Maybe God doesn't give us what we can handle. Maybe He gives us what we need to grow. Well right now, I'm freakin' sick of growing.
I don't mean to complain, not really. My life is pretty amazing. I have four wonderful, albeit wild, kids. Five months ago I married the perfect man for me. He's given up having his own bio kids to help me raise mine--how selfless can someone be? He'll drop everything for those kids--to fix their krap (yes with a "k"). Mike makes sure they don't have ANYTHING to cry about. My fourteen-year-old even started calling him "dad,"
My husband loves those kids, and I guess he also likes me a little, too. Last week we were sitting in bed when he started gushing about how Valentine's Day was coming. Apparently he got me a big gift. That flipped me out. "Valentine's Day IS NOT a big deal to me," I said.
"Well, it's more important to me than a birthday," he replied.
I should've known I was screwed then. I mean, this was our first V-Day together as a married couple.... I wanted it to be special for him. So I decided to wake up early that morning to do something nice for him. But the second I woke up, I knew something was wrong.
This crazy-bad pain seared through my stomach. (And V-Day wasn't the first time this happened.) I'd actually gone to a few doctors, telling them my stomach hurt; but they all treated me like I was nuts. So, I dealt with the pain--honestly thinking, for the last several months, that it might be in my head. Or maybe it could be massively random cramps, ya know, God's punishment for Eve's dumbass eating that forbidden apple and everything.
So, on V-Day my poor, candy-heart lovin' man took me to the ER, and after a few hours, we waited for ultrasound results.
As we sat there, he read some of my own writing to me: a story based on how we met. (You can find that HERE.) It's some of the sappiest krap ever, but I freakin' love it--'cause Mike is all gravy. I treasured falling in love with that man: The first time we really talked. The first time I dared to kiss him. How we got stuck in a damn avalanche and he didn't try to kill me or nothin'. It's great being with someone who likes that I'm alive.
Back to my point.... I'm up super late because on V-Day, my ultrasound showed a growth on my right ovary. I'm so done with this shit--at least, thank God, I'm not really crazy.
I guess the growth is the size of an orange.
I love oranges, don't get me wrong, just not when one's on my chick part.
Have you ever had a doctor look you in the face and tell you that you might have cancer? I bet you have--it's practically in their damn job description--you know, being the bearer of bad freakin' news.
Anyway, I wasn't an inmate at the ER long. They released me for being freakin' adorable.
As I type this, it's February 16th. I'm up because my stomach feels like there's an alien in it. Everywhere I roll. It. Hurts. I'm feeling so damn bad for myself; I just want to cry, but I cried enough earlier.
Ruby, my fourteen-year-old, thought she was helping by showing me youtube videos of ovarian surgeries. So if cancer doesn't kill me, those videos might. But I'm getting ahead of myself; this might not be cancer. Even though I have nine out of ten freakin' signs of having ovarian cancer--like my mother-in-law said, "I don't need to bother trouble until it's time."
I'm going to the OB in two days and we'll find out what kind of an orange this is.... That's what.
This is Elisa. The chick who got hit by a bus of life...again.
My personal goal? When my son died...I never stopped loving God. When my dad had cancer...I never stopped loving God. When my first marriage failed...I stilled loved God.
GOAL: Never stop loving God--'cause Job (from the Bible) had it right!
Sincerely,
A recently traumatized Elisa
BAM!
P.S. This blog is no longer taking comments at this time. I'm currently dealing with a lot right now and don't have time to respond or take in any more advice. You're welcome to read this if you like, but it's just my online journal right now, simply a way to help me cope.
Wishing you all the best on your own journeys!
