I've been somewhat side-lined by a cyst. (I'll pause so that all the writers and English majors out there can enjoy the alliteration there. It's all we have sometimes.)
I'm off to the doctor next week to see what, if anything, can be done about what seems to have morphed into a mean little ovarian cyst. Stupid thing simply won't go away, even though I have repeatedly shouted "BEGONE!" in the direction of my left ovary.
Actually, I haven't done that, but it's about the only remedy I haven't tried at this point. That, and flinging myself sideways down the basement stairs.
But I decided the other night that, given the choice, I'd rather take the hit and have to deal with illness in myself than illness in my kitty cats. That was stressful. Because at the end of the day, they're far better at comforting me when I'm feeling ill than I am at comforting them when they're feeling ill.
But never fear. I went blueberry picking yesterday. I said I'd go, by god, and go I did. And actually, it wasn't difficult or traumatic--the symptoms of this blasted cyst come and go, so I'm learning to seize the opportunities to do what I want when they ease up a bit.
So that I don't feel completely run-down and useless. I haven't been able to swim or bike for about a week and eating has become an exercise in annoyance, so those things can tend to get a girl down.
But I made yet another batch of pesto and a batch of potato leek soup, that I made from a batch of homemade chicken broth that I made after I made yet another batch of ravioli this week. And I cast on another sock.
For a while, I was using the time to wade through a stack of critical articles on Margaret Atwood's Alias Grace, but then a bit of a mental fog rolled in (yet another symptom) with a crappy, crampy backache (ditto: symptom), so I got... sidelined. I confess, it's been hard to read during all of this, for whatever reason. I just don't have the focus.
But today, I'm going to try.
I confess that one of the down sides to being downsized in July is my innate sense of superstition when it comes to the month of July. Next week and the following week are anniversaries of some unhappy events in my life, and it's impossible for me not to go through the month of July with those events on my mind.
As I told a friend, I just kinda hold on and hold my breath until we get ourselves out of July. Because it is traditionally my month of no luck.
I found a poem by Mary Oliver (quoted in part below) that reminded me of Julys gone by. It summed up how I had been feeling this week when I was feeling down: I was longing to get back to a life "much the same," "resonant and unremarkable."
And that's my continued wish for this week.
Storm in Massachusetts, September 1982
A hot day,
a clear heaven—then
over the horizon
and the wind turns
like a hundred black swans
and the first faint noise
of my good life,
of other lives
being blown apart
in field after distant field.
All over the world—
I’m sure of it—
life is much the same
when it’s going well—
not under disaster’s seal,
can understand what life is like
when it begins to crumble?