This Is Forty... Getting Old Is Not For Wussies.

I sit here trying to distract myself from preparing for my colonoscopy.

I know, good times right?  While most of the general population escapes this nugget of fun-ness until age 50 or so, I have the good fortune of this life experience 10 years early.  It seems that having two bad bouts of diverticulitis, Ceiliac, esophageal issues that started from infancy, and a family history of colon cancer, lands me smack in the dead center of the radar.

And let's be honest, I'll be knocked out for the majority of the show, so while they video my guts from top (they are also doing an endoscopy) to bottom (no pun intended) and it's unlikely they'll be selling it for profit on Youtube, so it's really no big deal. Except for the prep. That, my friends, is a literal pain in the bum.

If you haven't had to join in the festivities yourself, there's a great article by Dave Barry about the entire procedure, you can read it here. Really, it's quite insightful. When I read this article, I laughed and laughed, and remembered thinking, "Thank God I still have 17 years before I have to do that.".  My dad tried to warn me of the dreaded colon prep, and like the faithful, loving daughter that I am, I stuck my fingers in my ears as if to say la la la I can't hear you.  Actually, I may not have done that, I think my eyes just glazed over.  I am so sorry dad.  I had no idea. Because if the actual prep wasn't bad enough, I have the attention span of a gnat lately.  Which means I have read, and re-read the paperwork from the doctor at least three times a day for the last two weeks, and somehow still have screwed it up.

It started three weeks ago when the nice secretary called to remind me of my appointment.  She suggested that I review the paperwork as there were medications I would need to stop taking 10 days ahead of time. Check. Got it.  I read the papers.  One week prior I was to go to CVS and get something called magnesium citrate in lemon or lime, but no cherry.  Red dye was a huge no no. No red dye, got it.

And then I forgot all about it until Friday, when I spotted some in Target. Lemon only, which is fine, I like lemon. I mindlessly got into line, generally glancing at the cashier, noticing he was a former boss who had retired. Quickly, I grabbed my glass bottles and moved aside, because there's just some people that shouldn't see you purchasing embarrassingly large quantities of liquid laxative. Once I returned home I thought it might be a good idea to check the paperwork again, and sure enough I was to avoid popcorn, corn, seeds, and nuts.

Thankfully, my workplace stash of peanut M&Ms had just run out, but unfortunately I had drank a wild berry smoothie that morning. Oops. Strike one.  I needed to pay more attention, particularly on Sunday, when I could not eat any food all day.

I can do this, I thought.  Saturday night I figured I would get myself a nice salad for dinner, minus the tomatoes (seeds) and cucumbers (seeds again) and sesame and sunflower seeds. So I basically had shredded lettuce with tuna.  Not exactly what I would call a last meal.  Still good, I can do this.

This morning I woke to the sound of cracking eggs for Sunday breakfast.  Apparently my husband had forgotten all about the no solid food thing, bless his heart.  So I set about doing things to distract myself from eating.  We recycled the oil and old washing machine at the dump.  We did a neighborhood clean up for two hours.  We shopped for trucks.  I made risers for the bed.  I did laundry.  And all I could think about is how frecking hungry I was.  I read the list, and drank what I could to stop my stomach turning.  We stopped at the grocery store and I picked up my favorite hospital stay beverage, cranberry juice, got home, poured myself a nice glass, took one sip,  and noticed the ingredients on the bottle.

Red coloring.

What. The. Feck.  Can't I get any part of this right?  Down the drain it went, along with my hopes of having this not be so bad. I revisited the paperwork at 6pm. Apparently I was supposed to start drinking the magnesium at 4. *gah!*  So, I sucked one down.

And promptly wanted to throw up.  It was like eating lemons folks. Actual. Whole. Lemons.  With a hint of vomit.  I attempted to wash the rest down with sugar sweetened herbal tea. A quick search on Google regarding taking the solution two hours late also revealed that sugar interferes with the process of the magnesium.  And lord knows I can't have anything interfering with the process.  So down the drain the tea went.

And then the fun started. I won't indulge you with the details, but let's just say this stuff does what it says, and quickly.  Shall I take this moment to remind y'all that we only have one bathroom. One.  Suffice to say, there has been a lot of yelling through the door.

