You guys! Hi! It’s June! And do you want to know what’s great?!? I have come a long way from January. I mean, we all have, naturally. We’ve all come precisely five months away from January, but this girl here, the one talking to you all perky and happy like, bubbling over with news? I couldn’t find her then to save my life.
Listen. I had a shitty winter. I was sick. Some people I love passed away. But mostly I was sick. Hardcore. fucking. sick. Respiratory problems sick, breathing problems sick, violent, never-ending-coughing sick, alarming weight loss sick…this was a not-fucking-around kind of sick. This was the kind of sick where one day, months in, you spray the sink with a terrifying shock of foamy red blood when you’re doubled over coughing and you end up in the ER. (I was not in the ER for long, mind you, because they do not fuck around with having people who cough up foamy red blood milling about with the general population in case you have some kind of Michael Chricton virus, and you are briskly and unceremoniously bustled to a sealed quarantine room to get probed at by people in masks). There were no answers, that day or any of the other days I spent in hospitals and doctors’ offices getting tested and x-rayed and scanned. I was just, simply, really fucking sick.
So, from September clean through March, I coughed and coughed and coughed and coughed and wheezed and thrashed and gasped for air and sucked on inhalers and took vitamins and went to acupuncture and did five rounds of antibiotics and used up all my sick days and coughed and coughed and coughed and coughed anyway. I’m not even going to pretend like it didn’t suck as much as it did or that I didn’t feel sorry for myself or that I could think of much of anything else, because it did and I did and I couldn’t. For the latter, I remain unapologetic, because I know this much is true: if you can’t breathe, it is literally impossible to think of anything else. As for the former two, I’m still working through it all in my mind, trying to figure out if there’s anything to figure out. Maybe it’s OK to feel sorry for yourself sometimes, or maybe it’s always petulant and immature. Dunno. Whatever the case may be, it was traumatic. It was stressful and difficult and, surprisingly, painfully lonely. In some ways, I don’t know if I dealt with it all that well, and in other ways I don’t know if I could have dealt with it any better, given that I had no idea what I was dealing with. So, I dunno. I’m working on it.
But here we are in June and I’m OK. I’m better. Not 100% better, but so much better. I still cough from time to time, I still get tired fairly easily, I still have to clear my throat a great deal so that it sounds like I have a tic or that I’m trying to get people’s attention in a group of people (I’m so inured to my “tic” that I am often startled to find a room full of people looking at me expectantly after I’ve cleared my throat in a meeting).
People, co-workers, friends, family, keep asking me if they ever figured out what was wrong with me. And here’s something I know now, because of what happened, because of how I reacted. When we’re sick, and perhaps when anything else that can go wrong goes wrong, we have an expectation of cause. We, as a society, believe in this. I believe (believed?) in this. You get sick, you cough, so you go to the doctor and wait for her to tell you why — You have [this] and [this] will happen, but it should go away in [this] amount of time. We look for the isolated, extractable, single thing, the what, that caused the the bad thing to happen. When there were no answers, no single cause, I railed in frustration, partly because I wanted an end in sight, and partly because the longer I went without producing a what to the people around me, the less seriously they took what was happening (paradoxically, my doctors included). The words “all in your head” began to float to the surface, to hover around me. But while I wasn’t the one to unmoor those words, I was the one who gave in to their presence, and begrudgingly pinned them to my sweater, my scarlet letters. It simply didn’t seem possible to just be really fucking sick.
So do you know what I did when I coughed up blood? I cleaned it up and then I made my lunch and went to work. And then I slid in and out of consciousness on the train. And then I sat at my desk in a brown haze and, after more than an hour had passed, I kind of emerged from the haze and realized I couldn’t remember how I got to work. And that I was struggling, painfully to breathe. I’d struggled to breathe many times and had gotten as used to it as you can, could kind of talk myself out of it being a big deal…but that blood in the sink, that wasn’t in my head. That had happened. It was something you could see. I had to talk myself into it, going to the hospital, I was so uncertain about my own experience at that point, but in the end I couldn’t turn my mind’s eye away from that gash of red on the white porcelain.
