I typed a whole post. It was really good. But the internest hates me. So I'm replacing it with a crappy post. Sorry guys.
First, let's get caught up...
June:
Pancreatitis. (It's the most painful thing ever. No...really, ask your doctor.)
Mother Bitch of All Urinary Tract Infections. (Took six bags of IV antibiotics and three oral doses of anti-Bs to kill the Bitch.)
Seriously devastating Ulcerative Colitis flare.
An additional twenty pounds of weight loss, bringing my total weight loss since the end of January to almost 60 pounds.
A month in bed.
Serious muscle atrophy.
Crippling depression.
Problems in my personal life that I don't want to talk about. Ever.
July:
Got out of bed.
Got myself an antidepressant.
Got myself some awesome insomnia as a side effect.
Got sore walking around my house.
Getting stronger everyday.
I hate my new New Edgar Suit even worse than my old New Edgar Suit. I have batwings, which is not as cool as it sounds. Put me in a knee length belted black dress and I feel pretty good about my body. The rest of the time, I am miserably self conscious.
My pancreas still feels like it went a couple of rounds with George Foreman, Sr. AND his grill. This is what happens when an organ tries to dissolve itself in acid.
My Ulcerative Colitis is in remission, for the first time ever.
Because of the remission, despite the residual pancreatic pain and lack of physical strength, my body feels better than it has in half a year.
Some stuff about feelings:
It's easy to forget, when someone strong becomes weak, that eventually they will gain their strength back. This is why you must always double tap zombies. After they aren't stunned anymore, they'll be stronger than you again and then they'll eat your effing brains. That's what zombies do with their strength. They eat brains. I don't eat brains. I'm only allowed 25 grams of fat a day (which, if you didn't know, is about 1/4 of a cheeseburger) and I'm afraid most of the people in the world have big lumps of fat for brains. I'd be back in the hospital if I ate brains. Here's what I do with my strength: I hold up the sky.
I know this about myself, because as I was writhing in pain, too weak to even stand on my own, watching my body and resolve melt away, my entire life came crumbling down on top of my sick bed. I was too weak to stop it or move out of the way when it happened. I just laid still and let it crush me. There wasn't anything else I could do. I have never been so helpless as I was in the month of June. So those who loved me helped me until they couldn't anymore. Those who were selfish helped themselves and could not see how hard I was trying. Because, you see, it's easy to forget, when someone strong becomes weak, that eventually they will gain their strength back. I did not forget. I remembered, even at my weakest points, that strength is not ever-lasting, but it is regenerative. I am strong again. And again, I am holding up the sky. This is my job, you see. I am the Atlas of my own world. I have been since I was old enough to Know.
What I learned through this horrific, ridiculous summer is that there is no place in physical illness or ensuing depression for forgetting that the only place of refuge you can always depend on is the fortress you build for yourself. When the sky falls on your head, you can either be a Titan or Chicken Little. I know, it sounds like some goddamn Chicken Soup for the Soul bullshit, but it's true. There is no hero but you. There are no search and rescue teams to dig you out of the rubble. No one will save you but yourself. If you're really lucky, like I am, you'll find there are people in your life who can soothe you when you stagger under the weight of things. Maybe they'll bring you flowers or apple slices when you are sick. But you must always remember: They cannot bear your load for you. If you have a sky to hold up--and not everyone does, because not everyone is strong enough--then you have to use your own strength. Keep that in mind, people. Someday, it might save your life.
Showing posts with label Feelings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Feelings. Show all posts
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
What Not to Say
When you face something...let's just say, "heavy" in your life, the worst thing for you is the additional pressure of dealing with the sweeping insensitivity and ignorance of other people. This is a precarious situation, because probably the best thing for you is to talk about your issue. I, for example, take the direct approach in dealing with my affairs. Granted, I had already lost 15 pounds and missed lots of school before I mentioned that I was sick to anyone outside of my immediate family. So, maybe I should say: "I take the direct approach when the indirect approach fails to provide adequate explanation for obvious cause-effect relationships." Point is: there's not a lick of sense in trying to hide a disease you can't hide--but, when you coax that devil out into the light and other people begin to see it, you expose yourself too.
