I thought at first that it was a good thing. I was made to stop drinking for the time being while dealing with a (minor) health issue and I figured that it would square quite nicely with my goal of winning the great CARET challenge. I thought I’d find it difficult, what with all my beer-guzzling friends, but I’ve found that I super-duper want to get healthy and that’s more important to me than the momentary lure of alcohol. (Of course, some friends — NOT HELPFUL. My friend Barry, who once called me a girl less ordinary, loudly bemoaned the fact that I “wasn’t cool anymore”).
But now, the ante has been upped and I have to drink this detox drink that supposedly would help the medicines I’m taking. It would cut the time for taking the meds and would save me money, which is a big thing right now. Maderpakersheht. Lasang imburnal. I was never the new-agey Cory Quirino type who says things like “love and light”, so I’m not used to beetroot whey magic gunk, but really, there was nothing lovely or light-filled about that glass of virulent-looking substance spurring soylent-green recollections. However, I’m bent on getting well, whatever it takes, even if it means chugging one serving after another of this hell cocktail. Arnold was joking about celery smoothies last week; all I can say is, that stuff is nowhere close to what I have to take.
I would give a hand and a foot to get completely, totally well. Not “well”, meaning temporary reprieve from the aches and pains, but well for real. Forever. Not having to worry that your kidneys will conk out on you, not feeling your insides twitch while carrying on a conversation, not getting stressed over physical activities that will tire you sooner than it will tire people your age.
I’ve always said that it was because there was so much more that I want to do and I still am deadset at continuing my work, which is very important to me right now. This whole thing sometimes feels like a mad rush — me, huffing and puffing and sometimes losing my breath, while others can afford to meander and experiment their way through life.
Aside from that, however, buried deep down and unacknowledged, I realized just over the weekend that it would crush me deeply and profoundly if I would no longer be given the opportunity to be a mom. More than anything else in the world, I want to be a mom. There. I said it. I want the smell of a baby’s breath, puke on my shirt, dirty diapers. I want to have kids to read to, I want to sew costumes for school presentations, I want to be elected PTA president. I want slobbery noisy kisses, grumpy sleepy heads in the morning, tight hugs at night. I want it all. I want it so much it hurts just thinking about it.
This month is my birthday month. I turn twenty eight on the 17th. And that is my birthday wish. Not necessarily to have a baby right away, but to be healthy and well enough to have one in the future. Please, please, God.
Ampalaya slurpee, anyone?