Like I said, the day in the quarantine room didn’t produce any answers, there was no what, but it produced a shift. I expected to wait for the real emergencies to go in before me; I mentioned the blood and the breathing and I was shuttled in immediately. Shift. It was serious, what was happening, and I was being taken seriously. Shift.
The shift allowed me to realize that in waiting for a definition, I allowed other people to define what I was going through. In fact, I was asking them (at least my doctors!) to define what I was going through. No one was trying to be a jerk. It’s just that we all believed it had to be defined or it wasn’t possible for it to exist.
My acupuncturist, though, bless her, knew this all along: that I was sick, and that was the point, that was an answer, the answer, unto itself. There was no what made me sick, I was just, simply, sick. And needed to get whole again to get better.
So here I am. I was really fucking sick. And now I’m better! Not better, but still better.
So the general consensus seems to be that 2009 kind of sucked. I’m guessing that this has to do with many members of the general consensus losing their jobs. So, indeed, point taken.
We mostly managed to survive The Year of the Layoff, although we weren’t entirely unscathed. (Long story — some other time, maybe.) (We both still have our jobs. For now. Please bribe the Job Gods for us, would you?) So at first, I was slightly taken aback by all the “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, 2009!” Facebook statuses, etc. Anyway, even after being reminded for the umpteenth time that the economy is a total disaster, for whatever reason, I’m reluctant to write off 2009 entirely. For us, it was…an unusual year. On the one hand, we kind of kicked ass. We accomplished a lot and we are going to get big shiny gold stars from our financial planner. And! We bought a home!
But we kind of forgot to have fun.
Well. Renovating our home took many, grinding, soul-eating months. We fell off the map. We didn’t see our friends, it seemed, for ages. And then once the (saw)dust settled, it looked for a few months there like we were both going to lose our jobs and we set about on a kind of XXXtreme battening down of the hatches, and going for drinks or movies or burgers or coffees, or any of those things you typically do with your friends, was out of the question. Because LAWD would we be screwed in our new home if neither of us was working and we didn’t have a contingency plan and/or fund. At one point, we had a fight over three dollars. (It seemed like a lot of money at the time.)
(I’m not even going to talk to you about The Cough, which is now in its third month. It’s in the 97th percentile for its age and it’s almost sleeping through the night already! We think it might be able to sit up on its own soon.)
So my New Year’s resolution this year is to have fun. I’ve signed up for classes at the community centre, I’m accepting invitations, I’m blogging (hi!), I’m thinking about what might be a good fit for volunteering*, and, well, I dunno, I guess I’ll do whatever else seems fun. Fun is pretty easy to find, so this should prove an easy resolution to keep.
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*Yeah, listen. I hate volunteering. I know you’re not supposed to say (or think?) that, but it often feels an awful lot like work to me, complete with schedules and office politics. Except the office politics come with a more self-congratulatory crowd, with the kind of people who eye you haughtily across the lunch room over their spelt muffins, waiting for you to do something that they can sniff at. And do you know what I already do 40 hours a week? Deal with schedules and office politics and annoying people I have no choice but to be around. Except I get PAID to do it and it therefore makes some sense for me to feel obligated to show up.
So there’s that. But. I want a dog. And I cannot have a dog. I mean, technically, I can. But, no. We have enough going on here at Chez Hairball in terms of pet hair. So I want to volunteer somewhere** where I can scratch ribs and make tails thump and get snorgled by a wet puppy dog nose…and have that somehow translate into social good. Because, for reals, THAT would be fun.
**Can’t be the SPCA. Guess where my last volunteer position was. Yeah. And now guess how we ended up with the third cat. Yeah. So I want to work with lovey bubkins, but they can’t be on death row, or I fear that we will end up on a very special episode of Hoarders, the one where they find out where where all the pound puppies went.
There are two reasons. One, I’m still sick. Have been sick for months now*. Coughing. It’s neither funny nor interesting, yet sinisterly all-consuming. But, seriously, I really don’t want to talk about it.
The other reason.
An old friend passed away suddenly last month just days after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and, because she was a loyal and supportive reader here, it just hasn’t felt the same. I’d begin to compose a post in my mind and I’d quickly get tripped up on the empty chair in my imaginary audience.
