Next Friday, if I don’t get Covid and if my medical team doesn’t get Covid and if the hospital isn’t completely overwhelmed by Covid, I’m going to have a hysterectomy.

All of the pamphlets warn that I might be depressed, because I won’t be able to have children anymore, but aside from the general concern about having a major surgery, I’m elated to lose it.

When I started birth control after my son was born, I told God (I was a believer then) my terms: I would faithfully be on hormonal birth control until I wanted another child. If I got pregnant beforehand, I would have an abortion.

I expected that at some point I would want another. I expected to get married and build a family. Let me be clear, though: I was a kid myself, and I didn’t know myself very well.

A few years on, I knew I did not in fact want another child. Every time I pictured it, I pictured all of the hard parts: the sleeplessness, the not being able to go to the bathroom by myself for a few years, the arguments over pickiness. I love my son, and, even more importantly, I like him, but motherhood as a practice and vocation didn’t appeal to me enough to start over. Many relationships have either not really started or have ended because I won’t budge on this.

I was also afraid that since my son was so great, I couldn’t possibly get another child I liked. Would another child share our humor? Our affinity for reading and learning over sports? Our intellect?

Having another seemed like hubris, tempting the gods to temper my good fortune.

Having been abandoned by my son’s father when I was seventeen, two weeks before I gave birth, I was also wary to have another child unless I wanted one enough to do it completely alone. I didn’t think I would necessarily be abandoned again, but divorces and deaths happen. Now, too, I know that I don’t ever want to live with a partner again.

Being a single mother is really fucking hard, and I have no desire to repeat it.

So I’m thrilled that I don’t have to worry about an accidental pregnancy anymore. Excited that I can tell all the men my age and older who are just now ready to have children, as women their age approach menopause, that I’m not the one for them and that they won’t be able to think they can talk me into letting half their genes take up residence in my womb.

That’s not to say there isn’t sadness, though; it’s just not the kind the pamphlets warn about.

I’m sad when I think about how my one and only pregnancy, birth, and motherhood should have gone.

It should have been planned.

I should have been an adult.

I should have had even one person say, “Congratulations.”

I shouldn’t have wondered where I was going to live as I held him in the hospital.

I should have known more about who I am.

I should have been able to live as an adult for a while without also being someone’s mom.

I should have been able to date for a while without being a single mom. (So many men were jealous of my son and the fact that I’d carried someone’s child.)

I should have been more financially secure.

I should have been more in step with my friends as they were having kids, so we could have gone through this together.

I should have had fewer people assume I’m my boy’s sister, or sometimes now, even worse, his girlfriend.

I won’t be able to have another child at this time next week, but it doesn’t change anything fundamental. I’m still a working single mom; he’s just an adult now.

And I’m still the woman who wants to hold all the babies. Until they’re gross or crying. I’m still the woman who loves my son and my nieces and nephews. Even when they’re gross and crying.

Christmas was quiet and lovely. We had our traditional orange rolls for breakfast and appetizer lunch. (We tried Trader Joe’s Green Bean Casserole bites–we’re not fans.) The boy wanted Lamb Shawarma, so dinner was an easy crock pot creation. For dessert, we had local salted caramel ice cream in waffle bowls.

We watched the first Simpsons Christmas episode, the Christmas Futuramas, three classic Christmas movies, and two early Eddie Izzard specials.

We sat on couches under blankets and cats.

It was perfect.

(Except for how I worried that there was something in my ear for a long time because of weird noises coming from inside. But then the boy got it out–a stray piece of my hair was touching things and driving me mad.)

Right now, I’m half-watching the new Matrix, after rewatching the originals throughout the week. The first was so astounding all those years ago. The technology is of course not new now, and I prefer Matthew Vaughn’s fight scenes to these. I want to love this series, but maybe I’ve read too many boring, formulaic undergrad essays about whether we’re living in a simulation . . . Spotting all the layers of allusions and myths engage me mentally, and the meta-ness of the film I’m sort of listening to while I type might too, but I don’t think the series will ever have my heart.

