Publicly emotional

I have turned into a blubbering ridiculous ball of tears.

And while a brain tumor might suffice as justification for the sudden turn to negative town. I find there is no justification for turning emo.

I spent all day yesterday walking aimlessly around downtown Baltimore listening to Pandora’s mix of sappy depressing melodic girl-- Ingrid Engleson inspired-- music. I paired my tunes with “ten minute cycle” crying. (Ten minutes of misty eyes followed by ten minutes of tears followed by ten minutes of being fine then ten minutes of misty eye another ten minute of tears, etc… )A deviation in the cycle occurred when a man asked me for directions prompting me to skip misty eyes straight to tears.  

Who is this pathetic crying girl I have turned into? I am not being the suddenly wise person that every lifetime movie told me illness turns you into. I must have forgotten to pick that up with all my paperwork at the hospital.

Movies like Beaches (Bette Midler & Barabra Hershey 1988) depict us sick people as grasping for meaning and coming into acceptance. In Beaches, Barbara Hershey’s character learns to accept her impending doom and is only disturbed with the idea of being replaced in her daughter’s eyes. Such loving care is lost by me. I care about others and slightly ache for them if something happens to me. But really I am scared for myself. I don’t want to be done. I want to see things, (literally- my eyesight is the most likely to go). I, I , I . And this, I know, makes me selfish. But seriously, you overcome the death of others. (in a functional way) You never overcome your own death.

I hate all movies with people with a deadly disease now. (with the exception of zombie movies. Zombie movies-- well some of them. Hollywood has made too many. Some are good.) I am going to admit I have not seen 50/50 (Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Seth Rogen 2011) and. I refuse to see it. Matter-a-fact, I hope to see whoever is responsible for that movie and tell them to go fuck themselves. People tell me it’s a good movie. And the ratings have been good. But the movie’s existence is enough to make me sick to the core. I do not want to watch a romanticized version of the fear of death. I am going through it. My experience doesn't have an accompanying soundtrack and I will not be dating my psychiatrist.  (unless my blubbering along Pandora counts as a soundtrack.)

By the by, other movies that share the same name include:

·         Fifty-fifty (1916 and 1926)- a husband and a wife learn that they trust and love eachother by cheating on one-another

·         50/50 (1982 Norwegian) – recent grads don’t want to work and decide to rob banks instead

·         Fifty/fifty (1992)- a comedy where two buddies (they fight a lot but learn to work together) try to kill a south east Asian dictator. ~ a truly awful movie.

My shrink even tells me that the final stage in my grief over my brain tumor is acceptance. But what exactly does that acceptance entail. Am I supposed to accept and be ok with it. I know it’s happening. I accept that I have this tumor and that I am about to undergo this incredibly risky surgery. Am I done? Am I there already?

From what I remember of the Kubler-Ross model (bear with me I read On death and dying five years ago), I think I am in the depression step. Steps are Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and acceptance.  Acceptance can be summed up with the phase “everything is going to be ok.” Which I don’t really know, so I guess I am not there.  

I am embarrassed because I feel that I am slightly over-reacting. I know that there are much worse things out there. And right now, while not having a concrete diagnosis, I have been told that most likely it is benign. My feelings are just so damn irrational and it is frustrating the hell out of me.

I want to know what’s going to happen. I want to be able to prepare for the future. But all I am getting are statistics and vague percentages from my doctors.

By the way, HUGE PET PEVE. Whenever my neurosurgeons talks about what could happen they use percentages when describing unlikely events. And fractions when describing likely events.

                A less than 10% change you will lose the ability to control your facial muscles.

                A 1 in 2 chance you will lose your eyesight.

Excuse me, doctor. How stupid do you think I am? I can do the math.

And, even though those percentages are small those risks are freaking scary.

                A 1-2% chance you die is still a chance. 

I guess I will just have to wait and see what the answers are. Two weeks in counting. Two weeks to answers. Two weeks to acceptance. Two weeks of being emo.