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| Illustration from Skincancer.net |
I got the biggest blisters on my hands and on the top of my nose. Good thing it wasn't date night. I knew I shouldn't have done it but I popped a few of them. They were ballooning and just asking for it. I left one alone. Guess what? The one that I left alone healed faster. I also wrote one about the problem of skin picking.
The other night I had a nightmare that conjoined some of my trauma and anxiety. Also I realized that something from the news had seeped in.
I dreamt that I was in a bed in a hospital room where relatives were sitting. My doctor said he was going to stick a needle in me and do a major procedure. I would go under. If I came out on the other side, I would be healed. But I might not make it through the night. He said someone should stay with me all night. But then my bed was in the hall and I didn't know where people would sit. Analysis: Stem cell transplant, coma, touch-and-go night when they really weren't sure I would make it. And the thing about the bed in the hall: those melodramatic ads against Question 1, the nurse-patient limits, which featured patients perishing in the hall because nurses had been pulled off to meet requirements in other places. (It failed.)
In another part of the night, I dreamt I forgot my tennis racquet and had to play with something that had a little handle and a brush at the end. I tried to do it but then realized I couldn't possibly hold onto it. The scene cut to a match. My opponent was bouncing around. She looked pretty good. I said I realized I couldn't play with the racquet. Then I realized mine was in the car. She said to go ahead and get it. I said but then I would be late to the match and she said it was OK, we could start and one-all, and she wasn't good for more than one set anyway.
I ran out to get my racquet but then realized my keys were locked in a room. Then I couldn't remember exactly where the room was. Oy.
I was still in transit when I woke up. I guess the good news was that my opponent was being nice about it.
I also wrote a piece about PTSD but it hasn't been published yet. When I did a little research, I found a story that stated many cancer survivors suffer from PTSD.
The National Cancer Institute calls it Post Traumatic Stress, or PTS. Apparently it is not as severe but it can rear its head at any time. Such as in nightmares that go back to the time of crisis.
After that nightmare I woke up feeling blue. I don't know why the saying is "feeling blue." Blue is one of my favorite colors. It should be "feeling gray."
In any case there was nothing much to do about it except to go on with my day.
