MetaWriting

Due for gall bladder surgery in three days, and am euphemistically “managing my pain” in the meantime. In other words, I’m blissed out on Percocet about twelve hours a day. The pain begins a few hours after I eat for the first time, and ends about four to six hours after my last meal of the day. If I’m lucky. If I want to sleep at night at all, I eat my last meal of the day around three o’clock.

The good part is that I’ve lost nearly ten pounds since this hit two weeks ago today.  The bad part?  Well, hell, it’s pretty much all bad.  Can’t write most of the time–the window is vanishingly small when my mind works at all.  I guess the upside is that I’ll be able to write about how the drug addict feels when I need to do so for a character, but my nervousness about getting addicted diminishes what little joy I take in that possibility.

But, it will soon be over.  I will have put my life on hold for three solid weeks by the time this is over.  Were my boss not an understanding soul, I probably wouldn’t have a job to go back to at the end of it.  I think they’re just enjoying the financial break that not paying my salary is giving their bottom line.  And, in the end, it will be good for them to miss me.  I guess.  I’m easy about it either way–I already budgeted our finances for the rest of the year for me not getting a paycheck at all.  That way, if I do get a paycheck, it will be gravy - money to put in savings (ha!) or just play around with…not always a good idea in a town with a casino!

Did send Pig out to an agent over e-mail, which took a lot of nerve, it really did.  Wrote a prologue for it, changed the name to Old Flames Burning.  Haven’t heard a word back from the agent yet.  Need to start lining up other possibilities–just can’t wrap my mind around it while I’m “managing my pain.”  If I sound disgusted with it all, then I’m writing something well enough to be understood anyway.  I’ve got cabin fever.  And a terrorist gall bladder that tries to bend my gut into a pretzel for about twelve hours a day.  Tired of it.

Talked to Bedford Minuteman Press about a job yesterday, and left it that I would come in with an answer on Monday on whether or not I was interested, and Bill would come up with what he could pay me as an independent contractor. 

As I told Bill, I needed to talk to my husband, about our future before I could make a commitment.  So, Rick and I talked for a couple of hours during breaks from the Mav’s playoff game.  I’ve learned, over the years, to work around team and TV timeouts during sporting events… .  So, after much discussion, punctuated by some really depressing play by the Mavericks, the gist from my husband was, “Do what you choose, but I’d love to see you pursue your dream of becoming a published writer.”

Have I said how much I love that man?  While I didn’t need permission, per se, knowing that he’s completely in my corner as I commit to the writing game is incredibly important.  He’s the reason I was able to do more than just go back to school, I was able to graduate in three and a half years, summa cum laude.  His amazing support is the reason I’ve been able to excel at every successful venture I’ve ever undertaken, including my gastric bypass.

The next couple of years are going to be SO much fun… !

That loud sighing sound you’re hearing is me, over here in my little corner of the world, taking a deep breath for the first time in ages… ahhhhhhhh.  The black circles under my eyes are disappearing, I’m starting to relax.  Not completely–I’m still keeping a close eye on our finances, but as long as we don’t do anything stupid, we’ll be just fine.  And, if the good Lord’s willing, and I get this proposal out the door in good order and get a bite, then we’ll do even better.  But I’ve got time.  Time to relax and finally live my life.  Sure, I’d like to have more money–but at what cost? 

Oh, and the itch?  Prickly heat, from having my bathing suit on too long… Been living in the darn thing, with all this 100-degree weather going on.  This too, shall pass in its own time.

Drove my husband to the hospital this morning to have an endoscopy done–just part, I thought, of the “I’m 50 and I don’t want to die” testing that any reasonable human being does.

With Rick still out from the anesthetic, the gastroenterologist came and told me the results.  He said “Every inch of his stomach lining looks like raw hamburger meat. He has hemorrhagic gastritis.”  So how does one of the most phlegmatic men I’ve ever known end up with a full-stomach ulcer?  Aspirin. 

Rick had a heart attack at 47, and has been faithful about taking what the cardiologist tells him to take, when he tells him take it.  The heart attack was almost purely genetic–he doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke.  So I’m sitting here railing against fate.  The medicine that’s keeping him healthy heart-wise will kill him if he doesn’t stop taking it. 

Today sucked.