In which I see a little progress
February 27, 2012So, my right thumbnail is mysteriously bitten all the way down to the quick. I must have had some kind of nervous moment while explaining my situation to member services at my healthcare provider’s office. Well, it was over the phone. I don’t know where they were. I was at home, apparently biting my nails.
I got some things accomplished, set in motion. I ordered up some lab tests, to see how my liver is doing. Well, who the hell else would order it? The inmate is running the asylum, apparently. The last email I got from my oncologist said, essentially, what a bother it was to get an outside referral (i.e., that she was not going to try), and that she hoped her note found me well. I laughed out loud.
That was back in September, and I haven’t seen or heard from her since. Am I just supposed to take the hint? Know that she’s breaking up with me and stop hanging around by her locker before math class?
Anyway, that’s why I called member services. Someone really needs to be in charge of me. Also, I believe it’s protocol for a doctor, upon receiving bad news on a patient’s behalf, to contact that patient in some way. Right now, I am the medical hot potato, being tossed from doctor to doctor. I am so fucked.
At the moment, my liver’s surface is …decorated, I guess, over more than 50% of its surface. The CAT scan is painful to look at, the lesions glowing white in the dark cavern of my abdomen. Sometimes I poke at my liver a little bit, and think, Really? Can’t you keep it together even just a little? Because honestly, at the rate these are growing, let’s just say that I don’t expect to be needing a 2013 refill for my Hermès agenda.
I’m feeling wry today, befuddled. I want to know how much time I have left, and I want to know where I’m going. I’m not scared, per se, but after years of sarcastic bait-and-switch by both my parents — each of whom loved teaching us a lesson, especially if social humiliation was involved, I don’t know what to expect. I want to be able to reopen the door after I’m through, peek my head out and whisper, “You guys! I made it! See you later!”
I guess we’ll all just have to wonder.
Could this be a mystic wonder waiting to greet me in the afterlife??
You know, I love that you refer to the hyponychium as the “quick.” Maybe it’s my cosmetology background (which included manicuring), but I’ve only ever known the skin at the base of the free edge as the hyponychium. You’d think my degrees in English would have introduced me to more colloquial ways of talking about fingernails, but there’s no need now because I have you, and I like “quick” much better too. Once I again, I learned something from reading your post. Thank you for that, and good job making those calls today. I especially enjoyed my call to you and our lovely conversation. You’d think we’ve known each other years, and yet we’ve never met in person. I love you all the same. But maybe the taste and smell of lotion on the fingers and cuticles or even nail polish would trigger awareness when you’re biting; this was another area missed when learning and studying for the cosmo license–practical ways to stop unconscious nail-biting. Then again, that was nearly thirty years ago and my memory has a few holes in it.
I’m not really a nail-biter — it’s some kind of unconscious thing, a reaction to stress. Very odd. When I was young, I bit my nails so badly that I had to soak them in medicine every day, and the doctor threatened to pull them out. True story.
I want my trailer to look like that photo! And I want eunuchs there to wait upon my every demand and to fan me with huge palm leaves.
Your wish is our command!