And I started forbidding “what if we’re living in a simulation” papers last year.

In the last week (plus, since I left a lot out of the last one), I’ve gotten to see many of my closest friends, I’ve gotten a swell heated blanket, gotten a Margaret Atwood stamp from Margaret Atwood, gotten to see the Banksy exhibit, which I have mixed feelings about, have had to shift my pill times around (it went from five to seven and back to five times a day), made my annual Christmas music mix . . .

I forgot three important details about my colonoscopy last time: how I bled all over the blanket before I went under, when the nurse putting in my IV messed up, how three of my nurses were named Julie (which was convenient when I needed to get one of them “hey, Julie, I’m bleeding all over everything”), and how they did a pregnancy test for everyone except me, not even asking if they needed to, even though had a whole month of fertility possibility!

The best thing that’s happened recently, though, is that Paul, my beloved primary is back. When I went to the ER a few weeks ago, there was a message from Paul about it before I even got back home.

My arm is still fucked up, but my throat is healed from the colonoscopy day, and I have good doctors, and I’m typing in the light of a Christmas tree, so I’m very lucky.

I think it’s been three weeks, so there’s lots.

Anne Rice and Bob Dole died. I wrote about Rice’s passing, but not Dole’s, for whom I had a grudging respect. After he lost to Bill Clinton, he let his splendid sense of humor show. It’s rare to find actually funny Republicans, and I cherish them when I do.

I tripped a fell over two weeks ago, ending up in the ER instead of my very last class of the term. My chiropractor keeps taking down the swelling, but it’s really bad. I can’t move it in some ways at all–including to shave. I can only get deodorant on with a lot of painful noises, and I sometimes scream when I change tops or put on a coat. I probably have a tear.

The quarter ended–and the grades got in!

I had facet injections in my back for the first time. I wish they’d numbed me more.

Even one-armed, I simply had to make Christmas cookies. They shall comfort us this very cold and rainy week.

We finally got the Christmas tree up, but it only has the lights on. We’re very tired.

Complicating matters this week is my colonoscopy and endoscopy. Unfortunately, they decided to intubate me, which has hurt my throat and my jaw. It’s severely inflamed the TMJ pain and arthritis on my right side, so it hurts to talk, and eat, and also not to do those things. Happily, the abdominal discomfort seems to be over. Most embarrassing, though, was how I found myself after I woke. While I had forgone fluids for a long time, and emptied my bladder three times at the hospital, I guess the IV fluids I got while waiting had time to work themselves through. I woke up from my anesthesia having wet myself (and then still had to pee when I got home–maybe I’m a camel?); additionally, I started a good heavy period while while under, so I woke up literally a bloody mess.

Still: I am very happy to have had these tests; we’re waiting for the biopsies to come back, but so far, there’s no cause for alarm.

The car is acting up, but since I can’t drive with my shoulder like this, figuring it out will just have to wait.

In the meantime, I’m trying to balance the desire to see my beloved California family with the desire to be safe from the new variant, indulging in excellent TV, like Station 11, Seaside Hotel, The Expanse, and the BBC Ghosts, and working on getting the next issue of Margaret Atwood Studies out.

And there may be some good news. Mohela said my loans were decoupled back in August, but the Department of Education wouldn’t verify it–and for the last many months, they’ve said I owe double what I do: the original amount to Mohela and the same amount, consolidated, to FedLoan. Last week, I finally got a letter from FedLoan saying the consolidated loans were “paid in full.” I guess, since loans never get decoupled, this was the closest notification I was going to get. And then this week, the DOE finally listed the correct loan amount.

So I’ve filled out the PSLF paperwork again and mailed it in.

Fingers crossed!

The strike was cancelled, after the union and the UC came to a 4 a.m. tentative agreement. I’ll be able to finally read the proposed contract this week, but early indications are good. We have secured more protections for junior lecturers, better pay, and the prospect of even more security for old folks like me.

This is incredibly happy news.