What you need to read BEFORE you read the lists:
I have an uncommonly AMAZING support system. I am grateful every day for every kindness shown to me. These lists, I hope, do not reflect any kind of ungratefulness or bitterness. Also, be aware that I'm blessed with a certain mental fortitude and sense of determination that not everyone possesses. I can handle anything you say to me, really. If I love you, I'll call you out on it. If I like you, I'll find a way to shut you up. If I don't like you...well that's a non-issue because I don't associate with people I don't like. I've got...what did they call it at the bank? Huge balls. So, while you're in danger of hurting my feelings, you'd probably never know if you did, and I promise, I bounce back really quickly. I hope what follows is funny, and that it helps everyone with the huge learning curve any chronic diagnosis imposes.
WE, THE DISEASED, SHOULD:
1. Realize most folks mean well. Just like I have my very own personal dealing-with-shit style, everyone else in my life does too. They have a right to their coping mechanisms, just like I do.
2. Take everything with a grain of salt. The people we know who think they have vast medical knowledge because of their access to Google? Yeah, they're not doctors. Wikipedia doesn't know more than your doctor. Unless your doctor is a moron. Neither of mine are.
3. Not think people can or should understand how we feel. Even if they were doctors, they still wouldn't have the transactional experience you have with your own body. Any doc worth his fee will be the first to admit this.
4. Not be mean. Even when we really, really want to.
5. Politely change the subject if someone hits a sore spot.
6. Not take everything personally. For example: if you are significantly overweight (ahem) and your illness causes you to suffer rapid weight loss, when people make jokes about wanting your illness (and oh, they will), don't punch them in the throat. Laugh at them. Laugh long and hard. Because obviously, they're completely insane. However, if similar people mention that they bet you're happy about the weight loss, do punch them in the throat. They deserve it. You can laugh afterward.
THOSE WHO KNOW SOMEONE WHO IS ILL SHOULD:
1. Understand that any and all well wishes are welcome. Your honest concern can make a lot of difference in the quality of a day.
2. Think before you speak. When your loved one feels awful all the time, ESPECIALLY if they have any kind of chronic pain, they’re sensitive to things they ordinarily wouldn't pay any mind to. The ordinary, simple things may rub them raw. (In my case, literally. HA!) You shouldn’t be held accountable for every tiny stupid thing you say. I hope to never be held accountable for every stupid thing I say. Just...try to be forgiving if your loved one occasionally bites your head off.
3. Understand that if you do know someone with a similar disease, most sick people want to hear what happened to them. Unless they died. In which case, just don't mention it. Speaking from personal experience, I never felt better about my ability to cope with my own situation than when my friend told me that his friend, who has the same disease, is a similar age, and has already faced complications I can barely imagine, is "the same guy...but he can't eat some foods and is physically weaker than before." I can't adequately describe how comforting I found that sentence.
Alright, now that the basics are out of the way, let's move on to the big guys. These are some conversational tidbits in which I cannot conceive of any level of appropriateness under any circumstance. You may not be aware of how these things sound, but trust me, they make you look like a jackass. You don't want to look like a jackass, right? I didn't think so.
THINGS NO ONE SHOULD EVER SAY:
1. YOU SHOULD NEVER EVER TELL A SICK PERSON HOW TO FEEL. For example, "Cheer up!" or "You’ll be fine." When a person is told that his or her life will never be the same again, they have every right to be devastated, even to enter a period of mourning. Sure, it helps to stay positive. There's nothing wrong with saying "It helps to stay positive." But try to think of it this way: it took that adult you know who has been recently diagnosed with Disease X, 20+ years to adjust to the life they knew before the disease. They should not be expected to adjust to their new normal in just one or two hours, days, or weeks. They're allowed to be upset. You'd be upset too. Having said that, if you know someone who is struggling with a chronic illness and feel this person may be depressed, encourage them to get help. Tell them there is no shame in how they feel, tell them you're worried, be careful to purge yourself of self-righteousness before you do it.
