Monday, June 11, 2012

June 11

It's just after 2:00 in the morning, and here I am... blogging, while I wait for the Ativan to kick in so I can fall back to sleep.

I went to bed at a decent time last night, and I slept solid for about five hours (this is a pretty good stretch for me, at this point). I woke up with a start just after 1:00 and couldn't get fall to sleep. I did lie in bed for quite some time, curled up and on my side (because I won't be able to do that comfortably for a few months), thinking... Thinking about my silly nephews (I spent the afternoon at Spencer's yesterday), thinking about who I needed to email and/or text back (I just can't keep up with all the love!), thinking about how I need to organize my desk tomorrow (today) and start getting ready to abandon ship for the next couple months, thinking about the brownies that Linsey brought over yesterday, thinking about what's clean (and what still fits), so I know what I can wear to work tomorrow, thinking about how I Redboxed a movie on Saturday morning and then totally forgot to watch it all weekend long (it's still in my purse - awesome), thinking about how I really need to clean the blades on my ceiling fans and take the garbage out. Thinking. About anything and everything under the sun, in an effort to avoid thinking about: surgery, pain, fear, cancer.

And that's when I decided that it was time to get up and take an Ativan. (And maybe over-share a little, online. Because that's always fun. For everyone.)

I don't know what in the world I'd do without that stuff. ... I mean, I do. I'd lie there, and I'd think too much, and eventually I'd start crying - a lot - and eventually, I'd (hopefully) wear myself out and fall back to sleep. But this, this drug-infused ability to let go of the things that I am thinking about, and distance myself a little from the things that I'm trying really hard NOT to think about, this is such a blessing.

My goodness, I'm grateful to live in a day and age where not only can my doctors surgically remove tumors from my body, but they can also prescribe medication that helps me stop the runaway train that I call my brain.

Ativan: Just one more reason I am grateful to have been born in this dispensation. And not in Massachusetts in the 1600's, when I surely would have been questioned - and then probably thrown in prison - when my tumors made me look pregnant. At the very least, I'd have been forced to wear a scarlet letter. In all likelihood, I'd have been hanged as a witch for carrying the devil's child. (Assuming my tumor didn't choke the life out of me before the Puritans could.)

And, on that note, I think I'm going to head back to bed. Here's to hoping that my Massachusetts references don't follow me into sleep...