The Martini Shot

This is "movie lingo" for the last shot of a movie. Since this will also be "Take 2" of my prep for gall bladder surgery, I am also hoping it's the Martini shot, because 1.) I can't deal with another week of dread 2.) I can't really afford another day of time off, and 3.) with my mother approaching NYC via Greyhound Bus, something with the word "Martini" would definitely be appropriate.

I just realized that might make my mom sound like a raging alcoholic. She's not.

Actually, my mom is in a good place these days. Her life has sucked for, oh, the past 37 years. It's nice to see her finally get a chance to pull up her boot straps (what exactly are boot straps?), and plunge herself into a career about which she knows a lot and can finally earn good money doing. This brings me to the tremendous rating I gave my weekend yesterday.

In one way, my weekend totally sucked because I had PMS and I was unaccountably bitchy. And the hangover and lack of sleep didn't help. Even when it was apparent that this Miracle Job dropped down from the very hands of the Baby Jesus was actually going to pan out for my mom, my hormones prevented me from mustering any more than just moderate excitement.

I was almost there when she started taking calls from people understandably curious about the outcome of her interview, which broke up our conversation about the same topic. But I was dragged back to my childhood when dinners and conversations and together time would be interrupted by and usurped in favor of The Phone and I got pissed off. My mom has an addiction to talking on the phone. It's always been a sore spot in my household. But that is neither here nor there.

Suffice it to say, I recognized I would only make her miserable and had her drop me off at the station very early in the day on Sunday. I was relieved to be going back so she wouldn't have to deal with my miserable ass. Armed with Aquafina, Cheez-its, and a package of TastyKake Kandy Kakes, I set off on the arduous (but much cheaper this way) journey back to New York.

It was when I was waiting on the tracks at Trenton Station for my train to New York that it happened.

I realized that with my mom now somewhat surely headed toward the financial security I had always hoped for her, and my recent realizations that no matter what I do or don't do, no matter where I am or am not, she will always be who she is and whatever influence I try to exert is usually bypassed in favor of what she wants to do anyway...that I am finally free.

These past several weeks I have been slowly coming to the realization that my proximity to my mother, though comforting for the both of us, is no longer an absolute necessity. I cannot control her or the outcome of her decisions. I cannot improve her life if she doesn't want to improve it herself. I cannot drag her out of her depression any more than she can drag me out of mine. I can only know that if she knew I felt this way; if she knew that I felt tied down or forced to remain in a place that makes me unhappy and ignore my compulsion to move on, she would be devastated. And so I had been coming to terms with the fact that I might not be as limited in terms of my options as I had once thought.

And really, that's what a lot of my unhappiness has been about. I love New York. I don't necessarily want to leave here. But when I thought this was it for me...that it would have to be this or nothing because I just couldn't leave my mom...the lack of options was slowly killing me.

This surgery, though simple and common, is going to be a real turning point for me. I feel like having this rotten organ removed from my body will eliminate the last vestiges of who I am right now and propel me toward who I am supposed to be. Knowing that I will finally have the mobility to pursue that goal has done wonders for my mood and for my personal outlook. I can visualize things for myself now that I would never have imagined before. And before you misunderstand, I have to stress that it's not about moving. It's about moving on and realizing the potential of mobility.

When I drift off into the blissful, black sleep of anesthesia, I hope to to return alive (of course) and awake. Finally.