The Case of the 40s

I don't know where I thought I was going to be at 40 years old, but I'm positive it's not here. And by here, of course, I mean nowhere doing nothing. 

When I was in my early - mid 20s, I used to throw myself hotel room birthday parties. I was so excited about them! I got such a kick out of planning them and figuring out what I was going to wear. If I could go back in time, I would tell myself to live it up, because sugar would go to sh*t, literally for the next 15 years. 

The other day, I had a dream that I was panicked, planning for a party at a big mansion. I was running around trying to get food and drinks for my guests, and I hired Kid Rock to do the photography and videography. I used to love him in high school. Not so much now. I think that we can agree that he's a little different now. Anywho, I woke up and figured that the dream was telling me that I wanted to have a birthday party for my 40th. 

On social media, I have seen my friends celebrate their 40ths in a whole bunch of fun and cute ways. International trips. Girls nights. Cruises. Family fun days. Spa weekends. Elaborate dinners. You name it! The last time I attempted to throw a movie night for my birthday, I invited a whole bunch of folks and only one person showed up. Luckily, it was one of my good friends. We drank sparkling apple juice and talked over tacos. It was a nice night, but a painful reminder that my friends either don't like me or don't give a crap. I would like to have a party because it would be nice to be excited about something, but if no one showed, I'd be crushed and disappointed, and I can't risk that. I am already crushed and disappointed, just living day-to-day. 

Right now, I am leaning towards getting an AirBnB for a weekend, turning out all the lights, and laying face first into a bed pillow, groaning. That may sound depressing, but it is actually one of my favorite things to do. I will keep you posted on my plans, or lack thereof. 

Mommy

I've been missing my mommy of late. I always miss her, but lately, I have been longing to talk to her so badly. 

Oddly enough, talking to her when she was alive could irritate me like no other. She was always giving me unasked for advice which drove me up the wall! But I was also just getting to know her. We butted heads my whole childhood because I didn't like her mooching leech of a boyfriend. As a young adult, I no longer had to see her deal with him, which left room for us to acquaint ourselves with each other. Now she's gone and I find myself needing to talk to her.

If she had not been cremated, I'd totally be advocating for a Pet Cemetery situation just so we could chat before she'd try to kill me. In this case, I'm sad this this is not a scene from a Stephen King fantasy. I no longer wish to be sad. Time for bed. 

Youth pt. 2

It feels like me and the women in my life turned 39, the universe was alerted, and she sent us an array of crap. The whole thing has me thinking about the meaning of youth. 

As you know, 39 brought me endometrial polyps I had to have plucked out. That was emotional and incredibly stressful for a woman whose anxiety is already so naturally high that I could shoot to the moon on it. A college friend told me that she has already had her mammogram, something that should be set for next year, because our good friend's wife was diagnosed with breast cancer at 39. 

For some of my other girlfriends, the race to have a baby has never been so real, especially for my uncoupled friends that have to weigh waiting for a man with getting a donor. Today, my 39-year-old doctor friend died in hospice care from a disease she wasn't even old enough to get screened for! 

Is the universe trying to tell me and my soon-to-be middle-aged friends to cherish life and your health because you never know what trick life is going to pull out of its hat? Okay! Message received. Now can you please keep all my girls well and alive?

It doesn't work like that. 

When I was a kid, I'd hear my grandma on the phone giving and receiving updates on sick friends and friends who had passed. The whole thing would go over my head, now it's at my feet. For lack of a better word, it's scary. 

Is this to be life from now on? Scared for my wellbeing and that of those I love? I guess this is yet another disgusting part of adulting. My grandma would tell me to pray. I think I will. 

Youth

When you are young, people will tell you, "Do it while you are young." " Enjoy it while you're young". And the people who really know what they are talking about will tell you, "You are only young once" because that is, truly, the long and short of it. But no one will tell you that you are thinking all wrong, as if your youth has an expiration date. 21 you are young. 41 you are not.

Every now and then someone you view as truly ancient will tell you that you are only as young as you feel. Okay. But you are also only as young as you are, and all of these things have to coexist in you as truth as you move and love and do what you do. I am learning what I find it hard to articulate to others: youth is not something you have but more like a shadow that moves with you. And just like a man that don't want you no more, she will begin to spiritually withdraw until the coast is clear to jump ship completely. And one day you wake up honey and you are you, minus that special something that excused you, that ran your operations system, that set your goal calendar. You are now a new you that you may or may not welcome, and no one, not even women, prepares women for this. 

One day, you are expected to just take out your First Aid kit and begin to treat the wounds youth left behind and begin to transition to the mature you, the senior you, that respects money, takes vitamins, and gives a sh%t! And don't be that old person who is haunted by youth traumas like financial stuff and love ailments. Life has time for you like it has time for itself, and you go from a work in progress to a relic that hurts people's eyes. No one wants to see you until there is something to see. And to think, just 20 years ago, you were dancing on a table someplace. You will remember these times until you die with pristine precision, which is both beautiful and cruel. What we are talking about here is the equivalent of catching a firefly in your hands. The bulb is flickering. The end. 

