I Want My Money Back on my Waterproof Mascara
Is there a “meltdown proof” type?
Fear is a wiley beady eyed bastard. And nope, you’re not going to hear me wax on about how all emotions are, well, just emotions. They bring messages, I will tell clients. They are “energy in motion” — e motion.
Getting curious about emotions and welcoming them is a key to gaining emotional regulation and good mental health. They are neither bad nor good. They just are.
Welcome them all, as the Persian poet, Rumi, advises in The House Guest. Damn, I am so good.
And if the client sheds a tear or two, I inwardly do a fist pump and a big YAAAAS!!!! My work here is finished…
Uh. Yeah. Alrighty then.
THAT went all out the window yesterday as I spent the afternoon in meltdown mode. I could hardly wait to get off work so I could get in the car and bawl. But bawling and driving down the 60 (which I have dubbed “The Cheesegrater Highway”) didn’t seem like a good plan so I held it together. Though some of the Greta Van Fleet I had blaring caused a few tears to slip past my resolve. (“May our tears of rain wash down to bathe you…”)
And oh. I was in full on judgement mode of my meltdown too.
This is SOOOOO STOOPID. Calm the fuck down, Theresa. (Fun fact! Never in the history of word usage has the words “Calm the fuck down” ever resulted in somebody doing so.)
What the hell is the matter with you? GET A GRIP!
Aaaaaand there off! The mental melt down race has begun.
You may be wondering. What is going on? Did Theresa discover a lump? Did her tiny home blow away in a haboob? (Isn’t haboob a funny word? It’s the only boob possibility in my word now as boobs don’t grow back once they’ve been sliced off.) A really bad hair day? (Why, yes, it WAS a bad hair day but these usually don’t trigger nervous breakdowns.)
The drumroll please.
I made an appointment.
There I said it. I made an appointment.
For a CT scan. Yikes. Even typing that makes my heart skip a beat.
My lung has stalled out in its healing since last January’s fun adventure with pneumonia and pleural effusion. It still hurts to sneeze or yawn. No fever, no cough, but I find myself bracing when a tickle in my nose turns to a sneeze.
A helpful nurse friend thought it would be a good idea to follow up. After all, it’s been about 5 months. There could be a little more fluid in there. Better to get it addressed now if it’s not continuing to improve. No big deal, she said with the wave of a hand.
Yeah, no big deal. I pretended I was a cool-headed nurse too and thanked her for her advice. I mean, I was at work, after all. And I didn’t want to make my mascara run. Damn stuff is supposed to be water proof but that has not been my experience as Queen of the Eye Faucets.
I messaged my doc. “I’m sorry you’re still dealing with this,” she said. “I ordered a CT scan to make sure nothing else is going on…”
OH MY GOD SHE IS LOOKING FOR A TUMOR, my amygdala screeched.
YOU’RE GOING DOOOOOOWN!!!
I continue reading:
If there is nothing going on… I put in a consult for a pulmonologist to see how we can help it heal.
Um. Do you think that last bit even registered? NoooOOOoooooOOOO
It’s a lung tumor. They will probably need to remove the lung. I wonder what it’s like to live with one lung. Will I live out my brief time on earth carting a metal canister over my shoulder that’s making air compressor noises while it feeds oxygen to me through a nasal canula? Will people hear me from the next aisle over in WalMart because of that noise? Will I need to navigate stores in one of those little motorized carts? CAN I STILL DO ZUMBA HOOKED UP TO OXYGEN?!
Oh my god, people. It is exhausting being me.
There are some other factors at play that cause the anxiety to go from 0–100 in a nanosecond so this did not help either. I’ll spare you the details.
I came home and rooted around for my In Case of Emergency stash of Ativan.
This was an emergency if ever there was one.
I gathered enough composure to schedule the CT appointment. Next Thursday is the soonest. UNLESS the insurance gods deign favor upon the preapproval sooner.
I know in my heart of hearts; I will be fine. I was really, REALLY sick and that lung took a beating. The fluid they pulled off was NON-MALIGNANT.
You know the irony of this? I was having a conversation with a dear friend the other day about fear.
And I’ll let you in on a little secret. When I am encouraging a friend or coaching a client, I feel like I receive so much healing and insight myself.
But I also get tested in my own resolve to practice what I preach.
I reminded my friend of how fear is like a frightened child. When a toddler is afraid, they want comfort, not statistics. A scared brain is not going to respond to logic.
I recounted the gentle and beloved soul, Mister Rogers. He had a little song he sang to address a small child’s fear of getting flushed down the toilet.
“You can never go down…you can never go down…you can never go down the drain…”
Mister Rogers didn’t sit that child in a chair and give them a talking to about getting a handle on their fear. He didn’t give them a tee-shirt emblazoned with the words FearLESS.
Didn’t measure the drain hole and contrast it with the much bigger width of a butt. Why, there’s not even a small chance you could go down so quit being afraid, he said, NEVER.
No ridicule. No citation of government funded toilet safety studies.
Just kind, loving comfort.
As my ICE Ativan kicks in, I recall this conversation. Dang it. I hate when sage advice comes back and smacks me upside the head. A snarky part of me sneers, You were saying, scardy cat?
But then another voice speaks up.
It’s Mister Rogers again. I imagine snuggling up to his red sweater. I’m 58 going on five.
You can never go down the drain, he gently reminds me. Oh, my mind sure as hell can, I insist.
You can never go down the drain…
Tell me more, Mister Rogers. I feel calm. Or is it the Ativan? Eh. Whatever.
“Be not afraid,” Jesus says. The Bible even states that ditty 365 times, one for each day of the year.
This is shit the ego cannot grasp. It wants control and certainty.
Peace of mind is an oxymoron. It is in the mind that we, er, I stir up the worry and imagine horrible things in nanoseconds.
I’m doing better today. Gonna go dance with my Zumba peeps. Remind myself that I am being proactive by getting this checked out. And I will refuse to consult Dr. Google.
And I will reach out to my besties and my pink sisters again as needed. They saved me yesterday.
One bc precious sister said, “There is not the slightest doubt in my mind that your lung issue will turn out to be some minor, totally manageable, definitely not “Big C” related thing. I will believe enough for the both of us until you can start believing it for yourself.”
That probably can’t be set to that catchy never go down the drain tune but it works for me. (And so much love to you, dear Melissa.)
I will try to walk through the day with a sense of peace. And always come back to a healing, calming, and deep breath… even if it hurts a little.
Thanks so much for reading. You can find me around the internet at www.theresawinn.com, on Facebook, LinkedIn and Instagram. If you’d like to support my writing in a small way, feel free to contribute to my wishlist.
THERESA WINNMAY 26, 2023
