Journal 5th Sept

4th September

Never invite the Universe to punch you in the solar plexus.
She likes to give us what we ask for.

"So, how bothered are you about having children?

12.45 this afternoon, I'm behind the screen, pulling up my knickers, KY slithering them back in place, still taking in the information that she's sure it's not cancer, that it's a fibroid. The size of a 20-24 week foetus, but just a fibroid.
Just a fucking huge fibroid.
And now she wants to wheech everything out of me anyway!

How bothered am I?
Very.
Apparently.

"Well I don't want a hysterectomy if that's what you're asking.

I sit squelchily in front of her. Indian princess gynaecologist. Intelligent and glamorous. I like her.

Four encrusted diamond rings on her left hand, two each on her third and fourth slender fingers. The whole finger from middle knuckle to hand sparkling.

The sparkly fingers that will operate on me November 7th.

"Okay, of course, I'll do exactly what you want, but if there is heavy bleeding it is a risk and a hysterectomy is possible.

I'm nodding. Taking it in. I don't want children particularly, but I don't want the choice taken away from me. It's not even about children, I don't want my womb taken away from me. I just started feeling feminine for Christ's sake. If I had a corn would she amputate my foot?

She looks at me, like 'no man, 44, do you believe in fairies too?'

"You'll be in from Monday until at least Thursday, Friday. Is there someone at home who can look after you after this?

I look at the floor.

"No

I hate being single. I used to love it, but lately, it sucks. Big time. It's my call to connect I know, but still, could it be more embarrassing? On a daily fucking basis?

"No-one?". I'm flattered she's so surprised. "I can't release you with no-one to take care of you. Not to worry, I'll just keep you in longer

Boring job, but excellent private health insurance.

My monkey mind is chanting 'no man no man'. Then the thought of my mother driving me mad with questions for three weeks too much to take. Eventually, of course, my friends come to my mind and I say they will let me stay. I find myself looking forward to it and wondering why I always think I have to cope with everything on my own. Even if Tesco do home deliveries, no lifting, not even to change a duvet cover.
No driving for 4 weeks.
No lifting for 6.
Off work up to three months.

That last part cheers me up immensely.

Oh but my garden - just when I'm back in it, I can't lift a spade. But it'll be Winter then anyway, not enough light. And my mind is already full of the preparation this next 8 weeks will bring. Fit again in plenty time for Spring. Fallow with green manure. Rest and prepare for a better year next year. Like me.

My aromatherapy course, I can't massage anyone if I can't lift for 6 weeks. How will that pan out? How will I fill my time?

I'm already planning my future. Good sign. The St John's Wort must be working.

Am I happy it's not cancer? Yes
Am I happy to have three months off work that bores me rigid? Oh yes.
Do I think things happen for a reason? Absolutely.
Do I believe the book that says fibroids are caused by us blocking creative energy? I do.

So why is it all I can think is, 'Who'll want me now?'

Coz that's what I believe anyway.

Core beliefs.

We're full of them. 'I'm not enough', 'Who'd want me?', I'll be rejected', 'I'm stupid', 'I can't¦', 'I should¦, 'I shouldn't¦', 'I'm a bad person', 'If people really knew what I was like then¦' There are hundreds, pick your own top twenty, write them in a list and know that every single one of them, is a lie. We don't know. We just don't. The minute I mean. We never know the minute or what is going to happen, and that's just too too much for our brains to cope with. So we make shit up. Until it happens, coz we're not being real.

A month ago I met a beautiful man. The kind of man I'd give my left ovary to have beside me, holding me right now and in these next few months. Bad joke - I take that back Universe, shimmy right on by that one, PLEASE.

He came to me. He hugged me and kissed me and I fell out of misery with the gardener and bam, into love with him. Not the fear kind, the open heart kind. He told me he thought I was lovely. I told him I was very attracted to him.
He said it first. Nothing like the gardener.
I said it second. Nothing like me.
Hurray.

He liked my poem, that I read out loud in front of everyone. For the first time ever. The gardener cheeks poem. The last purging. I smiled from ear to ear, no shaking, no nerves, just me and my words. And he liked it.
I liked his dark cheeks. Standing up watching me, elbow leaning on the 16th Century mantle, like a smiling Mr Rochester. I hadn't noticed him before that. Such smiling green eyes always glancing in my direction.

But the belly dance was short-lived. He was honest and told me, he's in a relationship. Red light. I was fine, of course he is, nobody like him is single (core belief). So I did what any self respecting singleton would do at an alcohol free weekend, and went and made myself a nice cup of tea.
He came into the kitchen behind me.

'Can I have a hug?'

