Frustration

I’m vaguely ashamed of myself. As this illness, whatever it is, continues to get a little worse each day, I find that I am pulling more and more into myself. My patience is the thing that I miss the most.

I used to be one of the most patient people I know. It never before bothered me to let things take their own time. Mind you, this is not just a benign “Waiting for Godot” patience I’m talking about. When it comes to getting even to or avenging myself, I can also be patient. Years patient, in some cases. It’s never diminished the satisfaction when the Fates (with or without my intervention) serve a just dessert.

Now? I don’t even seem to have the patience to let someone explain themselves. The Socialist got his head bitten off yet again last night, before I’d been home even fifteen minutes. In my own defence, I was tired, I’d done a bunch of grocery shopping on the way home, I was frustrated because my doctor had not yet called me, I was extremely uncomfortable from all the abdominal distention, and when I got home I had to park half a lot away from the apartment door with a car full of grocery bags. That, I suppose, is a good reason to be grumpy. It is not a good reason to pick fights.

The Socialist deals with my illness by ranting at the slowness of the tests and the doctors. He wants to know why something isn’t being done now. When I told him last night that, in all likelihood, my heart was going to come away with a clear bill of health, he was disappointed. He’d been hoping it was a heart problem, something that could be acted on immediately, with an easy fix. So was I, for that matter. But I just didn’t have the patience for the rant.

You’d never know from the latest entries, but I’ve been pouring most of my daily energy into positive thinking, positive acting, Mary Sunshine happy-happy-happy. It’s my way of staying sane, I think. Don’t dwell on things, just keep moving through the day and let the activities around be the needed distractions. I’ve had a few people at work compliment me on the way I’m holding up. I try to be upbeat at home and at work. However, yet another test with no conclusive diagnosis was fairly crushing. I don’t particularly want heart disease, but I wouldn’t mind some explanation as to what’s happening to me right now.

So I returned home, disappointed but still trying to see the good side of things (hey, I’ve got a healthy heart!) only hit with another of the Socialist’s rants. I know the rants are born of fear and frustration, but I chewed the man’s head off anyway. And then, just to ensure I wasn’t playing fair, I broke down into a crying lump of misery.

Anyhow, he apologized, I apologized, things settled back to normal. Or at least as normal as they’ll get until this whole situation is resolved.

So where do I stand at the moment? The bloating continues, and I have few clothes I can wear. The clothes that last week hid the fact that I was bulging unbecomingly in weird places only emphasize the bulges this week. I wheeze when I’m lying down, and can’t take a deep breath of air even when sitting up straight. I know I have a navel, but I haven’t seen it for a few days now. Putting on socks is challenging, and forget about tying shoelaces altogether. I can’t sleep because I can’t get comfortable. Today, when the doctor calls, I’m going to plead that we do something to reduce this bloating while we wait for some answers. I shall go stark raving bonkers if I have to live much longer like this.

Meanwhile, the cats stick to me throughout the evenings. My big fat purr-meister is usually right on top of me as soon as I prop my legs up. The kitten likes to curl up over my head on the sofa. I suspect both are mostly doing it because I’ve become relatively immobile and they can take advantage of this to get lots of attention. I still elect to believe in my heart of hearts that they are simply doing it out of love and sympathy, though.