Tuesday, August 3, 2010


I can't stop thinking about it.  Every night when I lay down to sleep, I imagine myself on a sunny beach staring at the ocean.

I have gotten to the beach a few times this year, but only for a couple days.  Because I'm greedy, I want to do it again for an extended period of time.  I feel like the summer is slipping away and I haven't gotten that full week of L'il Rhody awesome that I so rely on to keep me sane for the rest of the year.

And of course, I need to work on my uni-freckle*.

*For those of the freckled-ginger persuasion, this refers to getting so much sun that all of your face freckles blend into one giant freckle, giving the illusion of tan.

Monday, August 2, 2010


In April of this year, I had my gall bladder removed.  That's where it all started.  The whole situation was weird in that I never really felt any kind of strong emotion about it.  Outwardly, I was handling it like a champ.  I wasn't freaking out or nervous at all (at least consciously).  And then I decided to take a trip with my sister to Rhode Island...

Now I've taken this same trip countless times since I got my license (17 years ago?? ACK!), but this time was different.  As I cruised along I-95, I suddenly felt light-headed and I couldn't breathe.  I felt like I was going to pass out, so I pulled over.  At this point I'm exactly halfway to my destination, which means I have a 2 hour drive either way.  I met my sister at the halfway point and we had pizza and I cried.  I explained that I thought I was going crazy, and that really, could it have happened at a worse time?

Even then, I knew what this was - a panic attack.  As anyone who has ever had one can attest, you know exactly what's going on as it's happening, but that doesn't make you feel any less like you're going to die.  I kind of figured that this was pre-surgery jitters considering the trip was 2 weeks before the scheduled useless-organ removal.  However, in the back of my mind, I was concerned.  VERY concerned.  You see, my family is full of anxious (and medicated) people.  I had convinced myself that I had somehow made it over the hump, as they say, due to the fact that I was in my thirties and had never had any problems.  So I tried to reassure myself that once the surgery was done, all would return to normal in my world.

And it did!!*  Until a few weeks ago.  I was just sitting at home, watching TV with the dog, when those all too familiar symptoms returned.  And then they returned again the next night.  Since I am not one of those people who is uncomfortable going to a doctor and saying "medicate me, please!!!", I immediately made an appointment the next morning to get this taken care of.  More than anything I was really pissed off.  How dare my body/mind turn on me like this?

So the next morning I went to Dr. ReallylongnamethatIcantpronounce.  She asked if there was anything that I was worried about, and until this moment with her, I really thought there was nothing.  And then it happened....I suddenly realized that I was upset, I was worried.  

Like 80% of the country, I'm constantly worried about money.  I mean crazy worried.  Irrationally worried.  That I can work on though, so on to the next one. 

Small disclaimer about this next part...A lot of you out there will not understand this.  I envy you for that.  The situation is a unique one, and I realize that as hard as it is, I am also very lucky to have grown up this way.  Anyway, here it goes.  Immediately after I was born, my parents brought me home.  Home to the house that my parents still live in, all these years later.  It is the only home I have ever known.  Yes, I have an apartment, and technically that is my home, but you get the idea.  Every single memory I have of growing up involves that house, that yard, that street, that neighborhood.  My father has recently retired and my parents have been fixing up the house for months now so that they can sell it.  

The idea that I will never drive down that road and pull into that driveway EVER AGAIN has affected me in a way I never would have imagined. The phrase "going home" will never apply to me again.  It'll just be some townhouse my parents happen to live in.

So the way that I've decided to deal with this particular issue is to try and help my mom buy new stuff and to look for fancy townhouses that I wish I could afford and make them buy it.  That and Xanax.

*except for when I drive.  I'm so worried that it'll happen again, that I sometimes make it happen.  What can I say, I'm crazy.