Sing a song of sea salps,
A sponge in a bow tie,
With teeming pod and salty herd
And inky compound eye.

All copopods a-coping,
And mola crowned sun king,
Now isn’t that the anglerfish
Aglow in bathtub gin?

The squid in his best silver blouse
Untangling bun-gee,
Ann’s spleen is dubbed the commodore
Cause that joke’s still fun-ny!

The sting rays dance with marlin
In turbid do-si-dos,
And whaley songs, now badly slurred
Bring party to a close.

This morning I thought I was going to finally sift a rational diagnosis from the pile of symptoms that have dogged me for the past few years. I have been in this spot before, a half dozen times now – thisclose. Sitting in the waiting room, with my fattening medical file, waiting for my turn and reviewing in my mind how I can most efficiently and clearly recap everything I know about my own body.

An hour later I was in tears. Fat crocodile tears that dropped onto my shirt, leaving big splashes. Concerned looks from the office staff. Tissues offered and apologies applied.

I’m tired of this malarkey, and I’m sad for all the other people in the waiting rooms too. I often check with my husband to tell me if I’m being mean to office staff, but sometimes politeness is trumped by a need to make myself heard. I rely on him to not let me become too much of a jerk.

I’m tired. Of mishaps, mixups and filing errors. I’m tired of no eye contact and a laissez faire exam room policy. I’m tired of being handled as a suspicious person for speaking the word “chronic” next to the word “pain”. I’m tired of full spectrum drug tests without consent. I’m tired of mansplaining. I’m tired of making myself small so as not to offend. I’m tired of waiting my turn while the drug rep finishes their meeting. I’m tired of the money falling from my pockets.

I’m tired of knowing, KNOWING, from my own Dad and brother and my old PCP, Dr. Patel, what its like to have a doctor collaborate with you, and knowing – KNOWING! – that type of care doesn’t exist for so many people. Including me, today.

Yes, I checked about the Mayo Clinic, and no, they do not accept my insurance.

[sad-face emoji] <- too tired to insert

A mandala is a spiritual and ritual symbol, representing the universe. The basic form of most mandalas is a square with four gates containing a circle with a center point.

Its a motif that I recognize from yoga and meditation practice, but have returned to as an aspect of “untetheredness”.  These snapshots are meant to be sent, lost, found, eaten, or otherwise made ephemeral. In any case, they are to be breathed in, a vehicle for arriving to the moment. Then I say, “thank you, mandala” and it is time to go. It’s a practice of mandala-to-go.

Carl Jung used mandalas as an art therapy to help focus a chaotic mind, a preparation for other types of work. They also help me in this way, to busy the hands into little lightning rods until the storm passes.

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UPDATE 1/6/16: Revisiting this post because its just perfect for this.