It turns out being sick for a long time can turn any daydreamer into a scientist. I can't go to school, so instead I just stay home and catalogue data. That's what scientists do, right? Catalogue data? That's what I think scientists do. (I'm still a little bitter at SCIENCE for dropping my ACT score. I mean, really. What an ass.)
My days become lists of questions. Questions become my life:
Did I drink enough Gatorade today?
How is my complexion?
Did I take any breaks from the heating pad?
Have I eaten?
Am I well enough to pick up the kids?
What's my weight?
No. Pale. No. No. Yes. Up point five pounds...these words compose my new monosyllabic existence. And that complex inner life, where I have visions of least plausible solutions at least six times before breakfast? Death by fatigue.
The J. Dub who has opinions about politics? Buried in malaise.
Passion? Ambition? Devotion? Activity? They drown in seas of that greatest monosyllable: Pain.
I've lost 18 pounds since the end of January. [Actually, SEVENTEEN POINT FIVE POUNDS, thankyouverymuch.] It's not like I didn't need to lose weight. I needed to lose about 50 pounds, actually. If I had given a damn about those 50 pounds, I'd be a size 8 again. But I don't give a damn. Not really. Sure, I have insecure days (thanks for that, bank girls), but mostly I'm happy to be young and energetic and absent the inconvenience of unwanted male attention. Yes, yes, I know now it wasn't a necessary choice, but when I was seventeen and riding in a car with a boy I liked who articulated the mind body split better than any feminist could--I chose brains over beauty. [So somewhere in the world, nine years ago, Phyllis Schlafly felt a happy tingle at the base of her spine because another burgeoning Feminist left the good men to the proper young ladies.]
Today I decided I wanted a bacon cheeseburger, because my appetite has begun to return, and damn it, everything I eat hurts like hell anyway...so why not do it right? I got out from under my heating pad and took a shower, found clothes that almost fit, and got in my car. BACON CHEESEBURGER became my mantra while performing these tasks. But as I sat there in the car, catching my breath and imagining my lips around that delicious hunk of burning fat, I became immediately nauseated. I thought, The Nausea is not inside me: I feel it out there in the wall...then I cried. Then I drove to the automatic carwash, got pissed off again and cried some more. Then my grandma called and I drove to her house. I ate half a dry belgian waffle without throwing it up. I felt almost okay for an hour. I listened to my grandparents use the word "Teabagger" and wondered for the billionth time if they knew what it meant.
When it was time to leave, my grandmother left the room to retrieve something she'd gotten for my husband. My grandad stood in front of me and said, "You know what would help you? You need to feel better about who you are and what you do."
"Normally, I feel great about who I am and what I do. It's hard when you can't do anything."
"Well...listen...." he looks at his feet, "I know, because that lady in there tells me, that how I feel doesn't always come across--but I want you to know that I couldn't be more happy about who you are and what you do. I'm proud of you, kid. You're my favorite."
I laughed, hugged him, and said, "Oh Dondy, you shouldn't say that. Everyone knows J. Bologna is your favorite."
Perhaps neither one of us is the sensitive type. We've got more practice at sarcasm.
As I drove home and let that conversation seep into my skull, I realized how much I've lost in addition to that 17.5 pounds. So much of who I am is what I do: get perfect grades, raise perfect kids, maintain beautiful relationships, volunteer, give, acheive. Do. Now that I'm not able to do, I find it hard to be. This is a metaphysical manifestation of prolonged sickness that I could not have imagined. I cannot be: Independent. Proud. Stubborn. And those adjectives weigh more than 18 pounds. I feel their loss. I feel like I really am wasting away.
I became Who I Am when I could answer The Question my least favorite ex-boyfriend, Pasta Strainer, was obsessed with: "What the hell are you supposed to be?" It stuck with me. It became part of my internal discourse. After digesting it for years, I found my answer was, "I'm Jessica Weisenberg, who the cuss are you?" That answer changed my life. But now that I'm not exactly Jessica Weisenberg, now that I'm Jessica On The Couch With The Heating Pad, how do I answer The Question?
I don't.
I catalogue in monosyllables. I wish I could sleep. I crank that heating pad up a notch. And I have the people who love me to remind me that sometimes, it doesn't matter who I am or what I do. Sometimes it's enough to remember that someone in the world believes there's nothing I can't do.
So, I've decided to stop crying in anger and start kicking The Disease in the ass. I'm Jessica freaking Weisenberg, Disease. Who the frak are you?
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