One more day. And then MAYBE relief.  After years of increasing pain, months and months of relentless tests to "rule out" every fucking thing from colon cancer to pregnancy (multiple times, seriously), with results missing for weeks, forms sent to the wrong address (but the medical bills arrive just fine), fuckhead doctor stupid saying shit like "anxious? you've got tenure!", my heart racing every night, anemic dull ache eyes light going out in the mirror. Bleeding bleeding bleeding. And through it all, I work, work and work, worry and raise hard kids, dragging my ass upright day in and out. Buying houses, making decisions, staring the risks of monumental failures in the face, faking fine as well as you can actually BE fine.

When I finally got approved for surgery (you have to get approved for pain relief if you're a woman, you are not ENTITLED to it), and I had to tell people I'd be out a while, then I heard: every other woman I work with is sick. If they have what I have, they suffered too long untreated in most cases and wound up with a hysterectomy. If they're sick with something else, anxiety for instance, they either changed doctors umpteen times before anyone gave a shit or they self medicate with the xanax or klonopin of a friend who does have a doctor or they drink. They are told "try yoga" for EVERYTHING, sexist and culturally incompetent bullshit.

We are dying. Bleeding to death. Anemic. Panic ridden. Working on our feet against medical advice if we do have doctors worth a damn, which most of us don't.

I am furious. And it occurs to me as I lie here, feeling fury pulse through my panicked heart, that I might actually get better again. I'll still be dying because we are all dying, but meanwhile I'll be well again. I will have the full FORCE of my health. What might I do with that kind of power again? And this rage.