2. YOU SHOULD NEVER EVER SAY YOU UNDERSTAND. You can't understand. It's a stupid thing to say. Diseases, and the physical and emotional pain they manifest, are different for everyone--because every single person has a different brain. There is a difference between sympathizing with individual symptoms and attempting to empathize with a disease you don't have. (If this difference eludes you, click the links for definitions.) The first is fine, the second is always entirely unacceptable. A particularly frustrating facet of this type of conversation is when drastic, ridiculous comparisons are made between two obviously incongruous scenarios. Do not EVER make drastic, ridiculous comparisons. Examples: I would never tell someone who had cancer that I understand their residual joint pain from chemotherapy. Why? Because, while for the past few days my own joint pain has been debilitating, the truth is, my joints have only hurt for a few weeks and probably won't hurt anymore once my primary disease is under control. My increased likelihood of losing my colon is nothing like a double mastectomy. See the difference? Your food poisoning is nothing like my UC. I don't care if you were in the hospital. Unless you were told you'd have that same food poisoning for the remaining 50 years of your life, I really don't want to hear about it.
3. DON'T COMPARE OLD PEOPLE TO YOUNG PEOPLE. Sick people feel old enough as it is. Telling someone that they have the same symptoms as an 80 year old inspires the opposite of hope.
In other news: I've lost another three pounds since last week's weigh in. Project Iniative: Slow Down Rapid Weight Loss=System Failure....rebooting....
What you need to read BEFORE you read the lists:
I have an uncommonly AMAZING support system. I am grateful every day for every kindness shown to me. These lists, I hope, do not reflect any kind of ungratefulness or bitterness. Also, be aware that I'm blessed with a certain mental fortitude and sense of determination that not everyone possesses. I can handle anything you say to me, really. If I love you, I'll call you out on it. If I like you, I'll find a way to shut you up. If I don't like you...well that's a non-issue because I don't associate with people I don't like. I've got...what did they call it at the bank? Huge balls. So, while you're in danger of hurting my feelings, you'd probably never know if you did, and I promise, I bounce back really quickly. I hope what follows is funny, and that it helps everyone with the huge learning curve any chronic diagnosis imposes.
WE, THE DISEASED, SHOULD:
1. Realize most folks mean well. Just like I have my very own personal dealing-with-shit style, everyone else in my life does too. They have a right to their coping mechanisms, just like I do.
2. Take everything with a grain of salt. The people we know who think they have vast medical knowledge because of their access to Google? Yeah, they're not doctors. Wikipedia doesn't know more than your doctor. Unless your doctor is a moron. Neither of mine are.
3. Not think people can or should understand how we feel. Even if they were doctors, they still wouldn't have the transactional experience you have with your own body. Any doc worth his fee will be the first to admit this.
4. Not be mean. Even when we really, really want to.
5. Politely change the subject if someone hits a sore spot.
6. Not take everything personally. For example: if you are significantly overweight (ahem) and your illness causes you to suffer rapid weight loss, when people make jokes about wanting your illness (and oh, they will), don't punch them in the throat. Laugh at them. Laugh long and hard. Because obviously, they're completely insane. However, if similar people mention that they bet you're happy about the weight loss, do punch them in the throat. They deserve it. You can laugh afterward.
THOSE WHO KNOW SOMEONE WHO IS ILL SHOULD:
1. Understand that any and all well wishes are welcome. Your honest concern can make a lot of difference in the quality of a day.
2. Think before you speak. When your loved one feels awful all the time, ESPECIALLY if they have any kind of chronic pain, they’re sensitive to things they ordinarily wouldn't pay any mind to. The ordinary, simple things may rub them raw. (In my case, literally. HA!) You shouldn’t be held accountable for every tiny stupid thing you say. I hope to never be held accountable for every stupid thing I say. Just...try to be forgiving if your loved one occasionally bites your head off.
3. Understand that if you do know someone with a similar disease, most sick people want to hear what happened to them. Unless they died. In which case, just don't mention it. Speaking from personal experience, I never felt better about my ability to cope with my own situation than when my friend told me that his friend, who has the same disease, is a similar age, and has already faced complications I can barely imagine, is "the same guy...but he can't eat some foods and is physically weaker than before." I can't adequately describe how comforting I found that sentence.
Alright, now that the basics are out of the way, let's move on to the big guys. These are some conversational tidbits in which I cannot conceive of any level of appropriateness under any circumstance. You may not be aware of how these things sound, but trust me, they make you look like a jackass. You don't want to look like a jackass, right? I didn't think so.
