Dearest ME.

I read a magazine article yesterday that urged us to "Get in touch with your inner self." That lead me to thinking less abstractly and more concretely about our "inner selves." I decided it was time for me to do just that. Here is what I came up with:

Dear Pancreas,

We've been together now for 52 years, and most of those years were wonderful. I remember when we first started out, young and in love. I would drink my formula and eat my Gerber's cereal, and you would do your part by delivering all the insulin a metabolic system would want. It was like we knew what each other needed and we lived only to serve each other. It was a beautiful thing. What happened to us? How did things go so wrong? I know diabetes is genetic, my father had it. Must biology be destiny? I swore I'd be nothing like him, but look how history repeats itself. I hate that it has to be this way, but sometimes you have to look out for yourself. You might not like it, but if sticking needles into myself daily or taking Metformin is what I need to do to hold this volatile, pancreatic relationship together, then you are just going to have to deal with it. You failed ME, remember. Not the other way around.


Dear Brain,

I'm taking time today to talk to my inner self, and you are top of mind, bad pun intended. I'd like to thank you for all the years of somewhat reliable service you've given me. It wasn't always smooth sailing with you, but we worked it out. Those seizures you sent my way in my 20's were problematic, but I only bit my tongue once and it was in my sleep, so I don't think my tongue even knew about it. I know the anti-seizure meds were hard on you, but you got through it. Never mind that Dilantin and Tegretol slowed you down to the point where people I met considered me a pleasant idiot. I'm better now, the quick wit is back, and if pushed, I can calculate Pi to the 33rd digit. Now that I think about it, you could have been a bit more forthcoming in high school also, I really could have used some scholarship money. However, you kicked into gear in university and I appreciate that. I never did mind altering drugs in my youth, but I'm not ruling it out for when I retire. Don't take that as a threat, I"m just sayin'.


Dearest Liver:

I don't deserve you, I know that. You are the best thing that ever happened to me and yet, I abuse you. Lemon drop martinis, bathtubs full of gin, American beer -- the abuse is endless. Still, despite this, you stay. "Love means never having to say you're sorry." I don't believe that, so I'm here to say, "Liver, I'm sorry, please forgive me, I know not what I've done." Don't miss my point here, it doesn't mean I'm going to change, I'm just apologizing for past and future behavior. When our days on earth are over, dearest liver, I plan to be cremated and then you will get your chance to really "shine" because I seriously doubt that frickin' flame will ever burn out.

Dear Bladder:

You are probably my favorite organ. You never complained when I drank till overflowing in the farmer's fields of Prince Edward Island. You never once leaked, as I traveled the world refusing to use airplane bathrooms because I'm a freak. 17-18 hour flights and not a peep out of you. Did I ever tell you how much I appreciated that you and my kidneys had such a great relationship. I may have not said the words, but I really did love that you worked so well together. All those years working in the photo studio where I refused to use their stinky bathroom, but waited until I got home. Did you ever once punish me for that? No, never. Now that I'm a snaggle toothed old hag, my friends tell me about their misbehaving bladders, and I feel so superior. I can sneeze and laugh all I want, and know that you are there for me. Thank you. Words are not enough.

Hey. Feet:

Fuck you. I never liked you. You were always way to big and wide and you disgust me still. My mother always said, "Oh Suzy, you'll grow into them, stop complaining." Well, she was WRONG. I tried putting on a pair of Jimmy Choo stilettos once, and I looked like Dustin Hoffman in "Tootsie." My drag queen friends look better in heels than I do, so go straight to hell, FEET, do not pass "Go", do not collect $200. By the way, that foot surgery I had two years ago? That was just a taste of what I can do to you if you make me. DARE to give me bunions and see what will happen. I'm not a vindictive person, but I can only be pushed so far. Don't say I haven't warned you.

Dear Butt:

You've always been my favorite body part, I don't know why. Perhaps it is because I love sitting on you, you are comfortable to be around, like a comfortable, fluffy pillow. As a young girl, I played hockey and skated and that is probably what turned you into such a well rounded butt, so to speak. My brother always said you were so hard that "you could crack an egg on it." I hope you don't mind that I call you a "butt" now. I know that growing up in Canada, you preferred to be called a "bum", but that means something different here, and "when in Rome" -- well. You know.

Dear Hair:

I don't know what to say about you. We've always had such a conflicted love/hate thing going on. I curled up and dyed for you. I permed you, I straightened you, I bobbed you. I've given you highlights, lowlights, gloss treatments, deep oil conditioners. All I ever wanted was to grow enough hair to make a ponytail. I would have felt like a real girl then, like the ones in high school who could just pull their hair back and stick a ribbon on it. Or the ones I see jogging on the beach with their ponytail sticking out of the hole in the back of the baseball cap. The kind of ponytail that would swish as you move. I wanted that but you never gave it to me. I tried. I tried so hard to grow you, but you wouldn't let me. I always ended up so frustrated and looking like I tried to fix the toaster or had stuck my finger in a light socket. I could never get you started in the morning, so I cut you short. Damn you. I hope you feel good about that. I'll never be a "real girl" now. Oh I try to compensate. I buy clothing with sparkly crystals all over it, but that is a facade. I wear adorable shoes, hoping people will overlook the fact that I have man feet. I drink Girl Drinks with cutesy umbrellas and sugar on the rim (sorry pancreas, my bad), but still, I have short hair because YOU won't grow fast enough. At 52 years old, I have come to grips with the fact that the only way I will ever truly be a girly girl with a pony tail is if I get hair extensions. I live in Orange County, fercryin'outloud, the hair extension capital of the world, what am I waiting for? I have this conversation with myself way too often, there has to be some resolution here. For now, I guess I'll just choose to be grateful to have hair at all. Oh, and by the way, hair? It could be much worse. You could belong to Lady Gaga or Britney Spears.

Sue