The Chase

With all the health stuff I have been dealing with, I have found myself reaching out to my friends for support. And the truth of the matter is, some of them are not interested in being present. It just is what it is. Yet, on the other hand, my church family has been consistent, checking in on me and sending me prayers and well wishes. So, the other night while I sat in the dark groaning, I asked myself why I am chasing friends that aren't interested when there are people proving that they want to be a part of my life? Why is my default always trying to cling to the unavailable? Talk about trauma and damage! These and other questions to be answered as I try to navigate life. Stay tuned.

Hysterectomy/Mysterectomy

I called the doctor's office as soon as I got an alert that my test results came back from my biopsy. I don't even think that they were aware that they had come in yet. I was really high strung, seeing that I am not a medical professional and had just been forwarded a couple of pages of things that might as well have been written in Spanish. The doctor went over my results with me, it was good news, but an eye now has to be kept on my jay-jay. He said later on, if there is still an issue, I may have to get a hysterectomy. Of course, this sent me into a spiral. 

In the past, I have said that I wanted one because I could not deal with the stress of worrying about my lady parts. But when I heard the doctor say that word out of his mouth, I lost it. And unbelievably, I was not worried about my body or possibly having to have another surgery. I was not even worried about my ability to have kids, for I have never wanted to be a mom. What I was worried about (embarrassingly) is if a man would want me with half of my plumbing gone. This would make me an old lady! Would I even still be a girl? Would this make my insides feel like razor blades and bottle caps?

Child, do you know what is even more stressful than worrying about your 'gina? Worrying about a man and what men want and never having one and blah, blah, blah. Along time ago, I figured that I was fat and that finding a man that would really, truly love me may be a long shot. And as much as I would like to be partnered, I thought that I was clear with myself about how my 50/50 chance was more like slim to none. Yet, when he said the 'h' word, everything came bubbling up to the surface and guys, I was so, so sad. I have had a minute to sit with this. Now I am mad. 

I am mad that at almost 40 I have not been able to shake off this "What about men?" mentality. It's like a second skin! Whether I want to admit it or not, my whole life has been a serious of failed attempts to paint the peacock to get a guy's attention which is a real waste! I could have spent that time with loved ones, doing something I really enjoy. Or spent that time getting preventative vaginal exams! The other day, I was talking to a doctor about my health, and all I could think about was this hypothetical, may never arrive man. 

I know. Pathetic. 

Dr. Hottie and the Biopsy

I'm not going to lie: when I was dropped off early at the hospital for my procedure, I stood on the steps and cried. I was scared, overwhelmed, and alone. I knew that I was going to cry, but I didn't think it would be that early. 

"Are you okay?" the security guard asked. I nodded, but he walked over to me anyway. I rolled my eyes. If men aren't ignoring me, they are bothering me when I am trying to have a private moment. I wiped my eyes and followed him inside where a man with a crutch was already waiting. We were the early birds, waiting for 6am to go up to get prepped for our surgeries. I sat there listening to Glorilla, praying that things would go my way. I had never had any type of surgery or anesthesia, and I was mortified of not waking up. My fears were not calmed when I was told I was sent to the wrong area and that I had not paid money I had a receipt for paying. By this time, my mind was all over the place. If one more oopsie was made, I was going to make a run for it! 

By the time I was checked into preop, I looked a hot mess! Sadness and worry was graffitied all over my face. I looked tired and upset. Looking in the mirror after giving my urine sample, it dawned on me that I looked the worst that I had ever seen myself! But the party was just beginning. I got changed into the backless gown that no one likes and sat still while a woman rubbed by back and butt down with antiseptic wipes. Then Nurse Heavy Hand rubbed my right arm down so hard with an alcohol cotton ball that she bruised me. How hard to you have to be rubbing me to bruise me with a piece of cotton? She couldn't find my vein. My left arm looked like a pin cushion, only for Nurse Tiny Little to find my vein on the right arm and get me with one prick. Thank. God. 

Once my doctor arrived, I was relieved and ready to rock. She came with the resident I had been seeing during my visits, which made me more comfortable. I almost allowed my shoulders to relax a little before a tall, brown brotha with beautiful eyebrows and lashes showed up at the foot of my bed. He was introduced as Dr. Hottie, another resident that would be helping out with the surgery. 

Oh no, I thought to myself. I looked like SH&T! Of course I did. When I was in high school and had bad asthma attacks where I couldn't breathe, my respiratory therapists always looked like they had hopped out of an Abercrombie ad. I was beyond embarrassed. 

However, the humiliation didn't come until I got into the operating room and needed help getting on the operating table with Dr. Hottie right there. I could have died! My butt cheeks were exposed and ashy. They don't allow you to wear lotion on the day of a surgery! I would have done anything for just a squirt of Nivea. 

Once I was in recovery, I looked over at the nurse's station and he was sitting there, working, looking good. I could tell he was fine, even with his face mask on. He even looked like he smelled good. I could feel myself smiling goofily at him and then it dawned on me: THIS FINE MAN HAS SEEN MY VAGINA! If I wasn't completely out of it, I would have screamed!

However, once everything did wear off and I was getting ready to go home, I thanked Dr. Hottie and told him I was sorry if I was acting weird. I just wasn't expecting a man in the surgery. He said it was okay and smiled. I have to tell you, I felt something in that moment. But I cannot be sure if it was a sensual connection or post-surgical vaginal pain. All I know is that next time, if there has to be a next time, I am sneaking a travel container of lotion into preop in my bra.