Sunday, November 22, 2009

when tiny dribbles become giant waves

So apparently The Husband was tuning me out the day I told him the secret of living peacefully with me. Big surprise there huh?

I laid it all on the table before we got married and told him to pay special attention to two keys points that were the keys to, not only understanding me, but dealing with me on a daily basis.

Point #1: I need to be loved. That's the only reason you're here. I don't need someone to pay my bills. I don't need someone to fix things when they're broke (although that would be a really cool benefit.) I need someone to love me. And since I'm a needy bitch (and this is important,) I need to be constantly reminded of that love. Don't ever, ever, no matter what else happens, allow me to believe that you don't love me or care about what happens to me because once I get that thought in my head it will be very difficult for me to shake it.

Point #2: I don't bitch about the little shit. Or at least I try very hard not to. If I'm bitching about the toilet seat being left up or the fact that your aim is horrible, consider yourself warned, there is something else bothering me. I'm not going to call you out every time I feel unloved, unappreciated or am royally pissed about some asshole thing you've done because believe it or not, I don't want to argue with you. But, (and this is important) I will lose my patience and begin nit-picking and bitching about all the stupid, inconsequential shit that grates my nerves. So pay attention, if I'm bitching about little shit, start asking me questions if you want to know what's wrong with me because I'm probably really steaming over something else.

To his credit, The Husband has at least been making a concerted effort to be attentive and to demonstrate, in his own way, that he loves me. Of course that's directly linked to the fact that his biological clock is ticking like hell and he's thinking he might just want to have a baby, but that's another post for another time.

I've been bitching about his aim for months now. I've been bitching about the dog hair all over the floor. I've been bitching about his grunting and groaning and moaning. I've been bitching about the amount of room he takes up when we sit in a booth at a restaurant.

He hasn't yet asked me what the hell my problem is. I guess he assumes I'm just pissy. I know part of him is certain I'm crazy and that my moodiness has something to do with whatever is not quite right in my head.

Perhaps he is simply trying to avoid the same argument I am. Perhaps he is just clueless. Or perhaps he just doesn't give a shit.

Either way, he's known for almost a year now that the cancer has returned. I mention its presence every so often as a reminder, hoping that somehow this time will be different. When I first mentioned the recurrence to him, I was hopeful. A few weeks passed and I mentioned it again and he had the good grace to ask if it was getting any worse. Since then? Nothing. Nada. Not a word, not a question, nothing said in response to comments I make about it.

A friend of mine offered that maybe he just doesn't want to deal with it. Maybe he doesn't want to talk about it because talking about it makes it real. Maybe.

But we've been here before. And when I asked him the first go around why he refused to talk about it his answer was very simple..."you've got to understand, I know you're probably thinking about this all the time, but that's just it, this is happening to you, this isn't happening to me so I'm not thinking about it all the time." I haven't quite been able to shake those words.

No, that's not a conversation I want to have again. The last time we had that conversation it ultimately led to me asking for a divorce. For now, I'll just keep bitching about the pissy dribbles around the toilet.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

well ain't that a kick in the balls

Figuratively speaking of course. Because I don't have balls. Although I've often been accused of having big brass ones.

But alas I've been blessed with dysfunctional lady parts. Seems like the damn things have never worked right! That's why I had a rough pregnancy. That's why I had a hysterectomy at the age of 25. That's why I've had two surgeries, countless laser ablations and several rounds of topical chemo.

And now that's why I don't even care if I never have sex again. Sex hurts. And when it hurts I look. And when I look I am reminded of the cancer that continues to fester.

(By the way, if you know me outside of cyberspace and pick up the phone to call me, don't. There's a reason I haven't mentioned it. I don't want to talk about it.)

It's been back for a while...came back not long after I healed from the last surgery. Some days it doesn't bother me at all and I don't even think about it. Most days it's a mild annoyance...a constant irritation, reminding me that all is not right in the region. It reminds me of Winston's varicose ulcer in Orwell's 1984.

Then there's days like today. A quick round of sex brings about pain and of course me being me, leads me to investigate the source of that pain. The investigation reveals everything I expected to see (from previous examinations) and confirms earlier suspicions that yes, it has clearly spread to previously uncharted territory.

I am immediately annoyed. I am then filled with that nagging, haunting sense of doom as I envision this invader creeping, slowly taking over. The fact that I have these thoughts only annoys me more. That wave of nausea washes over me. I can't speak. A piercing pain grabs my mid-section. And I wonder stupidly, for a fleeting second, if this is what it feels like to get kicked in the balls.