THINGS NO ONE SHOULD EVER SAY:
1. YOU SHOULD NEVER EVER TELL A SICK PERSON HOW TO FEEL. For example, "Cheer up!" or "You’ll be fine." When a person is told that his or her life will never be the same again, they have every right to be devastated, even to enter a period of mourning. Sure, it helps to stay positive. There's nothing wrong with saying "It helps to stay positive." But try to think of it this way: it took that adult you know who has been recently diagnosed with Disease X, 20+ years to adjust to the life they knew before the disease. They should not be expected to adjust to their new normal in just one or two hours, days, or weeks. They're allowed to be upset. You'd be upset too. Having said that, if you know someone who is struggling with a chronic illness and feel this person may be depressed, encourage them to get help. Tell them there is no shame in how they feel, tell them you're worried, be careful to purge yourself of self-righteousness before you do it.
2. YOU SHOULD NEVER EVER SAY YOU UNDERSTAND. You can't understand. It's a stupid thing to say. Diseases, and the physical and emotional pain they manifest, are different for everyone--because every single person has a different brain. There is a difference between sympathizing with individual symptoms and attempting to empathize with a disease you don't have. (If this difference eludes you, click the links for definitions.) The first is fine, the second is always entirely unacceptable. A particularly frustrating facet of this type of conversation is when drastic, ridiculous comparisons are made between two obviously incongruous scenarios. Do not EVER make drastic, ridiculous comparisons. Examples: I would never tell someone who had cancer that I understand their residual joint pain from chemotherapy. Why? Because, while for the past few days my own joint pain has been debilitating, the truth is, my joints have only hurt for a few weeks and probably won't hurt anymore once my primary disease is under control. My increased likelihood of losing my colon is nothing like a double mastectomy. See the difference? Your food poisoning is nothing like my UC. I don't care if you were in the hospital. Unless you were told you'd have that same food poisoning for the remaining 50 years of your life, I really don't want to hear about it.
3. DON'T COMPARE OLD PEOPLE TO YOUNG PEOPLE. Sick people feel old enough as it is. Telling someone that they have the same symptoms as an 80 year old inspires the opposite of hope.
In other news: I've lost another three pounds since last week's weigh in. Project Iniative: Slow Down Rapid Weight Loss=System Failure....rebooting....
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
The Bitter Pill & Bitter Pills
Blogging is one part catharsis, one part exhibitionism, one part nourishment of ego. I would argue that no one ever wrote a poem for different reasons. I would say that not only my own poems, but the poems of every poet in the history of words existed in their respective little microcosmic embryonic stages in that same combination of feeling and its lack: catharsis/exhibitionism/ego. Again, I can name my logical fallacy. Again, I dare you to prove me wrong.
Now we're going to have some cussing. Stop reading now if you don't like cussing. Granted, it's the most appropriate cussing you've ever read in your life. In all the grand history of cussing, this is the prototype for its appropriate application in the English language.
When the surgeon told me yesterday that I had Ulcerative Colitis, if it hadn't been for the anesthesia, I probably would not have said, in front of my grandmother, "Well, fuck." The other thing that would not have happened is that I would not have then proceeded to publicly sob for a solid twenty minutes. Public exhibitions of real life emotion are, after all, "not really [my] thing."
I have proof:
Last Thursday, March 10, I had my consultation with the surgeon who was to do my "diagnostic procedure." I went alone because I'm not one of those people who can't do things alone. After we discussed my symptoms, he did a quick physical exam. He continued to ask me questions while he looked me over. Right when he got to the pulse taking portion of the program, he asked me about my appetite. My pulse quickened, my voice cracked, my eyes welled...you get the idea. If I were being honest, I would have told him that food is the worst thing in the world. That food is evil. That I blame food for ruining my life. That I would rather sink my teeth into the slow melt of famine than ever have to eat again. That every bite I take is a sacrificial gesture made on behalf of my daughters. But I am not always honest. So I made a lame self-deprecating joke about how sad it was that I can't eat food anymore, because I love it so much. He laughed, sat down, and looked me in the eye. He asked if I was ok. I said no. The rest of our conversation was composed of talk about cancer, inflammation and infection. He told me the most likely culprit was UC. He told me people who have this disease are usually not ever fully free from symptoms. He told me that if I had this disease, I would die with one fewer major organ than I was born with. I swallowed hard, paid my bill, and walked out to my car where I sat and cried so hard I couldn't see. Then I drove to my grandmother's house and cried on her kitchen table. Because there are no strangers at my grandmother's house. My grandmother's house is not public.
