I sat in a daze as I listened to Dr. A and Dr. S examine my face. Dr. A had called Dr. S into the room to take a look at my face for both a professional, and a woman's, opinion. Dr. A's German accent came through soft spoken and authoritative at the same time, "I don't think she really needs anymore," he said to Dr. A. "Maybe a little here," Dr. S pointed to right under my eye, "but she's fine without it,' she added.
People are always looking for that, "Ram in the Bush," just like Abraham, me included. For you church goers, everyone knows the story of Abraham and Isaac. As the story goes, God told Abraham to sacrifice his only child Isaac on the altar.
A couple of weeks ago one of the HIV Peer Educator's at my HIV Clinic spotted me in the lobby waiting to see the doctor. She approached me with a BIG smile and just began talking, pointing to her chest went straight to the point.
It was so wonderful to be done with laxatives after the colonoscopy. Surely I hoped that cleaning out my bowels would solve the problem, but it didn't. I didn't start to panic right away. I mean, when I hadn't used the bathroom on Tuesday, I reasoned that my system had been totally cleaned out and I needed time to create some new waste. However, by Thursday when there had only been one drop of poop, I knew that this was going to be a journey. Whatever was causing this madness was not going away easily.
I spotted this picture of Queen Latifah and Eazy-e on Queen Latifah's Instagram and I was excited and sadden all at the same time. It sent me into thinking overload and Lord knows when my mind gets going, I dissect every angle before I'm done. It made me appreciate Queen Latifah even more than I already do, but it also reminded me of the shaming around HIV/AIDS still in 2013.
I had a sleepless night, running back and forth to the bathroom. Sunday, my stomach seemed to have settled down and I took advantage of that reprieve. Bright and early Monday morning, I called the GI doctor. She was totally booked for that week and I went into begging mode. When the doctors PA called me back, I did more pleading and got fitted into a slot in their office 45 minutes from my house. "Oh well, I'll take it," I said! I was in desperate mode. Someone needed to figure out why I couldn't use the bathroom. Laxatives were not the answer.
I set there frozen, unable to think, unable to act. The only part of my body that seemed to be working was my behind. I took a long deep breath and fought back the tears. "You will not cry over this shit. It is what it is," I mumbled to myself.
I didn't panic as the shit began to seep out of my behind in line at Walgreens. I mean, I am the queen of shitting on myself. Like for real, for real. In fact, I've shitted on myself so much over the years with AIDS and have told those stories so many times, that one of my most famous mishaps is the muse for the lead character in actress Sheryl Lee Ralph's one woman show, "Sometimes I Cry: The Lives of Women Infected and Affected by HIV!" Yep, "Ms. Chanel," that's me, shitted on myself in a restaurant, dressed to the nines, in St. John and Chanel, had a melt down, clean my butt with toilet paper and toilet water and waltz out of that bathroom like the Diva I am and finished my dinner.
Enough is enough already! I mean really enough! That first week going into the BlogHer conference I was on a roll with this blogging thing, at least I think I was. Then I tried to get right back in the groove after BlogHer and my health took yet another dive. I had only been off that last round of IV medication for a week.
I always thought that I had porn titties. Not the kind that are super big, but the ones that are round and shapely and lay just that certain way; easy on the eyes so to speak. Even as I've aged, my breasts have been the one body part I prized the most. Well, I do have pretty legs and feet, but my breasts at -- 38D -- whether covered or uncovered, made a point. Then this past December, I had a Mediport placed in my chest, right above my porn titties!