I’ve dropped the balls, not all of them, just the ones that got a bit too big to handle. We all hold about seven things at any one time. The problem is some of them grow at an alarming rate and before you know it they weigh so much that you have to let them go. We all get to this stage but unless we realise that it’s ok to put the odd thing down from time to time and take a look at what is left, we tend to stop juggling and end up in a pile on the floor. Been there and done that over the past few weeks. You see they have found a lump in my bits. Now I could go into details, you know tennis ball sized cyst on right ovary but I think that you get enough doom and gloom from the world so I’m going to tell you what happened when I decided to put the problem down and start juggling the things I could handle. Oh, yer and Mark is off of work as well, so as you can imagine I’ve been looking at care homes for both of us. There is a lovely one in Liverpool and another in Scarborough.
It all began the week before my holiday, off I trots to the GP, lovely guy, everything was working perfectly, the HRT was brilliant and I was going into old age with style and then the bottom fell out of everything and I got grotty so I went in and said to our Doc, fix it. What I didn’t expect was an emergency meeting with the women’s health brigade. They were amazing by the way. Laying on a couch with my legs in the laid-back frog position I was asked to relax. Although told that they didn’t keep any on site the nurse did laugh when I asked if they had a spare vibrator.
There it was the little bugger. Stuck on the right ovary, a tennis sized sack of fluid. Blood tests, scrapes and biopsies done, I am clear of Cancer. The two weeks of stress I’ve had whilst I waited for the results was the worse two weeks of my life. Having picked up the ball I was now struggling to juggle a beach ball sized concrete problem. I wouldn’t have minded so much but having been told I had an extra bit that resembled a tennis ball without having the pleasure of Djokovic’s company was devastating. Then when I went for my hysteroscopy it turns out that I’m too hypertensive for them to take a look. So, there I was a week and a half later, laying on another bed, jellied up and being scanned to be told that the cyst is now smaller than originally thought. That was a relief.
As I’ve always said, no one has anything wrong with them until they go to see their friendly GP. But with a blood pressure of 181/108 I was told it was time I went and had a word. I felt like a film star being prepped for her starring role. The first Doc I saw was a doll, honestly a tall handsome student Doctor, he’ll do well. He asked all the right questions and a few I didn’t expect, I was well behaved until our regular nurse practitioner came in, she helped the student find out what was wrong. “I’m dying I told them, but it’s ok you can wait a while I’m not going yet.” I behaved. Meds sorted out I had to go and see our nurse with the vampire fetish. Honestly, she just loves taking blood from the innocent and the amount she collects, I’m sure she is feeding a nursery of mini vampires that intend to take over the world. Now there is an idea, I wonder whether I have to fill in an application form to become a vampire. They do say that you can be cured of all manner of things once bitten.
The ECG was fun, you see I’m not a small lady and the poor vampiric nurse had to lean over and attach the ten suckers to my ample body. I swear if I had a breast reduction down to a DD I would lose a stone of the excess weight. The nurse called the ECG readers line and was asked, “is the patient on the large side?”
“Lets put it this way, I can’t get my bras from M&S any more.” I replied.
Another reason to lose weight. Chalking them up one by one.
ECG done, blood sample taken, and widdle bottle tucked neatly in rain coat I came home. I was a mess, the seven balls flying furiously around in my head. 6:30pm I went to bed; my head had had enough and was killing me.
At 1am this morning I got up, now being on a diet, you have to watch what you eat and deep within the depths of Website Land there is a little person watching your every move. So, at 1am this morning I began to do the, ‘does it count if I eat in the middle of the night time.’ It does apparently. I recorded it on my tracker, painfully aware that in the morning the little person will see my entry and be sending me tutting vibes all day for overindulging in a buttered crumpet. It was worth it.
Two hours into my self-obsessive, self-loathing and depressive crying session I put all my balls down and picked up my journal. Man did I pour out the world. Do you know something, it seems that I’ve got a lot more going for me than I thought? Despite being old and hyperwhatsitcalled, I can change, I can make choices, I can give myself a chance. It’s not easy but if I keep trying to juggle everything at the same time, I’m bound to drop something and that will end up with more problems.
The other six problems are all on hold, all accept one, the three days of clearing up and the kitchen and washing. It seems that I’ve juggled my world around what if’s. What if Mark’s back doesn’t get better, will I kill him before he’s cured. No, only joking. What if I have Cancer, what if I die of a heart attack or have a stroke whilst I’m out horse riding, what if I don’t stop worrying about all the things in my life that are giving me a headache and I waste my life worrying?
I’ve put the balls away for a while today and decided to carry the ones that matter as carefully as I can. Juggling is all well and good when you have both feet firmly rooted on the ground, but when your treading water it can get a bit too much.
I’m going to make today, 22 September official Stop Juggling day. It’s a bit like the Stop Smoking day, if you can do it for a full 24 hours then you can carry on for another 24 and then a week, a month and who knows you might end up with a normal life.
Narrrr…..lets be real, where’s my clowns outfit.