At 8pm, knowing what I do, I now needed to drink another 10 oz bottle of this stuff.  Sweet baby Jesus.  All the sites say to avoid nausea try drinking it with a straw.  Do you think I could find any one of the 500 straws in this house at that moment?  Hell no.  I did find a juice box straw, which was like sucking my way to a slow death, until I stopped to breathe and it fell into the bottle. Never was I so happy as to throw that bottle in the recycle bin.  2 down... one to go.

So here I sit, waiting for my husband to get out of the fecking bathroom....again, thinking maybe I should just set up shop in the bathroom tonight.

*sigh*

That 6 am bottle is not going to be fun.

*sigh*

Getting old is not for wussies.

The day started out early.

Really early.

Got the kids off to school, headed to the mechanic for a preliminary review of what I will need for a sticker next month.  It's gonna take some high finance to pull off that maintenance, my friends, or a magical financial genie.

I stopped for breakfast with my Mom and caught up on all things family gossip. (There isn't any, but I had a damn good omelet.)

I scoured the book store for Youngest's newest series obsession with no luck. Then attempted to get Oldest the cleanser he needed to clear up his cursed teenage skin, again with no luck.

Brought my husband coffee at work.  Harassed him in front of his boss. Good times... Then proceeded to leave him with the masses of people who waited until the very last minute to mail their taxes.

Went to the town hall, secured a recycle sticker to get rid of my old washer and 10 gallons of old heating oil. Then I called the DPW to ensure I could bring the heating oil to the recycle center. I even remembered to write down the girl's name who said it was okay, so when I get there on Sunday I can throw her under the bus, and finally be rid of it.

I picked up 20 purple trash bags for town clean up day.  Shot an email off to the boy scout troop to enlist help for said clean up. My money's on it being just Youngest, Tony and I, but hey, thinking of the bonding time we'll have. *sigh*

Went to the recreation center to ask about borrowing buoys for the island camp out this summer. It's looking like we're using a pool noodle and rope, because no one seems to have any to spare, and I'm not buying them for one camp out.

Went to the fire department to get camp fire permits for said camp out.  Typed letter to the guy in charge to be mailed off tomorrow. Fingers crossed.  You can't have a camp out with out marshmallows and burnt hot dogs.

Completed 3 safety training courses online ALSO for said camp out.  Reminded myself while sitting there for an hour and a half that Youngest totally doesn't appreciate me enough.

Picked up 432 American flags for next month so the Troop can change out all the flags at our local cemetery in time for Memorial Day.

Pinned a recipe off Pinterest, went to the grocery store to obtain ingredients, and actually made it for dinner.

Picked up the kids and attended a 2 hour adult leadership meeting for Boy Scouts, so now I am officially in charge of all the aforementioned stuff. (*yeah*)

Being awesome is exhausting.

So why am I wide awake?

My Civic Duty...

I got my jury service notice about a month ago in the mail.  I checked the dates, replied online, and requested it off from work. Truthfully, it snuck up on me faster than I thought it would.  I mean, when you're up to your eyeballs in snow, the last thing you're thinking about is serving jury duty on a sunny day in March. None the less, I was looking forward to serving on a trial.  I enjoy the legal process, provided I'm on the side of the bench with the comfy chairs, and quite honestly, I really liked the idea of simply reading a book until I was needed.

I got another confirmation in the mail about a week ago.  I called to confirm that I was still needed on Monday afternoon, which I was, and started making arrangements to get the kids off to school, left details for the person covering me at work, and mapping out my plan to get to the courthouse by 8am. Which is when it all started... the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, the chaotic thoughts stirring up a frenzy in my brain, and my rapidly beating heart and inability to catch my breath.

I live 20 minutes from a major courthouse.  A courthouse in which I can get the kids off to school, hit Dunkin', and still arrive in the parking lot with 5 minutes to spare. No morning expressway, no major highways, no need to find someone to get the kids to school, no need to check traffic reports, and best of all I can sneak home for lunch, throw in a load of laundry, and still be back within the hour.  Which is of course, why I was not scheduled to appear in this branch, but rather the one 25 miles away, that involves three major highways and 2 roundabouts.  It is also why my ex-husband insisted we go there for all of our probate cases.  Convenient for him, not so much for me, twice a month for about 4 years.  I took time off from work, made school/day care arrangements for the kids, battled traffic, got lost, paid to park, and waited for hours only to be seen and have the argument get thrown out, or worse, extended for another 2 weeks.

