When I can't sleep, I think of horrible things. I don't really intend to--they just pop into my mind and I'm stuck reliving horrors for long hours.
Last night, I struggled with what was the worst thing to happen to me in my life.
I came up with a huge list. Self-pity played a part, but some crappy things have happened to me and I remembered them all. Every horrific one of them.
But, I did come up with the absolute worst day in my life. It lasted eight hours, but they were eight hours of terror and tears.
Nine years ago, I was told early in the morning that I had pancreatic cancer.
My husband was with me, we both were shocked and scared. I felt myself fold inside...as if all the fire and outrage and happiness just died or folded down like a paper fan. It was over. My life, my loves, my reason to go on, collapsed. Patrick Swayze had just died from pancreatic cancer. I knew it was a death sentence.
I thought about where I would be buried, after I sobbed about my kids and how I wouldn't be around for them, and for my Herb and how I didn't know how he would handle it. My mother...God, how could she handle it?
Then the pain doctor came to see me. I wanted to punch him in the face. He smiled as he told me that he would make sure I felt no pain in the end, but that wouldn't be for months, perhaps.
I couldn't believe his attitude and told him so.
He didn't understand that I didn't appreciate him smiling!
Then some young woman came through the doorway, She looked at me, but that pain guy was still there and he got all huffy and told her to "get out of the room, can't you see I'm with my patient?"
She slid out of the room.
Hell, I thought she was a candy striper or something, she looked so young.
He left, pretty much still bent out of shape.
About eight hours had passed by this time. Eight hours of death.
Re-enter young woman,
"It isn't pancreatic cancer, Mrs. Peterson. It is lymphoma, and we can treat that with an excellent chance of complete remission."
This was after 11 days in the hospital in horrific pain, being tested and prodded and biopsied and no shower and a phone bill of about $400.
I cried again. Herb was with me this time, also, and we cried in each others' arms.
But, yes, dying for eight hours has to be the worst day of my life.