What is it with me and that question? The abracadabra of my heart. Gardener and now green eyes and I was delighted, even though five minutes before he told me he was someone else's, here he was, asking. It's just a hug but we had avoided asking each other for a hug in all the session starts. And here he was, asking. In the ancient silent kitchen. Just us.

"Of course" and I turned around and hugged him. He was shaking. I was turned on. And flattered. Then grinned myself up the stairs to bed. Too stupid to think to stay and talk coz someone else's men are not always faithful. But not in my fucking idiot Snow White world.

I should have left it at that, should have steered clear of him, but no. Next morning, I wanted to practice talking, saying my truth, being the opposite of how I was with gardener. Speaking to a man I found attractive. Without bolting. He's in a relationship, I'm safe, right? I wanted to touch him. I thought I could handle it. But as we lay down on a big cushion waiting for the session to start, he spooned me, burying his face in my hair, smelling it, breathing me in. God I loved that.

Turns out what I can't handle is the loss of tenderness, caring, someone looking out for me. I've never been with a man who behaved like that naturally like he did and I was a goner. Stepping out of codependence is a dangerous game. With someone else's man. Lethal.

He dropped me at the station and kissed me on the mouth as he was hugging me goodbye. Surprising me, but I kissed him back. I loved him coming for me in his awkward shy way. So opposite of the gardener. Shy, not afraid. Kind, not addicted.

Such mixed messages though.
I just don't get men at all.

He's back home with her. Of course. And I'm home alone, wondering why the fuck he was belly danced in front of me and snatched away the same week I hear that my role at work is disappearing October 1st, (who cares) and that three of the six blood tests I'm having done, are for cancer (holy fuck).

To say I wobbled is an understatement. To say I was fucking mad at God, the Universe and everything, well it just doesn't do it justice. To say the void came right up and swallowed me whole. That would sum it up. And all I needed was his arm around me again in that sweet, non-invasive gentle way. Green-eyed carrot dangled in front of me, sorry can't have him.

You're doing this next tap dance alone.

Two weeks of sobbing again, freaking out again and phoning everyone I know, to ask for a hug. Just to hang on and stop the world shaking, like it's trying to knock me off into orbit. Alone.

At least I didn't waste a year being blocked, broken-hearted and afraid. Only took a month this time. Plus £100 of counselling time, £35 on a 'healing', £30 on a meditation to 'cut the ties that bind', £15 on a 40 minute trial shiatsu that had me in floods of tears within minutes, £35 on a haircut, £135 of a pink iPod- hey free cover though, £200 on clothes I don't need, £600 on a laptop, £150 on self help books, various; 'You can Heal Your Life' to 'Why Men Love Bitches' (am shameless), £149 on a CD changing radio machine for my bedroom, at least a tenner's worth of Green & Black's ginger chocolate bars (large), £68 staying at an hotel on the way back from Findhorn coz I got pissed on one whisky mac taking myself out for dinner (£23) on the way home, coz why not, right?

If they had been selling parts of the true cross last month, I'd have bought one of them too.

Out of control, but at least I have stuff to show for it and not much of it was fattening.
And the laptop has me writing again.
And the iPod is fab for audio books.
And the meditation tape on the music changer sends me to sleep in seconds.
I wonder how it ends.
This roller coaster ride I started last year.

Now I know the score cancer scare-wise, the shopping has stopped.
Now the tantrum of thinking that green eyes should be with me is over, the sobbing lonely 'not fair' rage has stopped.
And three months of recuperation and being unable to shop (no lifting, ha ha) will balance me financially.

Was this all for the lack of a green-eyed yummy man to hug me through this next lesson?

Or was I just being human dealing with so much shit hitting the fan all at once that the fan has disappeared under a great steaming pile? A wee bit codependent, a relapse. Shopping not biscuits. Like sex not heroine.

Am in recovery year afterall.

And I'm lucky. I know it. How many women were given the worst news today, and don't have a charming memory of a green eyed man to give them hope that there are lovely men out there who'd want to be with them. If they had the balls to go for it and not think that selling up their house and changing jobs will fix what's wrong in their relationship instead.

Okay, am still in a bit of a tantrummette about it, but at least the shopping has stopped.

I'm lucky, I could be in New Orleans. I could be on chemo.

And I'm grateful for my sense of humour, for my fabulous chums, for Green & Black's ginger chocolate and for my news today, even with the risk.
Grateful, even with the knowledge that the only male thing that's getting close to me right now are daddy long legs.

Pesky varmints.

I do know that I've never had so many fabulous people in my life, never felt more loved and cared about, nor more open, freaked out and alive.

And all I really want to ask my Indian princess is,

'How many weeks 'till I can belly dance again?'

Dancing lightly through
This Universal twirling;
Give in, let it lead