Life certainly is a jumble of contradictions here these days!

In one breath, I’m bemoaning the consumerism of my birth family around the holidays and the fact that I really don’t want any more STUFF because I don’t want to be a pack rat. And don’t want to give any more STUFF and contribute to others’ pack-rat-ism and so I get all preachy preachy about giving for the common good through my registry at Heifer International and such.

And in the next breath I’m wailing on and on about a bunch of doctors who immediately jump to the hysterectomy solution. It’s not as if I’m using that womb right now. In fact, I’m basically done with it. I’ve popped out a couple of reasonably acceptable examples of humanity and I really have no intention of doing so again.

But see, the thing is. When it comes to parts of my body? I guess I’m kind of a pack rat!

No, I’m not pregnant now, nor do I intend or desire to become so again. It was fun when it happened. But sixteen years later I’m still dealing with the consequences. cleaning up after them. enjoying myself too much to add another. nauseous at the idea of having another this close to 50. trying to figure out what the heck I’m supposed to do next. DONE.

But I’ve sort of gotten to know that little creative bit of me. Grown sort of attached, you might say. Come to consider it as part of who I am. Not all of who I am, but a pretty significant part.

But just because I’m not planning on using it again for it’s designed purpose, does that mean I should just get rid of it in such an off-handed manner?

I guess these are fears and questions all women go through in one form or another when they hit menopause and the shop closes down for good. “What role does my uterus play in being the woman I am?” But in the natural order of things, you get a bit of time to sort things out. You can kind of gradually warm up to the idea. Maybe. You’re not just presented with the line in the sand: Today, on this side you are a creative and life giving woman. Tomorrow, on that side, you are a crone. (And I mean “crone” in the most honorable feminist sense. But still.)

And it’s not just these questions of self-identity to deal with either.

Wednesday morning an administrator from the hospital called. That’s where I’m going to have tests Thursday morning. And apparently, the new practice is to call the patient and confirm all the billing information over the phone. So I’m giving her my new work phone number and my new insurance card numbers and she zings this one over the net: “Next of kin is X?”

Next of kin?

NEXT OF KIN?

Uh, no. X is my ex-husband, thanks.

What do you mean you need a next of kin? I’m going in for an ultrasound. It’s not like I’m going to have a reaction to the K-Y Jelly and die on the table!

But then I realized, all in a split second, that even though there’s no need for one for Thursday, there is need for one for the surgery.

And I froze. My mind became completely blank. What name would I give her? Who is my next of kin now?

If I put my mom, and something happens I can trust that she will make the kind of decisions that will put the boys through hell. She will be vindictive and hard to deal with for X, all with the result that the boys will be traumatized. I can trust that as much as I can trust that the sun will rise the day after I die. Whenever that is.

My sister? She put me as executor of her living will when she had her back surgery. “If anything bad happens on the table, pull the plug!” she said. “I don’t want to live in a wheelchair.”

Come on! Seriously?! If there’s a little hiccup and you might have to spend 6 months or a year in a wheel chair you’d rather die? Even if you end up in a wheel chair permanently you’d rather be dead?

She’s the one I’m going to put in charge of decisions?

Yeah, I don’t think so. I’m not in favor of force feeding and permanent breathing machines either. If I had been Terry Shiavo I would have wanted to go peacefully and without a lot of hoopla a long time before she got to go. But there’s a lot of grey area in between there, folks. And I don’t think my sister’s grey scale sounds all that graduated.

My brother? The last serious conversation we had was in…, um, let me think… 1979? Maybe? No, probably before then. He has no idea who I am, what my beliefs are or what my wishes are regarding right-to-life/right-to-die. So scratch him off the list.

Who does that leave? I can’t list a minor child. A friend? Which one is close enough to want that responsibility?

All these thoughts flash through my brain in the instant it takes to say “Uh, let me think a second.”

And then I realize the truth.

Three years after we separated and over a year after the divorce is final, the only person I can list as “next of kin” is my ex-husband. Because he will take care of the boys.

And I realize that I am still very much navigating this life alone.

And that didn’t feel real good.

Thank goodness this is really just a “who do we call if you crash” kind of listing and not a “who is going to make decisions for you” kind of thing.

But the whole rest of the day I’ve been searching my brain and my heart for the name of the person that I’m going to have to ask to do this for me when I go into that surgical suite in a few days/weeks. I kept thinking about all this legal crap that has been sort of just hanging on, waiting for official resolution. Crap that now I have to finish. I’ve been wondering if I should be a real freak and sketch out some plans for a funeral or see an attorney about a will. Just in case.

But I can’t get there until I figure out who I can ask to be the point person. The Next of Kin.

It’s not at all that I plan on going under the anesthesia with the worst case scenario coursing through my mind. But I have to prepare. I have to put things in place. Just in case. For the boys’ sake. Plan for the worst and expect the best, right?

But whose name do I put?

Note: AB got some GOOD NEWS on her cancer front this week. It has NOT spread to the lymph nodes (the biopsy) NOR to her bones (bone scan.) This means her prognosis is very, very good. She has a MUGA scan and chemo on Monday. It’s still a mystery how her body will react to the chemo. Some people walk right through it now-a-days. Others, it takes them off their feet for the duration. So we wait and see on that point. But she’s feeling good and is positive and that counts for a lot. (But I’m also sure she’s got her ducks in a row….)
— — —
A year ago (or longer) on This Journey…

Shoulder pain mysteriously disappears 2006
another funeral 2005

— — —
A year ago (or longer) on This Journey…

Shoulder pain mysteriously disappears 2006
another funeral 2005

— — —
A year ago (or longer) on This Journey…

Shoulder pain mysteriously disappears 2006
another funeral 2005

Posted on November 29th, 2007 under big questions, divorce, family, my crazy life. RSS 2.0 feed. Leave a response, or trackback.