To be fair, I should explain that I see Excellent doctor frequently. Why? Because she is a true PCP. She is the hub around with all my other medical specialists operate. In a given year I see her at least three times - usually more like six. Between all my various specialists, I see her to review all the wreckage. And last year when I made my first trip to what might rightly be called a developing country, she chose what immunizations I should have. When she rattled off the list of hepatitis vaccines, I stopped her and told her that I was determined, despite all my human frailty, not to do it with any Moroccan men - or any other men of any other nationality. As I announced this, she chuckled in a way that only a doctor who knows far more than you do can chuckle. Then she started cracking jokes about me smoking hashish and whoring my way across the Sahara desert. At the time it was hilarious. I laughed so hard it hurt.
Since then, every time she gets a chance to obliquely suggest I get laid, she takes the opportunity. And we giggle, and it is all very funny. Ha ha.
Only this time she wasn't laughing. This time I think what she meant, as usual, was not that I engage in all manner of inappropriate reproductive behavior with any creature not dragging his knuckles and drooling onto his shirtfront. She meant that I ought to move the fuck (pun very intended) on. And that moving on might mean making my own family, somehow, someway, so that the destruction of the one I was born into can be left firmly behind.
I suppose, since I am in a clarifying mood, that I should explain further what I meant by getting the information about my current fertility or lack thereof. I meant only that I know now that if I have children, it will be alone. Since that is the last option open to a woman two weeks shy of 39 years old, I thought I should at least know if even that is possible. I do not mean to say that I am determined to do it alone; merely that I want to know if even that is possible.
Other news is otherwise good, but I don't have to stamina to write about other things. Be assured I am better every day.
Love,
Aelalea
Showing posts with label splainin'. Show all posts
Showing posts with label splainin'. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Monday, December 22, 2008
What I meant to say
Perhaps I could have managed yesterday's post with a little more class and a lot less whine.
I am okay. Things are okay. I guess. No one new has gotten sick or died, and I haven't racked up any more catastrophes. I am okay. Except not, which I will now try to splain.
A few weeks ago I decided it was time to exhale and clean up the wreckage of the past four years. I gave it a name: Season of Badness (SOB)*. I declared the season over and attempted to reclaim my former personality, reorganize my life, and rejoin society without reference to the SOB. I got off my ass, flossed, exfoliated, applied a little elbow grease to my inner beauty and resolved to leave SOB behind.
It so didn't work.
My first clue was that with just a moment or two of reflection, I discerned that good intentions notwithstanding, I still required one (and sometimes two) of four things in order to sleep: a) alcohol, b) anti-histimines, c) xanax or d) piles of prescription sleep medication. Not applying one (or two) of the above to my brain is 100% certain to end in me being awake literally all night. Not sleeping at all. And no, it's not because I am busy twisting the heads off the voodoo dolls. I do not lay awake thinking about "it". But sleep and I have not been together in, oh, four years.
My second clue was that despite every good intention of groveling my way back into the good graces of all my friends, I persisted in failing to call any of them. Note: if you knew me in real life, you would know that I have not been able to handle even perfunctory friendship responsibilities, such as returning phone calls, showing up at the gym, and expressing interest in other people's affairs. For about a month after the funeral, I kept up with my friends. And then I went underground. And since they have seen this kind of behavior from me before, they don't track me down. They know I'll be back around when I have enough emotional chee to at least feign interest. But no amount of flossing or exfoliating makes me feel capable of behaving like a normal citizen. So I am awol from my friends for, oh nearly six months. That even includes some of you who live in the computer.
Oh and that final clue? That would be that I wake up (please note this would be after I intoxicate myself by one means or another) in the middle of the night crying. I apologize. There is no way of reporting that information that doesn't sound ass-dragging pathetic. (Just be grateful you are not my boyfriend).
So what does all this data tell me? Does it tell me that the weather hasn't changed? Does it tell me that SOB is not yet over?
Oddly, no. The weather has changed quite a bit and the flossing will surely get me on the lower half of the waiting list for heaven. My skin looks much better, even if I am no more nice a person. SOB is definitely over.
The data, in short, tells me that reclaiming my former personality, reorganizing my life, and rejoining society is not going to work. Whoever I was before the SOB is not someone I can be again. That me is over. And while you might assume the news would be distressing, it isn't really. More than anything, I am just confused.
When I say I am not okay, therefore, what I am saying is that I do not know who I am anymore. I can't go back to the way I was, and I literally do not know how to proceed with the post-SOB season. I don't know how to behave, and I don't know what to think, and I don't know what to do. So do I hate everything, like I said? Not exactly. I just don't know anything anymore and it's disorienting and scary. Just go with it for now. I have to go with it, too.
