Thoughts and concerns (while fighting the good fight)

I’m not comfortable posting details about my health right now. Not sure why. Maybe because writing a scene is challenging when you don’t know how the story ends?

(Besides, you have my number.)

If you don’t, scour the restrooms at Skipper’s Smokehouse. Or wait until I write about it (when I’m damn good and ready.)

Until then…deal with this anecdote.

I’m walking through Moffitt, amazed at all the bald heads and masks.

(Heavy scene.)

There is a moment when self-pity hits and you have to breathe (and repeat your social security number) to stop crying.

Art show!

I walk over to the paintings, photographs, and drawings. Amazing stuff. Beautiful images meant to inspire hope, instill peace, and even encourage the patient to soldier on.

I look around at the people again.

Instead of seeing victims, I recognize determination in the eyes of these fighters and survivors. No one seems interested in giving up and I return smiles without tears and say hello without a quivering voice.

(There’s a picture of a mommy with twin sons kissing her bald head. I almost lose it again.)

Rounding the corner, I make my way to the doctor, feeling that familiar lump rise up inside me.

(No. The other lump.)

I almost run into a little boy. He’s no more than eight years old: sunken eyes, no hair, big smile. I feel myself straighten up involuntarily. My shoulders move back and my chest goes out. As I gaze into his eyes, I see my own children looking back.

(This could be so much worse, Katie.)

I shut my eyes and pray. Please. Always. Let it be me. I can handle anything as long as my kids are okay.

A few days later, I’m back and shuffled from one room to the next. Poked. Prodded. Trying to find something funny about this situation is hard. Thoughts are consumed with an invisible checklist :

Disability insurance up to date?

Check.

Vegas trip paid for?

Check.

Can my lump be considered carry-on baggage?

Maybe.

Will the needle extract a substance eerily similar to a mojito?

Possibly.

(Work with me. I’m reaching here.)

Leave it to my brother. We are on the phone, discussing this issue as well as other family members who are facing health problems of their own.

“Why is everything happening at the same time?” he asks. “I don’t know if this family has enough prayers and positive thoughts.”

(What about the Crimmins cousins? They got a few.)

I suddenly realize the problem – all our hard-core religious aunts, uncles and grandparents are dead! The novena-saying, rosary-chanting, Basilica-visiting relatives are long gone. Thinking over my family roster – only Mom and Sister come to mind.

I immediately call them.

“You need to get on it,” I tell Sister.

I catch her on the way to a rosary group. What did I tell you? I remind her that the fate of the family rests on her shoulders.

(Who else is gonna pick up the slack? Debbie?)

“All of a sudden,” she asks, “you like our saints?”

“Any port in a storm, sis, any port in a storm.”

Next, I call Mom.

“You need to get on it,” I tell her. “If you don’t, who will?”

“I’ll schedule a healing Mass. Why don’t you join me, Catherine?”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“If this whole thing depends on me – we’re fucked.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she mumbled.

“That’s a start,” I said. “Keep going.”

(Laughing feels good.)

“Seriously, Mom. Didn’t we have an aunt diagnosed not once but several times with cancer? Aunt Nora, Aunt Mary, Aunt Marie, Aunt Alice, Nana…they hauled their ass over to St. Ann’s Basilica in Scranton and marathon prayed that shit right out of existence. Girlfriend got to Mayo Clinic completely cured, right?”

“That’s right. They didn’t find a thing.”

“Well, get on that shit! Call Mary Ann or something, get those rosaries out of storage and Hail Mary me a cure. I ain’t too proud to beg for prayers. Let’s go.”

“My rosary isn’t in storage, Catherine. I say it every night.”

“Good. Add my name in a few times, let’s make a pilgrimage to some cathedral, light a few candles up in that bitch and get me rollin’!”

(I really don’t think church-going folk would appreciate my verbage. But fuck ‘em.)

In between the jokes and laughter, I’m really quite pissed off. I still meditate, but now I throw my healing crystals at the wall and curse sporadically throughout the mantras. I still eat right and exercise but instead of treadmilling over Dick Cheney, I have a new enemy.

(It’s no secret, this yoga lover is a bitch.)

If you think you’re going to run into me on the street or in the frozen food aisle at Publix and find a born-again Christian harping on about the blessings of an illness, you’ve got another thing coming.

(Namaste, cocksuckers.)

If you think you’re going to call and find a weepy and scared little girl on the other end of the phone, you are sadly mistaken.

Forget all that new-age acceptance Buddha bullshit.

(I’m still aiming to graduate Samsara though.)

I want to be well.

I will be well.

Kicking ass always makes me feel better. I will stay strong, but you better look out.

That’s a warning.