Chocolate Cake & a Kitchen Floor

Don't judge the chocolatey goodness...

Don’t judge the chocolatey goodness…

Totally know where this one’s goin’…dontcha.

Alternatively titled: “When Reality Came Knocking on My Door”...or, “The Cosmos, Being an Asshat, Part Eleventy-Billion.”

I love my doctor. The regular one. Not the specialists who have personalities of a gnat. Which, no one knows if gnats have personalities, so that pretty much says it all right there.

My timeline just got another overhaul. I thought I’d absolutely, without question, kicked it to the curb, but really…Changed it, I did. Only altered, it was. And, it’s kicked my proverbial ass to the floor.

Specifically, eating chocolate cake (a remnant of a daycare birthday party of yesterday afternoon) on the kitchen floor trying to hide my soul from the little people who always have more questions than I can give answers. Because, PD day, of course.

I’ve spent the last couple of days processing the “this is what we’re looking at, but I don’t know how to proceed…”

I’ve spent the last couple of days hating the very Cosmos that also makes me feel like I could take over the world.

Of my blissful ignorance that Lupus is truly the asshat disease that it is. The disease that took my friend a mere three hours after her last tweet to the interwebs. The disease that likes to attack all of my good parts. The parts that keep you living.  That kind of disease.

I’ve been pondering the unfairness of thinking that maybe no treatment at all would help me achieve a painless freedom I so desperately yearn for…return to the Cosmos I so ironically desperately want to explore (seriously…why do telescopes cost soooooooo much more than the $$ I will ever have???)

I’ve been pondering what, and at what time, and how much, to tell my kids. If. Should. Who knows? No one knows. I’m not dead yet, mutha fucka’! \m/

Getting ridiculous bad awful rather emotionally devastating test results just happens to bring the reality in like the four horsemen of the apocalypse. You start to ponder the Everything.

I wonder how I’m going to manage the Everything.

I wonder how the next battery of nurses will treat me. I don’t have many nice rememberings of the ones I’ve dealt with thus far. Another body, another needle, another paycheck. “Alright, you’re done.”

No fucking kidding, gnat-ette. I am, indeed.

I wonder which will give out first: Heart or kidneys? (I should take bets to pay for the therapy I clearly need)

I wonder, “Why me?”

I wonder how I can change the Everything. Maybe I need an evil sidekick. Or, a theme song. A bedazzled sidekick singing my theme song. Could happen. *jazz hands*

I wonder why I ever thought I had any “control” in a disease that changes the very nature of my systemic function?

I wonder if I can keep working through any treatments that will be suggested.

I wonder if it will be easy to understand my bill binder and the level of OCD perfection that are page protectors.

I wonder if my friend was right…that I add to my stresses by trying to “Do All The Things!!”…but thinking I really, really want need to “Do.” for the very quality of life that keeps me keeping on.

I wonder if any of my kids will name a baby after me.

I wonder who will be the next woman to love my husband.

But, it’s just processing.

Some of it might seem over the top. True enough. However, it bears to address the obvious: I have a chronic disease that is slowly taking my body and I can’t find a way to stop it, or, right now…slow it down.

Some people with Lupus have a rash. I’m one of the “some people” who got more than a rash. And? It makes me fuckin’ grouchy and emotional.

I don’t have much information yet on what we’ll do for treatment. Could I miraculously enter remission? Who knows that, either?? Chemo? Dialysis?…big words for the seemingly small view I’ve had over the past couple of years during this journey through a bastard of a disease. I *do* shit. I *achieve* shit.

Fuckernackles.

Resting bitch face is where I’m at. I don’t feel very much, then I feel the very fabric of time and space coursing through the essence of my very soul.

(I’m so scared)

I don’t want to socialize because I think I’m preemptively avoiding all the “well-intentioned”. Yes, I know in some kind of cosmic irony that I could walk out to photograph Orion and be struck by a meteor. Life is always perceptively “short.” Yes, I know all of the “could be worse-es”…but I do not ever, *ever*, invalidate the chaos of my made-for-tv-movie kind’o’life because if there’s one thing for certain: At this moment? It just got fucking worse.

I’m just processing.

On a totally related note: the chocolate cake was delish. *shifty eyes*

But…this weekend calls for some sewing, and I’m hoping to get up some cards for Purple Llama Studio, too! I’m calling on every ounce of Everything to help me process, adjust…adapt.

Believe.

Do.

Repeat.

6 responses to “Chocolate Cake & a Kitchen Floor

  1. Speechless….
    Heart hurt….
    Tears…..
    Helplessness….
    I am one of those who wants to help heal everyone. I can’t, but know this, I am here, I will give all that I have, I unconditionally love you Pattie, and that is a fact.
    Can not find more words now, but …. I do not think you kneed words, you know my heart.
    <3

  2. I wish there was anything that I could say to help. Feeling helpless for you… Just know that I love you.

    Hugs.

  3. Heart hurts.Huggers here for you always

  4. Xoxoxox. Wanna go to Oh So Good, for some non floor cake?

    http://www.kijiji.ca/b-ottawa/telescop%C3%AA/k0l1700185 – Maybe you can find a previously loved one in your price point.

    R.

  5. Psst. I love you. And I miss you. And I hope you come hang out on Wednesday, because we just need to drink coffee and say “fuck it” and laugh or cry or whatever needs to go down. Don’t discount the power of great girlfriends. You have an army of them at your disposal in good times and bad. I’m sorry I can’t fix it, but I give an epic hug.

    Did I mention I love you? I love you.

  6. Pingback: Purple Llama Studio: Sewing Eleventy-billion Pieces | Lupus Interrupted

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