* Pronounced "Saab" - only at the end you have a huge ass and brain damage from all the crying - not the European luxury car we would all prefer.
I am okay. Things are okay. I guess. No one new has gotten sick or died, and I haven't racked up any more catastrophes. I am okay. Except not, which I will now try to splain.
A few weeks ago I decided it was time to exhale and clean up the wreckage of the past four years. I gave it a name: Season of Badness (SOB)*. I declared the season over and attempted to reclaim my former personality, reorganize my life, and rejoin society without reference to the SOB. I got off my ass, flossed, exfoliated, applied a little elbow grease to my inner beauty and resolved to leave SOB behind.
It so didn't work.
My first clue was that with just a moment or two of reflection, I discerned that good intentions notwithstanding, I still required one (and sometimes two) of four things in order to sleep: a) alcohol, b) anti-histimines, c) xanax or d) piles of prescription sleep medication. Not applying one (or two) of the above to my brain is 100% certain to end in me being awake literally all night. Not sleeping at all. And no, it's not because I am busy twisting the heads off the voodoo dolls. I do not lay awake thinking about "it". But sleep and I have not been together in, oh, four years.
My second clue was that despite every good intention of groveling my way back into the good graces of all my friends, I persisted in failing to call any of them. Note: if you knew me in real life, you would know that I have not been able to handle even perfunctory friendship responsibilities, such as returning phone calls, showing up at the gym, and expressing interest in other people's affairs. For about a month after the funeral, I kept up with my friends. And then I went underground. And since they have seen this kind of behavior from me before, they don't track me down. They know I'll be back around when I have enough emotional chee to at least feign interest. But no amount of flossing or exfoliating makes me feel capable of behaving like a normal citizen. So I am awol from my friends for, oh nearly six months. That even includes some of you who live in the computer.
Oh and that final clue? That would be that I wake up (please note this would be after I intoxicate myself by one means or another) in the middle of the night crying. I apologize. There is no way of reporting that information that doesn't sound ass-dragging pathetic. (Just be grateful you are not my boyfriend).
So what does all this data tell me? Does it tell me that the weather hasn't changed? Does it tell me that SOB is not yet over?
Oddly, no. The weather has changed quite a bit and the flossing will surely get me on the lower half of the waiting list for heaven. My skin looks much better, even if I am no more nice a person. SOB is definitely over.
The data, in short, tells me that reclaiming my former personality, reorganizing my life, and rejoining society is not going to work. Whoever I was before the SOB is not someone I can be again. That me is over. And while you might assume the news would be distressing, it isn't really. More than anything, I am just confused.
When I say I am not okay, therefore, what I am saying is that I do not know who I am anymore. I can't go back to the way I was, and I literally do not know how to proceed with the post-SOB season. I don't know how to behave, and I don't know what to think, and I don't know what to do. So do I hate everything, like I said? Not exactly. I just don't know anything anymore and it's disorienting and scary. Just go with it for now. I have to go with it, too.
* Pronounced "Saab" - only at the end you have a huge ass and brain damage from all the crying - not the European luxury car we would all prefer.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
In which I tell a funny story several times
Recall the reasons I live with Bob and Kate: a) because I am broke and need somewhere to live that is cheap (in this case, free) and b) because they need help straightening out their 40 years worth of marital possessions.
These circumstances give rise to some humorous incongruities.
On one hand, if I pick up a dusty plastic carnation that I found half melted next to the boiler - all the way down in the cellar - ... well, before I am permitted to deposit that runny, dust-encrusted tragedy of a whatever into a trash can, I must listen to a full history of the flower's acquisition, complete with a side-commentary on the romantic feelings engendered by the flower at the time of its introduction to their household, followed by a detailed history of all the carefully considered storage strategies for said flower, especially the one that caused someone, with every noble sentiment and careful consideration, to place the flower on the floor about four and one half inches from the boiler. In 1977. After this information has been related to me, we all heave a melancholy sigh and agree to deposit the flower into a trash receptacle.
On the other hand, while these people may be relied upon to give a full history of every worthless piece of garbage in their entire four story house, they have - at least once a week - no idea why I live with them. Wait - let me rephrase. They know I am there to do all manner of whatever they can think of for them. What they can't remember is why I am reduced to agreeing to perform whatever duties they can think of at any given moment of any given day, amen.
At least once a week, I have the same conversation with Bob.
"Where is your mother?" he asks.
"She has already passed on," I reply.
"Why?" he asks.
"Breast cancer," I say. Big pause while he thinks of breasts and big scary tumors.
"Mother fucker," he says.
"Indeed," I reply.
