Tangled up in about 40 wires, seven electrodes stuck on my scalp with glue, a thin cigarette case sized metal thing dangling on my breast, two around the chest straps keeping things tight...a contraption on this thing between my nostrils to measure my breathing, wires going down my back and front to my legs.
Sure, Irene, now sleep.
I didn't.
The tech said I slept for long enough to get some measurements, but I deny this vigorously as I heard every inhalation and exhalation I made. I couldn't turn. I couldn't sleep on my belly without pulling wires from my flesh that had to be replaced.
After 2 am, I was through trying. I sat up uneasily and watched TV.
Just like at home, only with the wires.
I felt like a fish caught in a net. Or one of those porpoises caught with the tuna. Or a fly stuck in a spider's handiwork.
It was not fun.
Why did I allow this to happen? According to the cancer doctor and somebody else, my hemoglobin had risen, sign of something awry. First thought, naturally (?) was lack of sleep since I don't get enough restful sleep. So, I had to have this test.
It is easier for me to go into the other room or make up the sofa bed and sleep. I do sleep well in either place as long as I am not aggravated.
When I was picked up by my husband (who had not slept since 2 am anyway) at 6:00, he drove me home, made me some breakfast, told me to go up and get a shower. He later joined me in bed for a snooze. I slept. Like the dead.
Yes, I can sleep, thank you very much.
And I will sleep very well when I am dead.
Every week I get about five fat lady catalogues from various companies who thankfully sell clothing for women with more than size zero bodies. I look through them, turn down page corners, sometimes I even buy clothes. Usually I call in my order because I like to talk with one of the eight hundred or so operators who handle catalogue sales. Sometimes I order online. It is impersonal, I often screw things up, but eventually I get what I need.
Today I got a new catalogue. The beautiful woman on the cover was probably a size six. I guess the photographer thinks that's hefty.
I looked inside. Lovely clothes for women with jobs or women who do not sit around in their pajamas writing most of the day. Then I get to about ten pages in.
Now...this catalogue is supposed to be for women of a certain size. Big. Not zeroes. Big ladies with hips and breasts and thighs. Not teeny tiny bodies. Big ladies.
The two pages contained dresses in animal prints. Tigers, zebras, leopards, cheetahs...the only thing missing was an elephant print. Of course, the models were slim. How could they put a zebra print on a woman with substantial body parts? It would look terrible. Scary. Nearly as awful as a woman wearing something in a cow print. Talk about setting oneself up for mockery.
Yes. I realize a woman should be able to wear whatever she wants to wear without fear of somebody pointing at her and laughing. Or wanting to jump her and rape her. Bikinis and halter tops and hip hugging short shorts should be fine. On some little twinkie perhaps, but not on someone with overly sufficient flesh.
Unless they want to hang out in Wal-mart and have their photos taken so the entire internet can laugh at them.
There are ways to dress and ways not to dress. This may be old fashioned of me, but oh, well, I'm too old to display myself. Back in the day, however, it wasn't the case. But I still went toward the more conservative side. I thought a little guessing was preferable to leaving nothing to be desired.
I am old.
Gawd. I look awful.
Just got a gander at the photo I posted of the husband and me together. Granted, it was about a year after chemo, but it doesn't look like the me I want to see.
It's reality.
It's ugly.
How can that be the same person...uh, yeah. It's me, all right.
Let's face it.
I got old.
Wrinkled. Grey haired. Fat. Fatter.
Now, just to make myself feel better, I oughtta look up photos of me when I was in my prime. Too bad I can't get them into the computer...I may have to ask my kids.
The only one I have of me from a long time ago is this one, and I've posted it several times. It makes me feel better, though, so you're gonna get it again.
This is August, 1970, right after the Army.
This is us, 2014. Not my best angle. Friends since 1960. You can't go back, though. The ravages of time.
