate. I wish I could say something more, like offer some words of wisdom or something. Just know I'm thinking of you.
PS-PMS sucks.
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