"What about your daddy?" he says.
"He has also passed on," I say.
"What happened to him?" he says.
"Leukemia," I say. Big pause while he considers bad cells running around in the blood of my father.
"How old?" he says.
"Sixty-seven" I reply.
"God damn it," he says.
Bob and I had this conversation three times before I decided to spice it up a bit by using the word "dead" instead of the phrase "passed on." When we rounded the corner to conversation number five, I decided I would throw in the part about how the root cause of me living there is all the bills I accumulated because of my dad's illness. But then yesterday, he forgot all of it all over again and forgot the part about me being broke, too.
"Where are your parents, honey?" he asked. Big pause while Lalea thinks what to say.
"My parents are dead. They died and we burned them up and put their ashes into urns. The reason I live here is because I spent so much money trying to see my dad when he was sick and when he died, and got all burned up and put into an urn, the family's money was all gone," I said.
Bob took a moment to sift through this information. The mental image is one of my father's ashes slipping through his fingers onto the ground.
"Where did all the money go?" Big pause while Lalea thinks of what to say.
"He gave it to people who are not in our family," I said.
"Mother fucker," said Bob. No pause.
It is unclear what Bob meant - ie, whether life is a mother fucker or my dad is a mother fucker, but Lalea simply nodded in agreement and continued doing what she was doing, ie, some stupid task assigned to her by one of the two of them.
No doubt I will have to explain at least two or three more times where my parents are and why I live in their attic. Next time maybe I'll include a more graphic description of cremation, ie, a drip pan and a bone crushing phase to ensure the consistency of the "cremains," so as to make the idea really stick in his long term memory.
Have an excellent Saturday.
Love,
Aelalea
These circumstances give rise to some humorous incongruities.
On one hand, if I pick up a dusty plastic carnation that I found half melted next to the boiler - all the way down in the cellar - ... well, before I am permitted to deposit that runny, dust-encrusted tragedy of a whatever into a trash can, I must listen to a full history of the flower's acquisition, complete with a side-commentary on the romantic feelings engendered by the flower at the time of its introduction to their household, followed by a detailed history of all the carefully considered storage strategies for said flower, especially the one that caused someone, with every noble sentiment and careful consideration, to place the flower on the floor about four and one half inches from the boiler. In 1977. After this information has been related to me, we all heave a melancholy sigh and agree to deposit the flower into a trash receptacle.
On the other hand, while these people may be relied upon to give a full history of every worthless piece of garbage in their entire four story house, they have - at least once a week - no idea why I live with them. Wait - let me rephrase. They know I am there to do all manner of whatever they can think of for them. What they can't remember is why I am reduced to agreeing to perform whatever duties they can think of at any given moment of any given day, amen.
At least once a week, I have the same conversation with Bob.
"Where is your mother?" he asks.
"She has already passed on," I reply.
"Why?" he asks.
"Breast cancer," I say. Big pause while he thinks of breasts and big scary tumors.
"Mother fucker," he says.
"Indeed," I reply.
"What about your daddy?" he says.
"He has also passed on," I say.
"What happened to him?" he says.
"Leukemia," I say. Big pause while he considers bad cells running around in the blood of my father.
"How old?" he says.
"Sixty-seven" I reply.
"God damn it," he says.
Bob and I had this conversation three times before I decided to spice it up a bit by using the word "dead" instead of the phrase "passed on." When we rounded the corner to conversation number five, I decided I would throw in the part about how the root cause of me living there is all the bills I accumulated because of my dad's illness. But then yesterday, he forgot all of it all over again and forgot the part about me being broke, too.
"Where are your parents, honey?" he asked. Big pause while Lalea thinks what to say.
"My parents are dead. They died and we burned them up and put their ashes into urns. The reason I live here is because I spent so much money trying to see my dad when he was sick and when he died, and got all burned up and put into an urn, the family's money was all gone," I said.
Bob took a moment to sift through this information. The mental image is one of my father's ashes slipping through his fingers onto the ground.
"Where did all the money go?" Big pause while Lalea thinks of what to say.
"He gave it to people who are not in our family," I said.
"Mother fucker," said Bob. No pause.
It is unclear what Bob meant - ie, whether life is a mother fucker or my dad is a mother fucker, but Lalea simply nodded in agreement and continued doing what she was doing, ie, some stupid task assigned to her by one of the two of them.
No doubt I will have to explain at least two or three more times where my parents are and why I live in their attic. Next time maybe I'll include a more graphic description of cremation, ie, a drip pan and a bone crushing phase to ensure the consistency of the "cremains," so as to make the idea really stick in his long term memory.
Have an excellent Saturday.
Love,
Aelalea
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