I want to keep this short. I won’t stake any claim on grief when I’m not at the epicentre of this tragedy; this story belongs to her husband and her two little kids. But there’s this: Robyn, Honey, it’s not fair. Thirty-three is too young. I know you didn’t want to leave your kids behind. Fuck cancer — you didn’t deserve this.
And there’s this: You were a sweet person. I’ve known you all my life and can’t remember you once making a cutting remark about someone else. Poised — you were poised. You could sing like an angel, but maybe kindness was your true talent.
And there’s this: Thank you for reading. Thank you for your support.
I’ll see you on the other side, old friend.
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*Yes, the doctor. I’ve been to the doctor. In short, they have no idea. Which: what can you do.
Listen. September was awful. I got sick and was dragging my ass around and then I started to get better. And then. Someone I love passed away and…yeah. That one hurts. I’m not going to write about it because it’s not really mine to write about (it was my best friend’s dad, and although he was like a second dad to me, I could never do her grief justice) except to say being remembered for all the laughter and music you brought into everyone’s life can only mean a life well lived and loved. Would that more of us could be so gracious and open-armed.
I went home for the funeral and we couldn’t afford to fly Kieran out too and I was sad and alone at all the wrong times and cried a lot and then I came home with a fever and got sicker than ever. (I know the words SWINE FLU just came flying at you in big black letters, but, uh, I dunno. I don’t think so? Probably not? OK?)
And then it was Thanksgiving and we drove home through a freak early snowstorm and next thing I knew we were with my best friend and her family for Thanksgiving dinner and Kieran was hanging her son by his ankles and she and I were giggling on the couch about our Grade 5 teacher and the hole that was torn in my heart when I saw her crying for her dad at the funeral began to heal over.
The next day we were surrounded by my own family and in-laws from all corners, and my cousin’s kids were adorable and fun and awesome as always.
As was Kieran’s mini-me baby brother.
And then we were in Calgary with my dear friend Karla, stuffing ourselves with homemade pizza and cupcakes and laughing until we cried about that time I drove for a really, really long time on a really, really flat tire with Karla as my passenger going, “Dude. I THINK SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH YOUR TRUCK.” Then, the next day, because Kieran had never had it and it’s a Calgary institution, we got Pete’s Drive-in and then rolled about like beached whales and groaned dramatically while rubbing our Buddha bellies. And finally, between all the friends and food and cousins and giggling, I was full up again.
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Because this is a post that should not be without music, here’s an old favourite of mine, a song Rob introduced me to when he played it for us kids at the lake cabin…he was perhaps the only person I’ve known who could do Simon and Garfunkel justice.
I have been getting, in increasing numbers and intensity, less than subtle hints that I’ve not been posting enough. This is true. I don’t know why. Except that it’s been a weird year, one in which I’ve been at once overwhelmed and underwhelmed and often didn’t know whether I wanted to write about my state of mind to begin with, and to end with, I didn’t know which state of mind to whine write about if I was to go ahead with writing. Anyway, my life has finally settled into a pleasant routine, and I have been at least thinking about writing here a lot more than I used to. And every now and again I actually sit down and do it. So, again, forgive me while I jerk through these…”getting back into it” posts until I (hopefully) get my groove back.
Stuff in the Second
Speaking of perpetually occupying at once opposite ends of the mental health spectrum, remember at my awful old job how we were all forced to “get our colours done” but it turned out to be less “team building exercise” than “scary clown nightmare?” IMAGINE MY DISMAY when I was informed by my new boss that all new employees have to get their colours done. (And, get this: it turns out there are NUMEROUS cults/companies that market this concept of ascribing colour wheels to Jungian personality archetypes. Am I the only person who finds this a little bizarre?) Anyway, the workshop to which I was sent this time was infinitely better than the last one, possibly due to being put on by a different cult/company. But then, how could it not be better, really? For starters, it was run by our HR lady, not some random, over-sharing loon. Also a bonus, our HR lady has a degree in psychology and she, at the very least, knows how to pronounce “Jung” correctly, lending more of an air of authenticity to the exercise. And, finally, when I once again came out as a 50:50 split between introvert/extrovert and hypersensitive thinker-feeler/adventurous, impulsive doer, instead of publicly scolding me for falling into paradigms not ascribed to by the colour cult and telling me I’m an impossibility, the HR lady responded kindly, pointing out that I’m normal, since, if nothing else, there’s no such thing as abnormal.
