I'll Work Hard 'Til The End Of My Shift

I was convinced. I actually had no idea just how convinced I was. The thoughts and feelings festering before my colonoscopy were like the roots growing in a too-small potted plant. They had no outlet, nowhere to go and if they weren't repotted, they were going to shatter everything around them. 

Since my mom's passing in 2012, I have been conceited to the idea that I was going to die young of cancer. I have convinced myself that cancer skips a generation based on my family's history and that I won't live long enough to be a grandmother to my future grand babies. I joke about it, because that's my modus operandi, but I've believed it, I guess if I'm being honest, I still do. 

While at the doctor recently, she mentioned that since I am 45, it is time to get a colonoscopy. I called to schedule and the receptionist said that I needed to speak to the doctor because I had one in 2016 and it hasn't been 10 years. When the doc and I met virtually, we reviewed my IBS history and family history and decided to schedule. Doomsday thoughts commence. 

To be clear, I wasn't experiencing any outside of the norm symptoms, have been perfectly healthy (physically at least, lol), and have felt great. However, my chaos-creating mind was working out all my loose-ends before sickness set in. Nick and I STILL don't have a will, even with hell I went through involving the lack of Dan's will. We are idiots and need to get on that. How do I actually plan a (legal) Viking style funeral for myself? Kidding, not kidding. I need to start recording my voice, because my own mother's is fading. A tear trails down my cheek as I write that. I can hear her, but it's a whisper in the realm right between sleep and consciousness. What experiences are we going to have as a family to make sure they remember how happy they make me and how proud I am, the immeasurable amount that I love them?

Amongst these thoughts interconnecting and expanding, every day life goes on. Within the week leading up to the colonoscopy, I was privileged to attend Lauren and Michael's wedding. Perfection doesn't even begin to describe the day and the vibe of this event. Not only was I with my long lost work-wife, Jill, we got to witness the beauty of a bright beginning. I couldn't help but cry as Lauren danced with her dad, and Michael danced with his mom. In those very moments as tears brimmed above the lump in my throat, I prayed for the long lives of L & M's parents. This is the time in their lives in which they get to see the ripe and wonderful fruits of their love-infused labors. I want to dance with both of my children at their weddings. Although getting old terrifies me, it is a gift that I pray each night is bestowed upon me. 

This past Wednesday I woke up, hungry, grumpy, and with a headache. I wanted food and even more than that, coffee! I did laundry to keep my mind off of the fact that in a few hours, I would be telling my family and friends that something was wrong. I am slow waking up any time I have been through anesthesia, so I asked Nick to be there in the recovery room when I woke. I told him I needed him to hear to what they say, because I will be loopy. Really I needed him to pick me up off of the floor as the news was relayed. Off we went, Off I go. 

"Enjoy your nap". Blackness. "Hey, Tiffin", "You did great". "We didn't find anything, not a polyp, not a thing". "We'll see you in 5 years." 

I cried. With each tear the embarrassing release of air they pump you with during the procedure. But what a small price to pay for health. Hilly, I actually pictured you working in the recovery room of a gastro-center. It made me giggle thinking about the facial expressions you'd have at the flatulence. With all the people in recovery rooms, it sounds like a fart-symphony! 

So, there it is. I'm good...I mean, at least in my colon. My brain and mental health are a different issue all together, and are daily struggles. I don't share that as much because I like to keep a positive aura. But, I am beyond grateful to those that I do trust to share my darkest thoughts and how they always lift me up. Nancy said the other day, "Don't talk about my Tiffin that way." and it hit. Thank you.  

Is is mayyyyyyyybe time to go back to therapy? Possibly. I gotta get my "faith over fear" back. That is easier said than done as December threatens to tread on dangerous ground. 

In the meantime, here I am. A book that is a bit of a mystery, thriller, drama, comedy, self-help, self-deprecating cliff-hanger, but wide open. 

Special thanks to my sister who still has the ability to call me when sissy-senses are tingling. Standing next to you at Bud's mom's celebration of life and being told that we are spitting images of our mother, in looks, mannerisms, and personality is the greatest compliment ever received. Special thanks to my people. You absolutely know who are. My Family. The Friend. Bramble. The Teacher OGs. This life would not be a life without you. 

And as always, thank you for walking, jogging, running, scooting, barreling, skipping, or crawling down this winding road with me. 

"If we were vampires and death was a joke; We'd go out on the sidewalk and smoke

And laugh at all the lovers and their plans, I wouldn't feel the need to hold your hand

Maybe time running out is a gift, I'll work hard 'til the end of my shift

And give you every second I can find, And hope it isn't me who's left behind." ~Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit

A bit of an epilogue: 

I write for catharsis, and choose to share these thoughts in hopes that maybe my words speak to someone in a way they aren't comfortable sharing openly. I NEVER want to dimmish the ones who read this and their experiences with death, cancer, etc. Please know that I am not comparing my self-made chaos to the loss of a child to cancer, or to someone who is currently battling cancer/other illnesses known or not. This is my personal journal with my lived trauma, mental struggles, in addition to the endless ways life has favored me.