“I‘m hanging on by a thread*,” I heard myself say today. I was speaking to my father’s wife, Carol, who promised if she were here with me in Florida, she’d find us a suitable case of wine. “Yeah, no kidding. Phil just said he was heading to Wal-Mart [he is unnaturally obsessed with the place], asked if I needed anything. Nope. Nothing. Then he’s in the driveway, and I’m suddenly chasing after him, ‘Wine, get wine. Hello? WINE!’ Carol, I’m a mess.” I needed to vent…
“Abigail likely needs eye surgery to correct the eye that wanders out when she’s tired. She now needs to see a plastic surgeon and have that surgery on her chin, and the cost of cosmetic surgery is obviously not cheap. Lucas had a fever of 102.5 the other day and was throwing up. Oh, ya know, and there’s a major move going on is all. Boxes haven’t arrived yet. Abigail lost her beloved “Snuffy,” the ugliest stuffed elephant ever—it looks like one of the Trash Heap’s stooges from Fraggle Rock. Basically, it’s a rat-penis combo. I have exactly no friends nearby. And Lucas decided to eat a Bend-A-Roo this morning. That’s all. No. Wait. I haven’t had my period since May 16, which basically means I’ve got two months of ‘bite me’ coming everyone’s way. I haven’t returned any work phone calls, and I HATE THE SUN! It causes cancer. Both my parents had skin cancer removed. It’s like a nightmare. Every time I get a pimple that I suspect might keep coming back, I’m convinced it’s cancer, obsess over it, then forget it, then obsess. Add it to the psycho list right beside ‘Find a new dermatologist in Boca that does mole mapping.’ And why, for the love of God, is Phil so obsessed with WAL-MART?! I mean, what is that about? He actually walks around huffing about how the Austin Wal-mart prices for fresh roasted turkey are $3.00 LESS per pound than the Delray Beach Wal-mart. All I can think is, why in the ham sandwich are you buying “fresh roasted turkey breast” when it’s never really fresh, never tastes like a carved slice from an actual turkey, a la Thanksgiving? And Wal-mart?! Seriously? Can’t you just bargain shop at Costco like a normal person?! Hello? Are you still there?”
HOLY NUT SLING! My phone dropped the call while I was “double-cheek-checking” Lucas’s wipe work after his own double.
Vent FAIL.
It’s 2:52 AM now, and I can’t sleep. Hence the re-vent, blog-style.
I realize, of course, that everything that’s got me all worked up and histrionic is not life-or-death. It’s temporary. The fear and the overwhelming anxiety is all build up without anything actually “happening” right this second. It’s like crying when you see the needle, insisting it hurts, when the doctor hasn’t touched you yet. It’s pain foreplay.
Fear is the anticipation of pain.
ABIGAIL’S EYE SURGERY: We’ve tried the Pirate Diet, but it’s just not cutting it. These types of surgeries are “best done early. Timing really is of the essence.” I hate this phrase. All at once, it makes me think of salt-substitute and a magazine with the tagline: fierce, fun and fabulous! I’m speaking with their new pediatrician over at Pediatric Associates. “Don’t wait on this. Call Dr. Kanterman. Really. It’s all about timing.” So, I’ll beg for the earliest appointment, then I’ll freak once I hear the news from the horse’s mouth. Only this logic never works. The whole “Cart before the horse” bullshit makes me want a ram a carrot stick up the horse’s hind mouth.
ABIGAIL’S CHINNY CHIN CHIN: Thank God Phil’s mother was with me when we walked into the doctors’ offices. One look at Abigail’s chin, and the nurse said, “That is NOT going to look very good when it heals. At all. Which hospital did this?”
I want to hit rewind, the button where everything’s still in play, just slick, squeaky, a blur of backward, then play. I’m back in Austin, July 4, on our way to Dell Children’s Hospital when Phil says he thinks we should just get her to the ER as fast as possible, turning to Westlake ER (not a children’s hospital). This is not his fault; I am in no way blaming him for any of this. But I am blaming myself, and I’m blaming the doctor who PUT GLUE ON HER WOUND. I asked for a plastic surgeon, not just once, three times. Then I had Phil ask the doctor again if she didn’t need stitches, didn’t need plastics. “No, no, no. This will fix her right up.” I am so mad at myself… and at him. Why why why didn’t I take her to Dell Children’s an extra 15 minutes away?
“What’s done is done.” That’s another phrase I’d like to drop-kick.
Tomorrow I have to call Ophthalmology and Plastics… and all I can think is how Les Miserables she’s going to be… and camp starts and she can’t swim because of her chin. I feel so so bad. I also intellectually know that this is TEMPORARY and not life-critical, but still. All this with a move, putting our house on the market (once we’ve seen the pics, heard feedback from realtors), new house, new school, no friends nearby, no brownies, and zero sleep… suck to the sucky. I’m going to dig out some devil juice now. Or at least I think that’s what Charlie Sheen called Ambien. Yes, it’s come to misquoting Sheen. Up from here.
xo from the Sunshine State,
Stephanie
* How does the phrase “hanging on by a thread” make you think of anything but a vagina party-favor?
