Marrying George Clooney

it came after hours.
the news.
on friday.
i mean how fucking thoughtless.

the s & p downgraded the US after the market closed on friday. from triple A rating to double A plus.

it reminded me of when i had a mammogram years ago, and the doctor’s office called me on a friday at 5:15 (PM), and left a message on my voicemail:
“hi, amy, it’s kathy (not her real name) just wanted to let you know that the results came back from your mammogram and, uh, there’s this little cluster that, you know, looks a bit suspicious, so we want you to come back on monday and do another screening. okay. have a great weekend.”

have a great weekend?
what are you fucking kidding me?

this is where i went to, traveled to – emotionally – on that particular weekend, 48/14.

for starters, i went straight to “death.”
i did not stop at “geez, could be benign.”
i did not stop at surgery.
i went straight to death. not only was i going to die, but i was fairly convinced i would die that weekend. i told ken that i loved him so many times that it began to sound completely & utterly untrue. disingenuous. oh baby, i love you. i love you so much i can’t breathe … hold me baby, hold me, i love you so sososososososo much it hurts.

i rubbed & examined & felt up my left breast incessantly. and not only did i feel myself up, i asked a bunch of folks (yes, good friends, intimate friends) to also feel my breast to see if they too could feel the lump, the mass, the cluster that i was throughly convinced was growing minute by minute. ken loved this part of the weekend. oh baby feel… feel … lower, higher… a little more. whatdya think? you think it’s solid? lumpy? down, up… more… more…

and not only was i thoroughly convinced that i had a mass, a tumor, a cluster, but because i was touching and examining and feeling myself up incessantly, my entire left breast was inflamed. red. swollen.

i left a bunch of angry bitter “fuck you” messages on my doctor’s answering machine.

i was scared, worried, and went to big bad dark awful places. i thought of people i loved and people i didn’t like. i wanted to re-do my will. i felt overwhelmed and cried myself to sleep. i became a drug addict (xanax) and an alcoholic (mojitos, and fru-fru drinks with umbrella’s). i wrote many letters to ken. many. all filled with deep love and appreciation and a couple of tips for his next wife.

i gave away clothes.
i gave away shoes.

i asked for my shoes back.

i gave away a few bucks to some local homeless people.

i told my nosy jealous mean yenta neighbor that i was tired of her being so rude & nasty to everyone, and no, i didn’t like her and never did, and i felt like a burden had been lifted. she was mortified, but screw her, i was gonna be dead. i win.

i told the local corner deli owner that their tuna salad needed to be made with real mayo, not miracle whip. i wanted no ifs, ands or buts. mayo or bust. (no pun intended)

i went back & forth, in & out. fear & hope. love & sorrow. give & take.

and by the time monday rolled around for another mammogram – i was cautiously optimistic that no, no, god no, i wasn’t going to die from breast cancer, BECAUSE….i was more than likely going to have a massive stroke and be paralyzed on my left side.

that weekend & most of monday was pure hell. horrific.
unbearable.
and then the news:

the cluster – i was convinced would grow to be the size of a football – turned out to be a BAD CALL.
an unnecessary call.
a thoughtless call.
a miscalculation.
shame on them.

tuesday, all felt better.
calmer.
less chaotic.

i could breathe.

and so, i tore up the letters i wrote to ken. there wasn’t going to be another wife. i was it.
lucky, lucky us.

this past friday the S & P downgraded the united states. the downgrade came after 5 PM. people panicked. freaked. worried, what to do? what to sell? holy shit! folks were quaking in their boots. scared to death. not knowing whether to turn left or right. would they lose everything AGAIN? knees-buckled. sadness ruled.

a whole long weekend of worry & panic settling in.

some people, no doubt, gave away shoes & clothes & became alcoholics & drug addicts and some, yes, some fearing the absolute worst imagined the absolute worst … writing long loving letters to loved ones, re-doing wills, settling accounts, saying goodbye.
no one knew what would happen.
not one person knew.
another crash.
another down-grade.
another horrific fall.

on monday a complete free fall. holy mother of god. tumbling, tumbling. sell. buy. sell. sell. get out now. NOW.
out.
of
fucking
control.

it felt like the whole country was on life support. a karen quinlan kinda day. barely breathing.
pushed right up to the edge.

and then tuesday.
a heart beat. a teeny heart beat.
a test of faith.
a rebound.

and then wednesday.
a rollercoaster.

you know, i’m thinking someone oughta open a restaurant chain:
FYIF
(FUCK YOU IT’S FRIDAY)

… along with a sister franchise with all the beer you can drink:

TIGBBWMS
(TUESDAY IS GONNA BE BETTER, WEDNESDAY MIGHT SUCK)