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Tuesday, August 19, 2014

What I Did This Summer

Sometimes I question my sanity.

Then, it is the nature of humanity to experience moments of uncertainty and to wonder if we have what it takes to endure.

But sometimes it is unclear whether I can attribute my reaction to things as strength or the fact that I am a sociopath. Okay, I know that's extreme! I am my worst critic, and besides I do have a conscience.

My concern is more about my emotional health.


I just told somebody I spent three weeks in the hospital and the abject horror in their eyes left me a little confused.

No, everything is okay,” I reassured them.

But it wasn't okay, was it?

I went into the emergency room, voluntarily (a rarity in itself). They admitted me because they were not sure what the hell was wrong with me. For a better part of two weeks my condition was a mystery!

There was a steady stream of specialists coming through my room, each trying to determine whether my malady was part of their collective font of knowledge. 

They poked me every day, bled me daily, they changed my diet three times, they X-rayed me, threw me into a CAT scan machine, then confined me to an MRI machine. And I lived in those hospital gowns that leave your butt exposed.


In the meantime, because I just started this new job, I was missing work and not getting paid at the same time as my insurance was about to end.

And yet, I had no nightmares. I cried exactly twice: the night I was admitted (because I had promised myself that I'd never spend another night in a hospital for as long as I lived); and at the 28-minute mark I found myself trapped in that damned MRI. 

In the first instance, I teared up and felt a great sadness and some fear; in the last, I broke down because even if you are not claustrophobic, the experience is likely to freak you out. It's loud, cold, restrictive, and alienating.

I either took it really, really well, or I am better at compartmentalization than even I suspected.

The only way I could manage was to focus on the immediate problem before me and only on whatever I could control.

You'd think that the potential for drama, comedy, tragedy, quirky behavior and bigger than life personalities would get the creative juices running. It's all there! People in pain, relieved, terrified, overjoyed, at their best, their worst, their most vulnerable...

I managed to read a book, which was about as much escapism as I could handle. My own creativity took a back seat. I am not sure that I will be able to look back at the experience without a jaundiced eye and extract story material.

I am not that strong. But I am good, physically. Mentally and emotionally, I kept it together because I have a stupendous support system and because I couldn't allow myself to fall apart. Other than that, I haven't given it much thought except to question my sanity.

Is there a mini-memoir in that? Probably. 


I haven't put it all in perspective, I've just kept moving through and past it. I'm also not quite ready to look terror in the eye so close to the metaphorical abyss--because the terror was in not knowing and now that we solved the mystery and fixed the problem, there's no emotional baggage to drag around. 

Beyond this, it seems especially important to preserve the privacy and dignity of those who went on the journey with me (some because they wanted to, others because their path traveled through shared roads).

I did take notes for myself, but that required more honesty than creativity. Are these mutually exclusive? I'm not sure, some days they are.

The question is whether I can get back to writing and other creative pursuits. My head isn't in it right now nor is my heart. I want to, but there are other priorities that call to me.

Big girl decisions need to be made and action must be taken.

And that is what I did this summer! And that is where I am headed!


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