On Selfishness

My cousin is getting married in 6 hours.  The rest of the bridesmaids are getting their hair and make-up done and I'm snuggled in bed, elevating the lower half of my body and mentally preparing for the walk down the aisle, the 30-odd minutes of standing in front of a congregation and the reception to follow.  It goes against my nature to say no, especially to family.

  In the last couple of days I've had to say no.  No, to my cousin's daughter who wanted to play our old (physically draining) games.  No, to the girls at the bachelorette party when I turned down drinks and spending New Year's Eve partying on the town.  No, to standing up through the rehearsal and going to get made up by professionals.  Instead, I'm saving spoons, rationing out energy so I can sparkle through the ceremony and reception.   It is far from easy.  I cry, not because I wish I could do all of those things and know I ought to rest instead, but because I am, at my deepest core, a people-pleaser, or at least a family-pleaser.  I wish I could save my family the heartache of watching my body slowly deteriorate, of watching me stagger like a drunk because, despite the excess fluid chilling out around my ankles,  I'm dehydrated and dizzy.    But I can't.  Because this is who I am, at least for now.  

  It feel selfish to take care of myself instead of sitting at the salon with my cousin, teasing her and calming her nerves.  I just have to constantly remind myself that it would be far more selfish to ruin the wedding by a display of weakness that could have been easily avoided if only I had rested, doing my own hair and makeup in a fraction of the time and spending the other hours calmly preparing myself.   Selfishly, I'll show up, sing my song,  do the bridesmaid bit,  kiss my cousin's cheek as she heads off for her honeymoon, hold nothing back once I begin, and then return to California to start treatment.