Flash forward: back to yesterday, March 14, the eve of my 27th birthday, 2 AM: I decided on a themed birthday party for myself. If I did have cancer, I wanted a banner that said, "SOMEDAY YOU MAY BE ABLE TO EAT ICE CREAM AGAIN!" If I had Ulcerative Colitis, I wanted a banner that said "YOU DON'T HAVE CANCER!" Of course, I don't have the energy to participate in festivities. But, it was a nice idea. It helped me focus on the positive. It gave me a slogan no matter the outcome. When, if you google your symptoms, the vast universe of medical websites replies with a resounding, "Seek emergency medical attention," you can bet your sweet ass the diagnosis probably isn't going to be a bucket of roses. At least I could find a single comforting remark to make to myself in either scenario.
Approximately 7 and one half hours later, at 9:30, as I was being wheeled back into my room, and the doctor that I liked very much was telling my family that my new chronic disease was extensive and I'd most likely lose my colon in the next 15 years, I was high on drugs. Mostly Versed. Hence the fuck word. Hence the bawling. None of that should be surprising, considering the circumstances. It's how it all happened that surprised me. I said, "Well, fuck." Like I was commenting on a nasty storm cloud when I had planned to fly a kite. This made everyone chuckle. Then, when I suddenly proceeded to bawl, everyone else cried too. The surgeon had to leave the room to compose himself. Somehow this combination of laughing and crying still strikes me as very funny. There I am, in my hospital gown and new lighter body, pocked with new battle scars, bleeding from new wounds, with my black sunken eye sockets and my dull gray skin: Sick Jes, whose body hates her, about to turn 27 years old--bawling like a two year old in public, managing to suck five full grown people into her utter despair and sense of desolation. No one else seems to get the joke. It was like writing a poem: Catharsis/Exhibitionism/Ego. And in the end, no one can really get what it means. Even if they think they do. Even if they wrote it or found it written in their flesh.
So, now, I'm shooting for remission. The surgeon doesn't like that word because it implies complete freedom from symptoms. I understand I may not have that. I understand that the cure for my disease is removal of my colon. I understand that I have to take my medicine every single day, even though it costs nearly as much per month as the mortgage on our first house. And you know what? I'm really glad I'm not dying right now. Damn pleased, really. I am not devastated by this news. Worst case scenario, I lose my colon. Guess what? I can still watch my daughters grow up. I might not be quite my rotund, robust self, but I can exist in smaller portions. I have not cried since the drugs wore off.
I would like to get passed feeling like a wrung out, run through VooDoo doll. So I need to:
1. Try and get my calorie intake up above 750/day. [I feel like that will never happen. I try.]
2. Cross all my fingers and toes in hope that the steriod will quickly remedy my horrendous joint pain.
3. Find a hypo-allergenic moisturizer for my other new chronic condition, Rosacea. Because let me tell you, nothing looks worse on a zombie face than rosy red cheeks.
Here's to 27, and the hope that 2011 doesn't find other weapons in its search for ways to kill me.
Now we're going to have some cussing. Stop reading now if you don't like cussing. Granted, it's the most appropriate cussing you've ever read in your life. In all the grand history of cussing, this is the prototype for its appropriate application in the English language.
When the surgeon told me yesterday that I had Ulcerative Colitis, if it hadn't been for the anesthesia, I probably would not have said, in front of my grandmother, "Well, fuck." The other thing that would not have happened is that I would not have then proceeded to publicly sob for a solid twenty minutes. Public exhibitions of real life emotion are, after all, "not really [my] thing."