Here’s what else is going on:

I had a lovely Thanksgiving with chosen family. I even have leftover turkey from one I didn’t have to cook. So far, I’ve made two kinds of turkey sandwiches and tetrazzini.

Hulu’s The Great is back, and not only does it live up to its name, but one of the women in the last episode I watched had underarm hair. Period pieces with hairless women always distract me. Finally watched Dune: it’s a great first installment. Star Trek Discovery is back, but I need to rewatch the last season before I left myself enjoy it.

After getting some stress-grinding chipped teeth fixed, I picked up a new device from my TMJ dentist. It’s a lower and upper guard attached by a cord. It feels really weird, but it’s supposed to help me breathe better, after we discovered my airway is malformed.

I’m trying to withhold judgement so far and give it a fair chance.

My students did a great comedy show, I got to see another comedian I love introduce her new album, and I saw a depressing piece at the Mondavi center that didn’t really come together. I also made an ass of myself at the Mondavi. When I took off my coat and scarf, I took off my mask too.

I didn’t even realize I’d done it. I’m so thankful the patrons in the room behind me said something.

Atwood’s birthday was also the 10th anniversary of the pepper spray incident. My Atwood seminar spent a lot of time talking about both.

Week 10 starts tomorrow. I have a lot of little medical procedures in December, and I need to get the next Atwood journal, which promises to be the longest, out. I have to fight with the Department of Education, which STILL is saying I owe double what I do–the coupled loans are still showing up, although they were decoupled months ago. Something appears to be wrong with my car.

But I don’t have to start prepping courses for January, so the rest of the weight doesn’t feel so heavy.

I’m really tired today: there’s some extended family b.s. that’s draining energy and making it hard to sleep.

But I’m still determined to get my wrap up out today, since it’s been a while since I’ve done one.

Last weekend, I was at a conference in Wisconsin. However, my brain was convinced I was going to be in Minneapolis rather than Milwaukee, so that’s where I’d told everyone I’d be.

I was very relieved when a Milwaukeean at the conference told me she’d spent months telling everyone she was moving to Minneapolis by mistake, prior to her Wisconsin move.

The conference wasn’t well attended (we were all surprised they did it in person at all), but I got to see my beloved Tiffany and company and Denise and Jade.

Tiffany spoiled me, while Ben had to fight the kids to get to spend a few moments talking sci and sci-fi with me. I’m such a beloved aunt that Lucy got to stay home from school. Jack’s review of me (to Tiffany): “She’s really funny. And very quick-witted. I can see why you like her–her humor is perfect.” Tiffany’s mom went out of her way to get me an apple pie in a paper bag.

I didn’t know what that was.

But after tasting it, I had to get one to put in my suitcase. It’s in the freezer, waiting to be my end-of-quarter treat.

Du and Jade had lots of good food and drink with me too. While Du and I were in Wisconsin, I tried many things I hadn’t had before. Although I didn’t like the Wisconsin take on an old fashioned, with brandy, I do see the appeal of fried cheese curds.

Denise thought I wouldn’t be prepared for Northern weather, so she brought an “undercoat” for me. It turned out to be warmer than we all expected, so I used it as an outercoat. While she said what I was doing was akin to wearing my bra on the outside of my shirt, the midwesterners were kind enough not to mention it or stare.

Since returning home, I’ve gotten my flu shot. I’ve done a lot of mentoring: three hours on Veteran’s Day alone. I went to the Mondavi center for the first time in two years, and tonight I’m heading into Sacramento to see Keith Lowell Jensen at the Punchline.

After years of b.s. from the UC system, it looks like we’re striking this Wednesday and Thursday, so I’m preparing for the picket line!

When I had my first back surgery, 20 years ago, I was back at work in just six days. This was a bad idea, but I wasn’t going to get paid otherwise.

When I had an emergency surgery a few years ago, to remove my gallbladder, my students sent me angry emails because I missed that week. I had arranged for subs–the students were on track, but I was being selfish, you see, not to be there myself.

