Friday #gladitude: Portals & Poison

With-Website1Alternatively titled, ”Demon Fridge.”

Alternatively, alternatively titled, ”Portal of Stupid.”

Can’t.

Even.

I need that on a t-shirt.

There’s never, ever a good time for an appliance to break down.

There’s especially never, ever a good time for a fridge to break down on the very same day you’ve hauled your chemo-soaked carcass out to the local WallyWorld to do a full grocery. And, by ”full grocery”, I verily mean the kind that people don’t want to stand behind you in line and if they do they give you the evil stink-eye for the small-country amount of foodstuffs on the conveyor thingie.

Trying to find the small things that make some ”Happy.” that would otherwise have gone unnoticed?

Difficult, at best.

Ridiculously painful, at worst.

Yet, there I stood…in the middle of the Home Depot appliance section imploring the older salesman that not only did I need a fridge, I needed said fridge as of yesterday…because I have eleventy-billion people who live in my house and I do daycare and I just had a chemotherapy infusion and…and…

”Soonest we’d be able to deliver would be the 16th.”

What the actual fuck, Sir? Speak into my good ear? Did I hear…oh…oh, no…

So I did what any rationally insane woman would do whilst trying not to toss cookies in the middle of the appliance section of the Home Depot:

I completely, and utterly, broke down.

Tsunami of Tears.

Hurricane of Hopelessness.

In all fairness, the gentlemen salesman took it in stride pretty well, even with the deer-in-headlights, fear-of-actual-death look in his saucer-sized ocular orbs.

Long story short, I ended up getting a floor model for an extra-added discount because…well…bitch be cryin’.

Ends there?

Do you know me?!

Never, EVER, a good time to break down, fridge...

Never, EVER, a good time to break down, fridge…

No, the fridge channeled its inner demon and, come hell or high water, would NOT fit through the stupid kitchen doorway because someone thought for shits’n’giggles to make said doorway closet-sized, not normal-people-fucking-build-properly sized.

Yes, we measured.

Yes, we took the damn doors off.

Yes, we were short by a whopping 5 mm.

Demon Fridge, meet Portal of Stupid.

”Cut the fucking wall.” I glared with everything I could possibly muster while wanting to toss my cookies through said Portal of Stupid.

Long story short, the wall was cut away and the Demon Fridge slid through the Portal of Stupid with no trouble.

Oh, I must mention my efforts in assisting to lift said Demon Fridge through the Portal of Stupid. 183 pounds of Demon. Thanks be to whatever gods you relate that there are moving straps that grip your Go, Go Spazzy Forearms in their gently padded sleeves of ”holy shit that felt good until I had to actually lift the fucker!”

I’m unclear, at this point, where it factors in that I’ve yet to receive any time to heal from having poison course through my veins in the attempt to ‘system reboot’ and not, y’know, die from Lupus.

It came to mind that, quite possibly, I’m simply going to give it my next treatment in two weeks to see what happens afterward, to consider whether going forward in any treatment at all.

I cannot fathom how the chaos of my reality is such that I am simply not afforded the luxury (?) of healing.

Can’t.

Even.

It kinda sorta makes me want to run headfirst into the river.

So, it’s made me think really sad things. Like, why don’t I just have cancer, then? Would people take it more seriously? Do I need to post photos of my beautiful rockstar ballerina, Rhian, who died from Lupus, being a mere one year younger than I?

What do you do? How do you make people believe the severity of the reality of living with a disease that eats your heart cells and threatens your very cellular activity??

I don’t know. I’m simply at a loss to explain people’s behaviours or perceptions. I feel I need to explain them to myself because the reality of neglect hurts far more that the disease itself. And, quite honestly, I’m not entirely certain how to keep finding #gladitude when sometimes it really feels like my condition doesn’t matter to anyone else but ”Me.”

I wish I could even define what it is that I need. I know that might seem easy enough, but I sure as shit can tell you what I don’t need…and that’s the look on some poor salesman’s face when a woman starts sobbing in the middle of the appliance section.

Want to know some of the side effects of Rituxan?

Have at it: HERE

#gladitude. Right.

I’m a lil’ scared, admittedly. It’s been harder and harder to see…to find them…

Dry heaving in the bathroom lowered my head enough to find a piece of hematite I’ve been looking for for months.

Though the trauma of the Demon Fridge was ridiculous beyond words, I have a really, really clean fridge, and didn’t have to clean it myself. \m/

Colour. As always, finding really colourful, really cool images on the web is of utter contentment.

Cosmos. I love Pinterest. Shall I say, I’m even a bit of an addict. But, finding so many stunning images of the Cosmos and so many things to learn affords me the escapism that helps me keep on keepin’ on.

I’m still struggling to understand why I can’t be treated with the respect I feel I deserve. The ability to heal when required. I own my shit. I keep doing (or trying to do) epic shit to make contributions to my community and family. I don’t Eeyore and I sure as shit don’t Whine-1-1.

I keep on keepin’ on.

I can only hope my journey to do so makes an impact on someone else to know that they are not alone in theirs.

Because, battling Demon Fridges and Portals of Stupid while post-chemo is the shit even Oprah wouldn’t believe.

You matter. Own it.

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