I have proof:
Last Thursday, March 10, I had my consultation with the surgeon who was to do my "diagnostic procedure." I went alone because I'm not one of those people who can't do things alone. After we discussed my symptoms, he did a quick physical exam. He continued to ask me questions while he looked me over. Right when he got to the pulse taking portion of the program, he asked me about my appetite. My pulse quickened, my voice cracked, my eyes welled...you get the idea. If I were being honest, I would have told him that food is the worst thing in the world. That food is evil. That I blame food for ruining my life. That I would rather sink my teeth into the slow melt of famine than ever have to eat again. That every bite I take is a sacrificial gesture made on behalf of my daughters. But I am not always honest. So I made a lame self-deprecating joke about how sad it was that I can't eat food anymore, because I love it so much. He laughed, sat down, and looked me in the eye. He asked if I was ok. I said no. The rest of our conversation was composed of talk about cancer, inflammation and infection. He told me the most likely culprit was UC. He told me people who have this disease are usually not ever fully free from symptoms. He told me that if I had this disease, I would die with one fewer major organ than I was born with. I swallowed hard, paid my bill, and walked out to my car where I sat and cried so hard I couldn't see. Then I drove to my grandmother's house and cried on her kitchen table. Because there are no strangers at my grandmother's house. My grandmother's house is not public.
Flash forward: back to yesterday, March 14, the eve of my 27th birthday, 2 AM: I decided on a themed birthday party for myself. If I did have cancer, I wanted a banner that said, "SOMEDAY YOU MAY BE ABLE TO EAT ICE CREAM AGAIN!" If I had Ulcerative Colitis, I wanted a banner that said "YOU DON'T HAVE CANCER!" Of course, I don't have the energy to participate in festivities. But, it was a nice idea. It helped me focus on the positive. It gave me a slogan no matter the outcome. When, if you google your symptoms, the vast universe of medical websites replies with a resounding, "Seek emergency medical attention," you can bet your sweet ass the diagnosis probably isn't going to be a bucket of roses. At least I could find a single comforting remark to make to myself in either scenario.
Approximately 7 and one half hours later, at 9:30, as I was being wheeled back into my room, and the doctor that I liked very much was telling my family that my new chronic disease was extensive and I'd most likely lose my colon in the next 15 years, I was high on drugs. Mostly Versed. Hence the fuck word. Hence the bawling. None of that should be surprising, considering the circumstances. It's how it all happened that surprised me. I said, "Well, fuck." Like I was commenting on a nasty storm cloud when I had planned to fly a kite. This made everyone chuckle. Then, when I suddenly proceeded to bawl, everyone else cried too. The surgeon had to leave the room to compose himself. Somehow this combination of laughing and crying still strikes me as very funny. There I am, in my hospital gown and new lighter body, pocked with new battle scars, bleeding from new wounds, with my black sunken eye sockets and my dull gray skin: Sick Jes, whose body hates her, about to turn 27 years old--bawling like a two year old in public, managing to suck five full grown people into her utter despair and sense of desolation. No one else seems to get the joke. It was like writing a poem: Catharsis/Exhibitionism/Ego. And in the end, no one can really get what it means. Even if they think they do. Even if they wrote it or found it written in their flesh.
So, now, I'm shooting for remission. The surgeon doesn't like that word because it implies complete freedom from symptoms. I understand I may not have that. I understand that the cure for my disease is removal of my colon. I understand that I have to take my medicine every single day, even though it costs nearly as much per month as the mortgage on our first house. And you know what? I'm really glad I'm not dying right now. Damn pleased, really. I am not devastated by this news. Worst case scenario, I lose my colon. Guess what? I can still watch my daughters grow up. I might not be quite my rotund, robust self, but I can exist in smaller portions. I have not cried since the drugs wore off.
I would like to get passed feeling like a wrung out, run through VooDoo doll. So I need to:
1. Try and get my calorie intake up above 750/day. [I feel like that will never happen. I try.]
2. Cross all my fingers and toes in hope that the steriod will quickly remedy my horrendous joint pain.
3. Find a hypo-allergenic moisturizer for my other new chronic condition, Rosacea. Because let me tell you, nothing looks worse on a zombie face than rosy red cheeks.
Here's to 27, and the hope that 2011 doesn't find other weapons in its search for ways to kill me.
Monday, March 7, 2011
What Else I've Lost
I've been sick for two months.
{begin rant} If I had health insurance, I would know what to call The Disease. But I don't have health insurance because my husband is an elementary school teacher and I am a college student.{end rant]
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?
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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