My blog friend Barb writes about her life on a charming island in Maine, where she makes homemade sourdough bread and the most beautiful jewelry with handmade beads and where her husband is a lobster fisherman. Oh, how I wish they were my next-door neighbors. I love her jewelry creations, and I could eat lobster every day and not complain. Ditto for the homemade bread.
Barb recently wrote about a dumb day in which it was drizzly and grey and she wasn’t very productive in the studio. It must have been contagious, because her mother later remarked that it was a dumb day for her, too, and Barb’s hubby said the exact same thing when he returned from fishing. I liked the phrase, and have decided to borrow it.
I thought today was going to be a dumb day, for many reasons. First was waking up with a sore spot in my back. Must have slept in a weird position, because it sure didn’t hurt when I went to bed. I’m in a rotten mood because things still aren’t sitting right with me from Mother’s Day, and I can’t lift my black cloud until the matter is put right. My kids had a squabble right before it was time to leave for school carpool, and if there’s one thing that can ruin my morning real quick, it’s squabbling kids. My runnin’ buddy is playing tennis instead of joining me at the gym for cardio, and my other gym rat friend, Melissa, has to be at her kids’ school for a fun run, which frankly, doesn’t sound like one bit of fun to me. So that leaves me to face 45 minutes of cardio without my girls to talk to, which means the time will drag on and on. I’ll have to resort to relying on Nelly and Justin Timberlake for companionship. If only my ancient iPod had video capabilities, I could look at this to distract me.
After the gym, I have an appointment with Tammy, my beloved lymphedema specialist, to continue breaking up the scar tissue under my belly incision from The Big Dig. I have several spots that are about the size of a marble under my skin, and they must be obliterated. She uses a combination of massage, her Hivamat machine, and some firm pressure to make this happen. It alternates between being quite pleasant (the massage) and weird (Hivamat) and just plain awful (firm pressure). Luckily, I adore her and we have lots of good chats while she’s doing her thing. She moonlights as a therapist, at least for me, and she knows a lot of my innermost thoughts & feelings. Getting those out and leaving them in her little studio always feels good.
Add in a trip to the grocery store, one of my most dreaded chores, and having to spend some time today going through medical bills and fighting BS regulations, and it seemed destined to be a dumb day for me. Some days are like that. But lo and behold, hope arrived in the form of an email from my friend David. Y’all will remember him as the creative genius behind the illustrated story of the Drs S.
Well, he’s rescued me from my dumb day by announcing that he’s created an official logo for this little blog. It’s cute and creative and fun and full of meaning. I will unveil it in a separate post, both to keep you dear readers on the edge of your seat and also because it would be wrong, just plain wrong to put this little gem on the same page (screen?) as a long, boring, and pitiful description of my dumb day. Or what seemed destined to be a dumb day but has been rescued. Thank you, David.
Welcome to the Pink Underbelly. It’s a step up from my Caring Bridge blog, which many of you have faithfully followed since I was diagnosed in April (thank you!).
A lot has happened in the past 5 months — some good, some bad, some downright scary. I’ve blogged about this wild ride for therapy, and if I’ve entertained and educated along the way, it’s a bonus.