In January, I’m going to have my hysterectomy. The recovery will be 2-4 weeks, and I’m going to use a quarter of Paid Medical Leave so I don’t have to worry about students and subs and pressuring myself to go back too early. Leave has just been approved.

This week has been busy. The Atwood conference was amazing, and my presentation went well. I’m disappointed that I didn’t get to go to Germany and have meals with my fellow conference participants, but it was the best Zoom conference it possibly could have been.

My SCC online class started in the middle of the week. Several students haven’t logged on yet. And I’m having trouble communicating with some of them–my emails and my Canvas messages / announcements are going to spam. Canvas announcements are going to my spam too.

The misplaced messages aren’t the only problems, though. Many students who did get my emails failed to read them properly. I told all the waitlisted students to ask me for a PTA if they wanted to join, only to have a bunch of them respond to that email by asking . . . how they could join.

Sigh.

I got to help give one of my students her award for being published in Prized Writing, which was wonderful.

But my body had to bring some bad news this week, too. This is part of a conversation with my dentist, from my cleaning:

Dentist: So you’re still grinding.

Me: Yup. At night. The other dentist hasn’t given me the new appliance to stop it yet.

Dentist: Well, it seems you’ve ground off two fillings. We’ll have to replace those.

I didn’t get my wrap up up last week, cause my back wouldn’t let me. Monday before last, it wouldn’t let me get something out of the fridge. I ignored my son’s advice and went to school anyway, though I had him drive me, since I was physically unable to. It hurt an immense amount, and my heart was working too hard to handle the pain, according to my fitbit, but I made it through my classes without falling down.

The boy picked me up and took me straight to the chiropractor, but the pain was so bad that I threw up, cutting my treatment short.

The boy now has my permission to keep me home when I can’t walk by reminding me of the shame I felt throwing up during treatment.

Classes were online the next two days. I got a shot of toradol and a massage and started to re-enter the world of the walkers.

I was supposed to be at the pain clinic this last Monday to talk about my neck, because its pain has been nauseating lately, but of course we focused on my back instead. I’ve had an x-ray. We’re going to do another MRI, then facet injections. And we’re going to try trigger point injections on my neck too.

So that’s this Fall.

Which works, because I can’t have my hysterectomy until January anyways. How will I cope with weeks to a month of recovery in Winter quarter? I’m working that out: stay tuned.

My shot nurses weren’t available to give my asthma drug injections this week, so the allergy doctor had to do it. Thus, it took three times as long, and I had to talk her through a lot of it. “It says you only get half of this third vial. Do I just start injecting and stop halfway through?”

No.

I ran into my old shot nurse while I was there. She’s retired now and confessed that she watches tv news all day. I can guess which station, based on her complaints about how America isn’t the same anymore, about the refugees sweeping the border, about how socialized medicine will kill us all . . .

When I told her I had a great experience with European health care, she pushed back. Didn’t I have to wait for treatment? I haven’t had to there, actually. I reminded her that, here, it took me 8 months to see a migraine specialist for a problem that kept sending me to the ER and that I was having to wait 5 months for my hysterectomy.

She said I was the only person who had ever praised non-American care.

So maybe there’s hope, if she ever gets out of her bubble. I hope so. I really liked her.

In other news, I had an intense erotic dream about one of my colleagues. It’s not the product of a crush; I miss sex since I’m not dating, and my body is starting to go a little crazy.

What I most want to do is to write up a description of the dream, with pictures, to show my colleague how weird it was. But my sexual harassment training indicates that would be a bad idea.

Plus, I’m not much of an artist, and I would be disappointed if my stick figures couldn’t capture the soft but burning passion we shared.

This week is going to kick my ass. My fifth class is starting, and the SCC students always need a lot of hand-holding in the beginning. I have a bunch of medical appointments, my neighbor pays video games all through the night very loudly, I’m dehydrated from not being able to drink while I teach, this is the week we score the Upper Division Comp Exam, and the first all-Atwood conference is this week. I’m doing an introduction, chairing a panel, and delivering a keynote. All of the Atwood stuff is very early in the morning, since the conference is being coordinated virtually from Germany.

