This blog entry is going to be kind of all over the place because of a number of things that have been happening lately. Hence the two songs (the other link will be near the end of the entry).
The week started off with me black and blue and with a hugely distorted right breast. It hurt. It felt like an egg or half of a tennis ball was hiding under there. On Monday I saw the doctor, he aspirated some blood out with a needle and we talked about next steps. The blood was, not to be too gross about it, a dark purple. A plum, a puce, blue-violet and crepuscular.
And it was just going to hang around unless we did something about it. So he proposed, essentially, vacuuming out the hematoma. OOookay. He gave me a prescription for Valium and told me to take that and Oxycodone, then come over in the morning. Fortunately, this was done at the Brighton office so I just walked over. And, well, that was quite an experience. I was awake during the entire time, but, after he gave me some Novocaine, I didn't feel a blessed thing, except I was a tad loopy. We (he, the physician's assistant and I) had a lovely conversation about, er, something. I have no idea what, possibly it was about Cape Cod now that I think about it.
He took out about 100 cc of stuff (hard to say exactly how much as he was also hydrating at the same time). He put in a straightforward little drain and sewed it in place. Watching and listening to such things, particularly when you are doped up, is, like I said, an experience. He told me, just keep expressing out the fluid, change the dressing whenever you think you need to, see you in a few days. The assistant kindly drove me home.
Well. I've been through all kinds of wacky things now but the drain seems to have freaked me out more than anything else. I guess it's because I can see it and feel it. That night, I had a meltdown (hence the first song for today's selection).
I felt awful. I was scared. Things still felt huge and hard and painful. Still bruised. Still angry. Plus I had a drain sticking out of me. Nothing felt right. All I could think was, what the f*** have I done to myself? How stupid I've been. What vanity! I'm being punished for being vain and foolish and overly grasping. How wrong. How painful. How deserving I am of such horrible things.
My husband stood back and kind of let me go at it. His main comment was, I'm kind of surprised you haven't melted down before. And he was right. I've tolerated a lot. And perhaps this was a small thing, but it was that final straw.
The next day, I saw the doctor again. His first move was to write me a prescription for a painkiller called Ultram (Tramadol). This was/is more heavy duty than the Tylenol I'd been taking, but wouldn't constipate (er, sorry for the TMI) me like the Oxycodone does. Hallelujah. He also explained that I really have to express the stuff out, and it won't happen overnight. But it will.
Okay. I was better. I could handle it.
So I went home and did as told. Every time I worked out with weights, I'd stick my arm over my right breast. Extra 20 lbs. on top. Push down. Lather, rinse, repeat.
This morning, I saw him again, and we agreed that things have improved considerably. The purple is gone, replaced with (more TMI) yellow, not only in terms of what is, er, coming out, but also in terms of the look of the overall bruise. My right breast is no longer an inch and a half bigger than my left -- it's about the same.
Tomorrow, the drain comes out. The surgical binder is off. My navel is healed, plus I can start ab exercises next week. This is all in time for Wednesday. I'll elaborate on that in a moment.
Because now it's time to talk about the other piece, the other song.
I interviewed for what was essentially my dream job on January 28th. Yes, I was bandaged up when that happened. The interviewers pronounced my story "inspiring". Uh, okay.
And then I waited. And waited. And waited some more.
And today I finally received word that, yes, my story is still inspiring. But they gave the job to someone else.
I wrote back and asked about where the disconnect was. After all, I want to learn from the experience. If they tell me, great. If not, shrug, that's okay.
If it had been early February, I suppose I'd be a lot more upset about the whole thing. I'd be angry and saddened and depressed. But I'm not. It just dragged on for so long that I realized, independently, that they were doing whatever they could to find someone else. And so they did. And that's that.
One of the reasons I had wanted this one so badly was because it was Community Management (which I've been doing as a volunteer for 7 1/2 years) for a healthcare company. The whole wellness vibe fit in so nicely with my health and weight loss journey. Plus -- and here it's going to look odd, but I'll explain it in a moment -- I didn't have to say I liked Michael Bolton's music.
Huh? You say. Well, I'll explain. The Michael Bolton reference is to a film called "Office Space". In it, there is a character named Michael Bolton (not the singer). The guy's a pasty white software engineer who loves gangsta rap music. But they're having layoffs at the company. And so, in order to try to keep his job, he not only compromises, he completely and thoroughly subsumes himself in order to, he thinks, get on the good side of the outside consulting firm hired to perform the layoffs. He says he likes the music. He is laid off anyway.
And, for me, a lot of my job interviews -- hell, MOST of them -- have involved my having to say I liked the music. This one was one where I didn't have to. I didn't have to give up myself. I didn't have to pretend I was someone who I'm not. But I know that there are other places where I don't have to say I like the music. It does not have to be that way.
And the dream which burns up is something of a false one, I feel. Dreams shouldn't be quite so flammable. And so, Phoenix-like, a new one rises from the ashes.
I have a lunch meeting on Wednesday, for a possible job. And so the new dream will begin. And I'll be damned if I tell him I like the music -- but I don't think I'll have to.