I'm Dying (Again)

I am certain that I’m going to die soon.
I have to have surgery to remove my meniscus.
Now, listen, to any other person, surgery like this is not a big deal.
But I am not like any other person.
I am overly dramatic.
I also have a cardiac history which I was assured was “nothing” only to discover upon waking up after surgery to have my breasts enlarged (by far the most ridiculous thing I’ve done) that I went into bigeminy and trigemniy while under anesthesia. I also have a tendency to turn anemic, and I have low blood pressure.
So now, anytime I have to have anesthesia, I freak out.  I still have my wisdom teeth and was advised to have them removed. But they aren’t causing problems, so I don’t want to take the chance of going under.
I was supposed to have a colonoscopy. Nope. It’s not going to happen. I’m never going to do it. Not unless I’m in so much pain that the fear of being in constant pain lessens the fear of dying on the table. Case in point: I had a complete hysterectomy. I took the chance of dying on the table rather than living with the debilitating symptoms.
Now, the interesting thing is: prior to my hysterectomy, I was sick for almost a year.  My blood work correlated to the fact that something was causing my extreme fatigue. I couldn’t take a shower without getting out of breath. Could barely walk the dogs without wheezing. After testing, bumping up my iron, things improved. But in the meantime, the tests had revealed a lesion on my liver, a large diverticulum on my duodenum (I still really do not understand what that means but my GI guy said stop worrying about it, so finally, I did), and a cyst on my ovary that never went away and others that had bled and left scars.
I really became convinced I was dying. And with that in mind, I started to question my life choices. I’d read a series of books that had provided many brilliant insights to how my life might have been more…successful. Might have saved me from a whole hell of a lot of embarrassing choices and mistakes that had been chronic. Would have made me a better parent. A better person.
So I threw a book together as fast as I could and called it “Something that Will Change Your Life.” I took a pen name: Moxie Will (because listen, if people can self-identify as different RACES, surely, I can choose a different name).
I’ve always loved the name Moxie, and believed it fit my personality: quirky, colorful, strives to be courageous. And Will: because I truly believe self-determination is the key to happiness. We makes the human race unique is that we are born with the ability to control our own thoughts, our own attitude. But we’ve been conditioned to believe that we are not capable of making our own good choices. That we are damaged and hardwired to fail; we aren’t really responsible for our actions –we’ll be doomed no matter what we choose, so why not choose pleasure as often as possible!
But as I honestly reviewed my life and my choices, I realized my thoughts had been highly influenced by society: Madonna’s “Like A Virgin” video was released when I was 16 years old. And the articles I read in Teen magazines had less to do with respecting your body by NOT having sex and focused more on “the right of young women to choose to HAVE sex.”
But mostly, it was the books I’d read and movies I’d watched: everything had to do with love. Love was the thing that made the world go around. Finding a person to love you was finding someone who would provide you with a soft landing when the sea of life got too rough.
My parents had been a product of their upbringing and the generation that always sided with adults and placed little value on their kids feelings.
Being the curious and outspoken kid I was growing up; I was often in trouble for question authority (I know, can you believe it?). My parents almost always sided with the ‘grownups.’ – so I was eager to find someone to stick up for me, fight for me – someone like the love interest in almost all the books I read and the movies and TV shows I watched.
Obviously, I didn’t die. I ended up having a hysterectomy and came through with flying colors.
Only now that I was better, the immediacy of getting the lessons I’d learned (so that hopefully, others might make less mistakes and have more satisfaction and happiness in their lives) was not so immediate.
And then my fear of looking stupider than I usually do – which could possibly cause my husband to divorce me (which, would then take away my medical insurance!) – which could alienate my children (who are already embarrassed by ¾ of what I do and say), fear and self-preservation wormed it’s way into mindset.
Also, I was no longer the fun girl. I cared more about striving to be good; to be better, than to be out drinking, partying, shopping, being entertained. To me, learning WAS fun. (Oh my god, maybe I have brain cancer). I focused on history and little known books from the 1950’s and 60’s.
I had all these IDEAS. I have binders full of notes. Full of highlights. Full of writing. Yet, I was too afraid to put anything out there.
I don’t really fit anywhere.
I’m not religious, though I very much respect and admire those who practice.
I’m spiritual in a naturey sort of way.
I’m more Conservative in my values. I believe in tradition. Yet, I’m still, under it all, a rebel who questions the status quo. I’m a huge believer in personal freedom. It shouldn’t be about anyone controlling anyone – it should be about teaching people the value of character and courage and common sense, so that when they are faced with temptations of temporary escape and excessive pleasure; they are aware of the long term consequences to their spirit, their character, and ultimately, their happiness.
When I didn’t die from a mystery disease, when I didn’t die from surgery, a part of my rebel spirit did die.
When I had convinced myself I might be , probably was, dying,  I felt free to be myself – to continue to rebel!
When I woke up after surgery (and it takes a-while to heal from a hysterectomy) I was very aware of my mortality.
When I was young and a rebel; it didn’t worry me too much; I still had plenty of time to find a partner and/or become so successful I wouldn’t have to worry about where I’d live and how I’d survive.
Then I started to notice the crows feet, my body started complaining, and I had not become wildly successful.
I did/do have a partner, however. He was/is getting a bit tired of my creativity AND his buying the groceries. I had my own money, but it was not very much. Okay, it’s actually so little that I have stopped even going to consignment shops, coloring my hair, and avoid any celebration that requires giving gifts (which, let’s be honest, the whole gift thing is WAY OUT OF HAND, even people who can easily afford giving gifts agree with me).  He has been hoping his support will pay off. I think he’s starting to have more hope in winning the lottery.
The bad news is: I need to have surgery.
The good news is: I again, believe I’m going to die during the operation; it gives me an excuse to worry less about making a fool out of myself, and concentrate more on helping people realize what the difference is between a significant life and a superior life, and what long held beliefs and influences are holding them back from true happiness.
The bad news is: I have no plan of implementation. I am not totally focused. I absolutely know I’m going to embarrass myself (that’s good entertainment for you though, right!).
And if I DO die, well hell, hopefully my message will reach many more people much faster and I’ll save the world after all! Or at least the part that isn’t 100% committed to the Kardashians.

So stay tuned. Though I don't have a concrete plan, I DO intend to blog every day until the surgery. To share things I've experienced. I plan on writing about Tinder. Sex. (Okay, I guess they are the same thing). All the Liberal Things I've Done. Hypocrite City. How Forgiveness is Mostly Bullshit. Why we should stop celebrating everything. And much more...

And if I don’t die; then at least I will be farther than I would have been by keeping everything bottled up until I was able to formulate the “perfect” plan. I will know that, once again, I’m facing life in my quirky, somewhat courageous way, and if my husband divorces me, at least I’ll have two good knees to continue dancing through life. In consignment store (but fabulous!) shoes, of course.