I hated that place. All of it.  From the panic attacks that would start the night before, the lack of sleep, the crankiness, and the ever inevitable "upset" stomach that lasted just about as long as the residual headache from the stress. The last time I was there was the week he died.  I had to secure the original copy of our marriage license from our divorce file so I could file for the boy's SS death benefits.  I remember driving away from the parking garage, finally breathing, thinking I would never have to feel that way again.

Until I did.  Monday night the panic attack started, complete with sweats and nightmares.  Crazy dreams of him suddenly being there saying "April Fool's" and my once real life nightmare starting all over again.  I had to leave the house 90 minutes early for a 30 minute drive to avoid the traffic mess that would ensure by 7am.  I sat 25 minutes driving the last 2 miles through school zones, on ramps, and coffee shop drive-thrus. Every driver seemed to be doing something other than driving, make-up, texting, eating breakfast. Cars cut out into traffic without looking let alone signaling. Reaching the parking garage, I parked in my usual spot, second floor, facing the courthouse. I skipped down the steps, ran across 3 lanes of traffic to the front door, stomach turning, mentally preparing a quick trek to the ladies room, when I looked up at the enormous plate glass doors.

And realized I was at the wrong building.

The Superior Courthouse was around the back.  Backtracking along the main road (because there was no way I was cutting down the alley) I found the building. It's a majestic looking building with traditional brick exterior built in 1890, where I am relieved to find other jurors gathered on the sidewalk waiting for the wrought iron gates to be unchained, no doubt protecting the front entryway from hobos and junkies. The building is not marked, so just in case I walk up the street to the bank and check the numbers on their door, assuring that I was now in the right place.  The stairs to the bank are littered with snack wrappers and cans.  Waiting for the crosswalk the cat calls start from trucks passing by.  Lovely.  As more people show up to wait outside the homeless begin to wake up and move on.  This is truly the armpit of the world.

We are ushered through the front doors unsuccessfully, as the metal detector stops all forward progression.  Once through we are herded like cattle down two flights of winding stairs to the basement where we sit and wait to be called upon.  The rooms contain several chairs, a large table and a wall lined with benches.  It is quiet with the exception of the old pipes, which bang against the walls like a toddler with a spoon and a copper pot every time someone summons heat from the ancient cast iron radiators.  To keep the 70 of us from overheating in the boiler room waiting area, they've cracked a few windows, and of course, there's only one bathroom. One. 

I sit and read curled up in the corner of the room on a long wooden bench.  People have gotten up and have started to wander, so I can stretch my legs out on the bench.  My heart rate and stomach churning has subsided, perhaps because I am not across the street in the other building, a small blessing for everyone considering the aforementioned single stall bathroom. They call us up to the 3rd floor, single file up the spiral staircase, for pool selection.  I am number 43.  They call numbers 1-29, finally settling on 14 of them for a "weapons charge" trial. The rest of us are sent back to the dungeon to await another selection.

About an hour later we are all sent home.  The civil trail would not be ready until Wednesday, which was great for me since I had no back up plan for getting Youngest to school.  Left to his own merit, he'd be home in his boxers with a stack of books on his nightstand as the bus passed right by the neighborhood. Free to go, I fork over the $8 parking fee and take the long way home, avoiding the expressway all together. My jury duty rights fulfilled for another 3 years, I rest easier that I may not have to serve in that city anytime in the near future. But it weighs on me that as much as I have put everything behind me, it appears that along with burring him, I have buried residual stress and anxiety, and wonder if this is normal. I wrestle with the guilt that I have been cranky and quick towards my family because I haven't dealt with my anger. I feel guilty that maybe I have not moved forward as much as I appear to have.  And as quick as the next light turns, I realize that I am not the one on trial here.  It's okay to declare myself a mistrial, and detour down to the waterfront for lunch with one of my favorite people.

It was after all, the last day of free parking downtown until December. And, if anyone deserved some free parking that day, it was me.