Blessed be the fruit.

Summer session ended, and fall session started, and it felt like there was nothing in between, though I did take last weekend off from school work, and I took myself out to a movie (Free Guy is charming as fuck).

Maybe due to the chaos of students moving in, I had weird problems with my Safeway order. I almost didn’t get it. And then almost got it twice. And when it finally arrived, the delivery guy was confused that a white lady answered the door. Karma is a Nepalese name, he explained. Dude, I know.

It’s weird being back on campus, but luckily, I’ve only had to remind one student to put back on his mask. And even though he rolled his eyes, he did it. (It was a random student in the library, not in my class.)

My head has been absolutely killing me the last two months–I wake up in the middle of the night because of it, get waves of nausea from the pain. I was supposed to have an appointment with my pain clinic RN, but she was sick this week, so I have to wait a little longer to be told there’s nothing they can do since the injections don’t work on me and since I won’t let them do another nerve burn (it increased the pain last time, which they assure me was a fluke). But something has to give.

The boy’s car is in the shop; we’re hoping it just needs a new battery or alternator.

My uterine scraping came back normal, which means we can go ahead with the hysterectomy, but I can’t get one scheduled until the middle of January. I would be unable to physically teach for at least a week, possibly more. So I have to figure out how to handle that as the Winter quarter rushes past.

Since I had initially thought I would be able to do the surgery in December, I have most of my Christmas presents ordered already. (It’s much easier to prep for surgery recovery over Christmas than during a quarter.)

I got started on a brand-new Atwood quarterly newsletter.

The absolute best thing about these last couple of weeks, though, is that our stand-up club got to have its first in-person show in a year and a half. I added a new tag to one of my jokes that I’d only thought up that afternoon, and it got my biggest laugh.

That’s one of my favorite things about stand-up. Each show, even if you’re doing the same basic routine, is a little different and surprising.

School starts tomorrow, and I’m exhausted, and I’m beating myself up for not getting more done this summer.

Like most people, I have unrealistic expectations about what I can get done on my “breaks,” made all the more unrealistic by the fact that I don’t really have “breaks.”

This summer, I had two weeks, one on each end, in which I didn’t have classes running, but of course those weeks were spent grading the past classes’ finals and preparing for the classes to come.

I didn’t mend all the ripped clothing. I didn’t shrink my New Yorker pile. I didn’t clean out my closets. I didn’t go through the stack of old notebooks on my desk. I didn’t get into the hammock more than a couple of times. I didn’t do my yoga very often . . .

Today, I need to celebrate what I DID do this summer.

I spent my birthday week with Vanessa.

I gave detailed, exceptionally fast feedback to all student assignments.

I taught three courses.

I prepped my fall courses–the first three weeks are ready to go on Canvas.

I spent an afternoon at the beach.

I kept up with sending postcards and bday presents to my friends.

I paid my bills.

I took a long walk almost every day.

I did my physical therapy every week.

I dealt with uterine problem and its associated tests.

I edited part of the next edition of Margaret Atwood Studies.

I kept up with my union’s efforts.

I voted to save California from Larry Elder.

I mentored.

I tried at least one new recipe each week and kept my household fed.

I saw the Van Gogh exhibit.

I did get some reading and viewing done.

I dealt with my frustrating specialty dentist’s office.

I laughed.

I cuddled my kittens.

I started thinking about what some of you are getting for Christmas.

I met my out-of-pocket maximum for my insurance plan and started the long fight to get them to tell my providers that.

I served on two university committees.

I survived one of the most stressful periods in my whole life–and while I’m still not sure how the Department of Education debacle will turn out, I’m in a better place than I was before.

My brain is trying to convince itself that I’ll get the other stuff done in December, on another “break,” when I’ll be coming off a five-course quarter, getting ready for the next quarter, in which I’ll have an intensive surgery, and getting the Atwood journal out.

Here’s my goal between now and then: to convince my brain that my goal for breaks should actually be taking a break.