The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Scaling.

I was sure to skip around surgery as a possibility, offering up the theory that maybe it's something else, that maybe my gallstones will leave on their own through a strict diet and a little luck, but the doctor wasn't having it. The only way to fix the problem is to take it out. Don't worry, she said sternly, I've only heard of one person dying from that particular surgery, and that was a long time ago. Nice.

So, I heaved a sigh and said, 'okay, what next?', and we left it like that because a surgeon will have to call me to arrange a consultation. In the meantime, it's a lowfat diet, and when that plan was suggested I was all for it, until I realized how much oil I use when cooking, how many nibbles of fatty things I take without thinking. I've been struggling to find substitutes in everything, from salad dressing to nighttime treats, and have settled on non-fat yogourt in a honey mustard dressing and gourmet jellybeans in lieu of all things sweet and decadent. Undeniably, I feel a little better but I am hungry all the time. It was this way the last time I cut the fat out, eating five times a day and dropping weight like mad. Makes me wonder why I ever stopped eating that way. Oh, yes, it's because fat tastes good.

I also had my teeth cleaned yesterday and was surprised to note that even something as uninvasive as scaling caused me to dampen with nervous sweat and made me want to wretch into the rinsing bowl. I hate dentists in every which way, particularly mine. Last year when he hit a nerve which caused a sensation similar to what I imagine an exploding grenade on the face would feel like, he didn't so much as utter a weak apology. Must have hit the nerve, he said absently while I imagined different ways to kill him. A dental visit is expensive and unpleasant, and they make more than the doctors do. They also have the highest rate of suicide in any profession, which I don't get because they are paid well for minimal effort. I wonder if one day dental will be covered by the government. It should be, since bad dental hygiene can actually kill a person. Seems to me that it would make sense to offer it as a means to preventing more serious/expensive illnesses. One day someone will look closer at this and make the changes. In the meantime, I need a root canal on my bottom left molar and I knew it when I went in for the cleaning. Though content with the state of my other teeth, he harped on the one which is looking to revolt and I calmly stated that $1500 for one procedure is way too much at the moment, but that I'm aware it needs to be taken care of. I also mentioned that my tooth is currently in this state because of another inept dentist who has already performed TWO root canals on the same tooth and managed to make it worse. Not that it was his fault, but I felt like bashing a dentist, any dentist.

My friend Kyla actually showed up today and I made tuna fish sandwiches and pumpkin soup for lunch. She brought a belated birthday gift for me, which I hadn't been expecting, and I was thrilled to open it and find a book by Alice Sebold (the one I haven't read yet), and a gift certificate for $50.00 for the book store she'd bought it from. This kind of thing delights me because the sensation of shopping without spending my own money is sinfully good. So many possibilities in that certificate, so many different words and glossy covers. I still have the other one my mother gave me so that I could buy new clothes. I think I'll bank them for a day when I need a binge of sorts, a day which will be all about me.

I ran into my former co-worker T. last night at the grocery store. She looked happy, with longer, blonder hair and a leaner frame. She is now working as an interior decorator for a local firm which owns many properties around town. Nevermind that she has no actual decorating experience, they hired her because she has moxie. We chatted in front of the baked goods for a half hour and the whole time I could feel my heart pounding through my chest. Clearly, something about my old work and that sort of environment affects me negatively. Whenever she mentioned the old place I struggled to maintain my focus, projecting myself into similar environments where I'd be forced to work unfriendly hours for unsatisfactory pay. It never used to bother me when I was younger and without a child, because I accepted that it was a starting point, but now the pressure of it seems cruel and unusual, and I'm hopeful that if I ever get my act together about working I will find something which will be more forgiving in terms of a personal life. I've done my time, I think. I've missed holidays and worked through weddings, birthdays and long weekends. I did it for twenty years and I smiled the whole time. There's nothing wrong with wanting more than that.

I imagine the struggle of it, the getting up early and having to dust the snow off my car and work for hours only to come home and want to fall on the floor in a fit of hysterics because the anxiety will have come back to own me and it keeps me from dreaming. It keeps me from trying. That isn't very responsible, is it?

M. has been particularly loving lately. The unexpected stroking of my hair, the gentle caresses on my neck, and I love the feel of his skin on mine. Last night we almost lost the connection, after he turned the lights out so the wee one could see her glow in the dark puzzle and she blindly stumbled onto the stair, cutting her lips and gum. There was blood everywhere, and I immediately began to lose my head, hissing at the stupidity of the lights being out, calling the whole thing 'muthaf*cking' irresponsible, which is my way of reacting when I am distraught or unnerved. I lose my control, I get angry. He growled at me to 'smarten up', and though I wanted to scream at him, I found my sense of composure and focused on the wee one who was sobbing hysterically while assessing the blood on her hands with terror. I calmed her, cleaned the floor while M. tended to the stream of blood as it seeped onto her pink teddybear pyjamas, and I made up a cold compress with ice to help slow it. It was later, after she fell into a deep, bloodless sleep, that I felt my body lose its tension and I almost cried. No one ever likes to see their child in pain. A mother doesn't want to see her child's blood. Still, after a couple hours M. and I seemed to let it go. Maybe he understood my reaction (which would be the first time anyone has as I am given to anger rather than hysteria in a situation like that), or maybe I grew up a little and let it go. Either way, today we watched 'Casablanca' together as the wee one napped on the couch across from us, and he stroked my hair, and caressed my neck.

The weather, too, has been most agreeable. To go out of the house in November only needing a sweater is bizarre, though not unpleasant. All that aside, though, I haven't enjoyed November so far, not that I often do. It's tied with January and February for being intolerable in my books. It's too dark, and there's usually a death in it. Today, my parents and sisters went to the funeral of our family friend, Gary, and I opted not to attend because of the great distance it would involve. It doesn't mean I think any less of him, it's just that I wish I had seen when he was alive more, rather than trek across the province to see him dead. Not romantic, I know, but I have cried a few tears for him, and I meant every one. I know how I feel about him, and if there is a possibility of life after this, he knows too. But, his death, and my faulty gall bladder, and the anxiety that has awakened after a long, summer nap, and the chocolate covered sponge toffee I'm craving and can't eat are all working to make me a little solemn tonight.

I refuse to give in entirely, but I might give in a little.