This post comes with a WARNING. What you’re about to read may make you uncomfortable. Or mad.
I’m mad. Mad as hell. What do I do with all this seething anger? I could hold it in. Suppress it like an unpleasant sneeze. I could let it fester, bubble and boil for the rest of my life. Or I could just dump it here.
Sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes this Big C walk with E is way more than I signed up for. I want to be the Good Wife. The benevolent devoted soul mate. I do. But I’m not. Don’t get me wrong, I am kind, compassionate and caring. But there are times when the fire breathing dragon and the monster under the bed emerge.
What am I angry about? That’s the thing. I don’t even know half the time. Everything and anything.
Am I surprised by the anger? Absolutely. I didn’t expect this.
It hasn’t simply been a steady build. Or slow burn. A crescendo ending with a crashing forte of rage. Random acts of anger. Unexpected outbursts. Irrational displays of irritability. Non-stop wrath or fury. Annoyance or aggravation. It has been all of these things. Thankfully not all at the same time. But there are days where I simply move from one crappy angry emotion to the other.
Quite frankly, I can’t pinpoint what has my dander up and caused my blood to boil. Why I see red. And often black.
Some of the things I’m angry about make perfect sense. At least to me. Like the slowness of the medical process. A year ago, at his annual check-up, E mentioned this irritation he had in his mouth. Possibly it was a canker sore or a benign lesion. Or possibly it was something bigger. More sinister. Who knew. Certainly not us. We’re not the experts. This initial ‘mention’ to the doctor was followed by several trips to the neighborhood walk-in clinic where E was given cream to rub on the sore. Months would pass before a biopsy was performed and a diagnosis given. That was just the beginning. More months would pass before his surgery. A year later and the road ahead is long. And winding. Exhausting. Draped in weary. I’m angry about this.
Then there are the list of irrational things. These cover the gambit, the full spectrum of the rainbow, the various degrees and levels of my anger. Everything from the petty and trivial to the foolish and inconsequential. The paltry, piddling and pettifogging. All those shabby emotions that once expressed, or even thought, leave me feeling small, spiteful, mean, and just downright unkind.
Everything bugs me. Going right back to the early days. Until this present moment.
The botched biopsy. Inconceivable. The breathtaking beauty of the Oncologist. Distracting. The daily crosstown trips to the hospital. Tedious. The smell on the seventh floor. Sickening. E’s feeding tube dangling from his nose. Disgusting. The color blue of his hospital regulation issued PJs. Unfashionable. The ear-to-ear scar on E’s neck. Frightening. The size of his tongue. Unfathomable. The disruption to our daily lives. Unwanted. The long lonely nights where sleep was a stranger. Disturbing. The lousy meals, fast food and frozen dinners. Repulsive. The sound of the blender. Irritating. The clutter, mess, dust and dog fur in E’s man cave. Infuriating. The smell of soup in the microwave. Revolting. The way E speaks. Incomprehensible. The flowers and plants that need planting. Frustrating. Taking out the garbage and doing the recycling. Enraging. Doing chores that E used to do. Exasperating. Being nice. Impossible.
How could I think, feel, say such nasty things? I don’t know.
I wish I could be more like Mother Theresa. All saintly and good. But I’m not. I’m Helen Keller before Anne Sullivan came into her life. Groping in the dark. Punching the air. Kicking and screaming at anything unfortunate enough to cross my path. I stumble carelessly into the abyss. I hiss and curse unapologetically. I breathe fire. Rant and rave like a freaking lunatic.
I do all that. Then I have the audacity to shed my skin like a snake.
And start anew.