Patinated Ponies

A week

Last week, before my surgery, I was so scared. I called a friend that knows everything about me, all the embarrassing horrible things, and cried to her while drinking honey bourbon and trying to convince myself that the procedure wasn’t anything serious. There was the fear that something would go wrong. That I’d have some weird reaction to the anesthesia and I’d never get to tell anyone how I feel about them, and that I’d never figure out how I feel about some people. And there was the fear that, once it was out, it wouldn’t be a benign piece of extra flesh (like so much of the rest of me) despite being told to ignore it unless it bothered me. That I would have mere months to live because it had been part of me for so long. That I would be this weak dying thing. That I wouldn’t have the strength to fight. That even if I had the time to call everyone, even if they picked up the phone or I still had their numbers, even if he understood and wanted to love me back, that there would be no time. And then, the shallower ache, that I would crumble under my own weakness and that no one would stop and pick me up. That I would have to depend on others and they wouldn’t be there, that I would fail my exams.

I’ve washed my hair twice in the past week, the first time being utterly unsuccessful, and the second stinging. I haven’t brushed it in a week. I put on mascara for the first time in a week today, and all my shirts are dirty.

But I’m happy. I don’t know yet what the mass was, but I’m resolved to take the news without wavering, whatever it is. To handle it with grace and with sure-footedness. To stand tall, even though I’m the only person holding myself up.

I haven’t had one of those dreams in a year. The ones with the car with no brakes.

I’m going to go take a shower. I’m going to wash my hair. I’m going to be okay.