Lumps & Bumps

Show of hands: Those eager to exchange brains with me.

Anyone? Bueler?

Yesterday afternoon, I called my cousin Leah. She’s a doctor, an ally, and a friend. I gave her all the information I’d gathered at Kaiser yesterday, and asked her if I should be concerned or if I should, as all the doctors advised, not be concerned?

What they told me is that, no, it’s not adult acne that a ProActiv commercial would fix; and, yes, this strange lump is indeed a swollen lymph node, another part of our immune system. They told me this likely has nothing to do with cancer, that it’s just something to note, and that it would go away in a few weeks, tops. That swollen glands happen. They told me I likely accidentally cut myself while shaving under my arm, and got a minor infection that’s causing this swelling (“but I didn’t cut myself.” "it would be smaller than you could see. this is normal.").

They told me we could do imaging on it, and then biopsy it if I insisted. And so that remains to be scheduled. But after all of yesterday being told it’s likely nothing, and my insisting that you prove to me it’s actually nothing… I called my cousin.

She said, “Normal life is full of lumps and bumps.” That "someone with your history" is bound to go to the far side of fear, but she was not concerned.

In fact, no one really seemed concerned except me. But then, I'm the one with the history.

If I could dampen or soften the reaches and depths of my emotional swings…

Well, I don’t think I would. I’m not bipolar, I’m just me. Fully feeling, fully emoting.

However, I think the Ship of Emotional Life fell off the edge of the ocean yesterday, and I am tired from that.

I left the hospital, several hours later, parting with my dear and kind friend who spoke of shoes and ships and sealing wax, not to distract me, but just be normal with me. To listen to me say from my plastic hospital waiting room chair, I hate this. I just want you to know I hate this. And for her to say, Yep. That sounds about right.

I left, and I went to the hot tubs. I live near a place that has saunas and hot tubs, and I soaked for a half hour. My head was with me, so it wasn’t “relaxing” per se, but it was nice, sort of. The hospital called to tell me the Radiology department would call to schedule a CT scan to see what this is, if anything.

And on the way home, I called my cousin. Because my poor exhausted brain, my hyperactive adrenals, and my weary fucking heart needed to hear from a doctor who loved me.

She said, she’s not here, she can’t see what’s going on, but if it were her—and she knows my reactions are different—she wouldn’t be worried.

Life is full of lumps and bumps.

I came home, watched about 5 hours of Netflix, and finally said aloud, Alright, that’s enough, got up, made tea, and read through the play for the audition I have tonight. I’m not secure in this monologue, but I’m doing it.

I had a moment of, Remember who you are. Remember what you do. Remember what you can do, and I showed up for an hour for my dream and my vision.

Then I went back to Netflix.

Because, that’s what this process is like for me right now. It’s remembering who and what I am, what I’m capable of, and it’s numbing the fuck out because who I am and what I can do can run me into the ground.

In meditation the other day, my advice to myself (or my “intuitive thought” or “intuition”) reminded me to Rest: “As to your fatigue, my only instruction is to rest,” it said. To rest and play with ease.

The taught high-wire act of my emotional life is not easeful.

So, I need to come back down, touch the ground again, fill up with images of trees and covens and auras and love. And remember who I am can be easeful, too.

Ha. I, Molly Louise, can be an easeful human being! Who can walk with equanimity in this world. I can have highs and lows, and dash myself upon the craggy shores. And, I can bend my head into the silken lap of Divine Calm, and let her stroke my hair for a while as I take a long-forgotten full & present breath.

Life is full of lumps and bumps. Life can be normal. Not devastating. Not harrowing. Life can be okay. Have both trip-lines and benches overlooking a sunset. Life, my life, is going to be okay.