Monday, June 18, 2012

Book? Book?

Hey there, no, no book yet - but it's "out there" getting all formatted and aligned and crap so we're super close.  I have a big-girl ISBN now, and a copyright number and all that other good stuff... so it's nigh.  Like, sandwichboard on main-street: NIGH.


AND the package I've chosen for my *gasp* self publishing get-up includes cards and posters and things... so I can do some book signings.  Back home, naturally, for my audience of 12 who must not only be desperately awaiting my title's appearance on  but who are also on pins and needles about anything else I write.  Bless them.  All 12 of them.  My slavering minions.  I adore ye.

But without much else to add to that, I'll leave that teaser there.  Oh, and here... here's a teaser!
Ha ha!  Maybe I'll be up to like, eighteen minions after that.  You think?

Well, whatever.  I've been silent for a spell, as I am wont to do when I'm fidgetty about something.  And lo, slavering minions, I am fidgetty.  About... 


I have to go in and get a follow up to my big annual-exam related procedure (of which we will not speak) to see what, exactly, my fussy little interstitial cells have been up to lately.

And frankly...  Like Wyle-E Coyote hovering over a chasm before he remembers how gravity works...  I'm avoiding the inevitable as long as I can.  I'm even holding a little sign that says "  *eep*  "

The good news is, everything is "Probably Fine."
The bad news is, everything was supposed to be "Probably Fine." last time.
The less bad news is, if everything "Is. Not. Fine."  They'll knock my shit right out and dig around in the caves of denial on their own and I won't have to actually be there for it like I was last time. 
The vaguely less-less bad news is, no matter what, I'm covered and it will all work out to be "Probably Fine."

Lather Rinse Repeat.
Cue the stomach lining.

I just feel like such a kicked puppy.  History has given me no real concrete evidence to kindof stand on anymore and go "ahh, I'm fine".  I mean, it's not like I've had to undergo chemo or anything...  and it's not like the bad-test results have sent me on a home-run-do-not-pass-go all expenses paid trip to cancer-town... but I'm still really really doubting the utility of this next appointment.

Outcome 1:  "fine" 
me: "orly?"
Outcome 1: "sure.  check back in 6 months.  for the rest of your life.  forever.  and oh by the way get used to an army of strangers looking for neanderthal cave art while you hitch your ankles skyward and try to think of flowers."


Outcome 2:  "not fine... but with another lil' surgery, back to fine"
me: "ORLY?"
Outcome 2:  "well we can't be sure, but we're pretty sure so check back in 6 months. for the rest of your life. forever. and oh by the way get used to an army of strangers looking for neanderthal cave art while you hitch your ankles skyward and try to think of flowers."

You know how they tell you when you're growing up that everyone has "private parts" that should be cherished and held sacred and only shared with a healthy dose of lustful shame?  


My lady bits are not mine.  They are the whim-ridden medical playground of doctors and politicians alike.  Given their 'druthers, about half of my very own country would like very much to have more control than me over what goes into and what comes out of my lady bits.  I might as well carve it all out right now and just let them have it.  You know?  I'm apparently not smart enough to decide for myself and when I get medical help to get a second opinion that opinion is largely "whunh?" backed up by acres of liability forms and insurance policies.

All that politics aside, I'm still a dead-shy, highly-victorian girl at heart.  And while that means that being married and enjoying time with my husband is super awesome...  I'm not about to enjoy any time spent with a person I barely know who is being paid great sums of money to run swabs and flashlights through portions of me that I don't even see.  I don't even bare my shoulders at work for gods sakes.

SO yeah, I hate hate hate the idea of this followup exam.  If something's broken.  I want it fixed.  One or zero.  You know?  Especially when it comes to such memorable experiences as I've had on yonder table-of-dignity.  Fix it or take it out.  I don't need it. 

You know?

And moreover, I'd just like to have full reign over my body.  Like, all of it.  Like I want to be able to have the freedom to make life's decisions for myself and not have some holier-than-thou anyone tell me they know better.  I was born here, you know?  Doesn't that at least give me a teency weency say?

Oh, now, I heard you out there.  That one voice that says "so skip it.  Don't go.  Fuck science.  You feel fine.  don't go to the doctor if you have no faith in their decisions."

And I say to you, little voice:  Do. Not. Tempt. Me.

That option makes me cry.  Literally. 

Because I am at a point, right here, right now, this very day...  where that causes me no end of cognitive dissonance. 

No.  End.

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