I'm Not Home Yet

12.4.08

I threw away my prosthesis Monday night and moved my wigs off of my dresser. I don't know why it's taken so long, nor do I know why there are still things I can't look at and can't get rid of.

I have several tote bags in my bedroom that I've used in the 3 years I've shuttled back and forth between here and M.D. Anderson. They're filled with insurance forms, bills, magazines, puzzle books...the stuff that accumulates while you wait. Waiting is an art in which I've become well versed.

I can't make myself go through it. I try now and then, but that chemo nausea returns like a ghost to remind me of how bad it's been.

I also carry a small notebook with me that includes, among other things, several pages detailing the physical reactions I had to chemotherapy. I agreed to participate in a study that required I keep track. I can't tear those pages out.

I remind myself that I've been through a lot. I got rid of the prosthesis, I moved my wigs. It's a journey of reconciliation. I'm not home yet.

Rules For Living In Crazy Land

Rule Number One for Living in Crazy Land: Let go of ego and resentment.

Rule Number Two: Remember that everyone here is suffering because of their own inability to let go of ego.

There's no need for anger or fantasies of sabotage. That self-indulgence merely leads me farther down the road into the Crazy Land wilderness where dysfunction flourishes. I don't do dysfunctional. I guess that would be Rule Number Three.

When I'm grounded in reality, I'm always free to offer compassion. And to be entertained.

Jingling Bling

Thanksgiving being (thankfully) over, the Festal Pig has returned to plague Crazy Land with jingly bling.

We have a minimal staff today--Golf Pro (wonder of wonders!), Mr. Moneybags, The Information Superhighway, IT Boy, Moneybags' daughter, Morose Owner and, of course, yours truly, the Festal Pig. Were it not for the constant jingle jingle of my bracelet, Crazy Land would be utterly grim.

Though it gave renewed temporary hope to Owner, virtually all of our citizens have accepted the inevitable demise of Crazy Land. Owner, the Founder and Caretaker of Crazy Land, is determined to see the company crumble. As far as he's concerned, it already has. His pessimism is living proof to the theory of self-fulfilling prophecy. Owner is depressed and gloomy. He's already destitute. The worst has already happened.

On the Pig front, I recently gained starling new information regarding salaries here and it's given me new impetus to seek a new, more fulfilling Crazy Land. Yes, boys and girls, it's out there. I will most assuredly find it and settle into a new, dysfunctional country of ego maniacs and eccentrics.

It turns out that Golf Pro isn't the only one who's raking in the cash. Looks like I'm last in line for the gravy train. If we weren't already halfway under water, I might be tempted to sabotage my victories in developing a more efficient analytical database. Mr. Moneybags would have to revisit the cost of building a new version. Reality can be a cruel and pricey teacher. We're two steps into the quicksand, though, and I'm not sure it's worth the trouble required to commit software vandalism.

I console myself with the knowledge that job offers for the wildly overpaid with similar big bucks will be mighty slim. I know none of these comforting thoughts falls into the holiday spirit mode. I make up for it in jingle, though. If my jingly bling irritates my fellow workers, all the better.

Jingle jingle, you buttwads.