Losing Control

My meditation in discovering my own practice of self care is focused this week on control. After making lists last night about the the possibility of change (and the pros and cons of each decision), I was invited to explore an opportunity in my own life in which I could acknowledge a situation in which I was not in control. A committee meeting seemed like a good suggestion -- though I don't have one until Thursday. I wasn't sure what opportunity would allow me to meditate on control -- until I found myself in tears in my car only 30 minutes ago.

I can't control this. I really can't. I know I can't. I have to let this be in God's hands because there is absolutely nothing that I can do about it. But O Jesus, could you allow me to take care of my body without getting the third degree of why I need to have this done?

She's only 28. This was what the technician said to my new Advocate at the Medical Center. She rose to the occasion when I last felt defeated. She was there again. Thank you for this saint, God.

And yet, God, I'd really like some explanation about why I need to go through the wringer on this every time I try to care for myself. My tone is not gentle. I'm not nice about this. I just want to get this stupid mammogram over with so that I don't have to worry about it again for another year. But, no, I'm not in control. Clearly, I'm not in control. Former Medical Center never sent the films of my last mammogram -- so I was made to feel like a drug addict demanding something I didn't need. They don't want to do the procedure until they can compare it with the old films. It's for the best care, I'm assured. They want to know if a mammogram is really the right action for me to best care for myself.

And yet, I wonder why this couldn't have been solved before I went to the Medical Center. If this was a question, couldn't you confirm? Couldn't you demand these forms yourself when clearly my request didn't suffice? Did this have to wait until today when I'm sitting in the oversized gown with my breasts practically exposed? And is it really necessary for you to speak down to me when I look upset? Is it really so shocking to you that I look like I'm near tears? All I want is to get this done. All I want is to release control of this.

O God, why can't I just let this go? Why can't it be taken care of for me? Why do I feel responsible? I just don't want to fucking deal with this. I want my fantastic advocate to take care of all of these ridiculous details so that I don't control them anymore. I want someone else to have this because I can't take it. This is not worth my would-be shiny new pair of big girl underpants.