I’m writing myself mysterious notes. For instance, the other day I wrote on my calendar “Pick-up piano.” Its impossible for me to go pick-up a piano! I could not recall writing that cryptic message, why I wrote it, or any recollection at all. I really thought I was going nuts and that I perhaps purchased a piano in some kind of weird sober black-out. As it turned out, it was my turn to pick-up the carpool girl at her piano lesson that day.
Just now, I pulled up the document with my stories and the first line at the top of the page read “Feeling a little depressed, are we?” It was like God was in my computer, or something! I swear I don’t remember writing that, but I must have this morning and guess what? I really am depressed. Its mostly hormonal, but has an extra sprinkle of gloomy weather on it. Therefore, I’m just eating voraciously. In bed, of course. I just finished off a giant bowl of BBQ chips and Cheddar Chex Mix. When I just typed that I felt a little sick, but when I was throwing it into my face hole, I really thought it was helping me.
I’m on strike. I’m not doing anything I’m supposed to be doing. Everything on my mental “to do” list is not as important as me going insane. I’m mentally folding my arms and sticking my tongue out at my commitments, declaring “I won’t do it!” Its not that I want to be mean, it’s just that I cannot bear to be helpful to anyone right now. I think its best for me to stay inside and away from vulnerable human beings.
When I was at the *hospital the other day, I was casually noticing patients being wheeled around in their hospital gowns. Some had little blankets on their laps. Some had flowers and balloons that they were taking home. Each had a handler with them, a nurse or someone who was looking after them. Just making sure they didn’t fall out of their chair, or need another shot of Demerol. I wanted to be them so badly that I felt a little sorry for myself for being so healthy. They looked so cared for and I’m just expected to prop myself up and make it through life everyday. Then I found out that my husband’s co-worker’s wife is dying. They’re taking her off life support and saying good-bye. Now I feel even worse, because I realize what a selfish, ungrateful person I am.
That’s when I decided there should be a specialized PMS hospital for people like me, healthy as a horse, but needing to be a patient just for a couple of days. I don’t want to be sick or anything like that. I just want people to come and visit me, bring me flowers, and sneak treats in for me. I’m never too old for the electric bed either; knees up – knees down; head up – head down. Sigh.
I would shuffle down the hallway in my little hospital booties and a peek-a-boo nightgown and the nurse would come up to me and gently say “Its been a long day, better go lay down some more. I’ll bring you some decaf in a minute, honey.” I could catch-up on my reading because no one would expect anything of me because Jesus Christ, I’m in the HOSPITAL aren’t I?!
I would even appreciate the hospital food, because it comes on that shiny tray with the different size squares and rectangles. Neatly placed in each and every hole is something individually wrapped and never touched by human hands: Broth, Jello, cracker, juice. I really need someone to bring me a tray of food in bed today, I don’t care how horrible it is, because it’s really the thought that counts, although a Big Mac would be super thoughtful.
My special PMS hospital will have a ward just for men like my husband who, no matter what he says in the next three days, will be on the shit end of a shit stick with me. There will be big giant screen tvs and each and every husband will have their own remote control that they can carry around and even sleep with if they want to. There will be beef, chicken, pork, and brontosaurus ribs. Each fart will be welcomed with a boisterous cheer from the ward; and at night each one will get a hand-job from the nurse and then they can roll over and go to sleep.
Wow, maybe I’m not so totally selfish after all.