We also got detailed profiles this time and I’m sure those of you who have met me will be shocked to learn that I am XXXtremely social and tend to be chatty, bubbly, and silly…except for those times when I’m nursing my bleeding, pinko heart, and weeping over baby penguins who may or may not be suffering in Antarctica as we speak. And of course, after chatting us up about our “good day behaviours” (”Your fun-loving and warm and people want to be your friend!”) they douse a little salt in our “things we already know about ourselves but try to ignore so that we may go on” wounds by pointing out our “bad day behaviours.” APPARENTLY, I have little to no tolerance for boredom and when I’m angry or stressed, I’m sarcastic and cynical. To which I say: HA. As a colour wheel cult, you CLEARLY know EXACTLY what you’re talking about…Yawn. Is this thing over yet?
Finally, the other revelation of note was that everyone was given two personality profiles, one representing their work persona and one representing their home persona. Except for me. I only had one profile: work, home, SAME THING. BECAUSE I HAVE NO FILTER. The HR lady said this usually only happens when people are within a year or two of retirement because they stop caring. When I looked a little dismayed at this (it occurring to me for the first time that perhaps it really is obscenely misanthropic to say things like “mother of fuck” in front of your boss*), the HR lady waved me off and said warmly “It’s great! It means you’re very WYSIWYG! People always know where they stand with you.”
Which brings me to…
Final Stuff
It occurred to me after my last post that I may have given off a distasteful whiff of false modesty, the way I was all “Guess what Internets? I GOT PUBLISHED! YEAH! But as an afterthought I’ll tack on something about how I didn’t like one of my pieces so you don’t think I’m bragging.” Someone recently pointed out to me that false modesty (and its kissing cousin irreverence) are somewhat rampant in the blogosphere. There’s all those bloggers who are just clever and witty enough to pull off the (as my beloved Jenni G. so aptly put it when describing this phenomenon) “Oh I’m so silly, look at me posting another picture of myself in my bikini. WHAT AM I THINKING? Here’s one more though, with a better angle on my abs. I’m so embarrassed that everyone can see how much weight I’ve lost!” Um, suffice to say, I’m not one of these people (see above).
It’s doubtful, actually, whether lacking the capacity to filter myself makes me less of an obnoxious human being than the type of person who is at least aware enough of how off-putting immodesty can be to make a coy attempt to mask their bragging behind lowered eyelashes and coquettish self-mocking. Regardless, when I feel proud enough to brag about something, the words will come tumbling out of me of their own, completely unapologetic accord. It does occur to me from time to time that I should try and formulate some kind of diffuser to my “THIS IS HOW I FEEL AT THIS EXACT SECOND” function**, but it never fails to occur to me immediately on the heels of that thought that I lack the guile to seamlessly execute such an exercise and will inevitably make myself look like even MORE of an ass should I try. So, while on the one hand, I am glad and proud to possess a dependable amount of naturally occurring sincerity, on the other hand this could also speak to the fact that I can be something of a simpleton, incapable of carrying off the subtler nuances of the human condition as well as oblivious to the more sinister, dishonest aspects of these nuances, resulting in my being easily manipulated and sucked in by others.
So, suffice to say, the bit about not liking the piece (which was, may I remind you, AN OUTLINE), was true. It freaked me OUT, dudes. And I wasn’t just saying that to try and pretend like I didn’t bounce all over the apartment squealing about getting published like a bloody cockapoo on methamphetamines. Because I did that too.
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*It’s OK. My new boss is from New York City. She routinely busts out an emphatic “What da fuuuck?!?” while gesticulating wildly. My flair for obscenities is not only accepted, but appreciated.
**There are exceptions to this. If someone is unpredictabe (or predictably mean), I can be extremely repressive and blank-faced to a degree that is near pathological (XXXtreme poker face!). But, again, there’s no middle ground. Either I shut down entirely, or BLAH BLAH BLAH NO FILTER TRALALA WHEE!
