Nothing Even Matters

It's official. I am depressed. They finally got me. The enemy has infiltrated my psyche.

People have been accusing me of it for awhile, that I must be depressed with the dire turn my life has taken. But I wasn't depressed and I was proud not to be; not that there's anything wrong with being depressed but I was proud that it wasn't on my long laundry list of ailments. When I saw the psycho-pharmagologist and she diagnosed me with substance induced mood disorder she put me on anti-depressants. I had K call her to clarify what my actual mental state is and who I am. I wanted K to tell her that when I first started seeing her I had lost my fiancee, two babies, my apartment, one of my closest friends, had moved and started a new job all inside a month. I was traumatized, in shock, devastated and had a lot of work to do but I never needed chemical help. I wanted Dr. H, the psycho-pharmacologist to know that, so as not to prescribe anything for that reason, to make sure it was only to combat the drugs' side effects.

Now different story. I am emotionally off balance. My dad. My sister and I. Pneumonia. Still being on steroids. Knowing that I will be on chemotherapy for the rest of my life. It's finally sinking in that the pattern of my life is going to have a definite pattern. Almost a routine without it being predictable. I will be in and out of the hospital for the rest of my life. I have been since August; but until I stayed for four days, it hadn't completely sunken in. Is it a cruel joke? My new life is not that I am married. Nor is it that I had my first child. I didn't publish my first book, travel around the world or buy my first home. My new life is pills and hospital visits and doctor's visits. And working to live, literally, to pay all of these out of pocket medical expenses, instead of working to have money and take advantage of my single status and no ties. This sucks. How could my life take this turn? Why me? What beautiful lesson should I be getting out of this? I did get into my law school jeans today which was a treat. But as much of a girl as I am, I would rather have remained at the weight I was in early August, 17 pounds heavier than I am now to have my life back, to have my freedom back, to still believe my dreams will come true, to have time to spend on my dreams instead of spending it all on my health. My 'spare' time and spare money is spent making doctor's appointments, going to the doctor, doing research online, being stuck in my poor health with aches and pains, freaking out about my health, going to the ER, being in the hospital, it never ends.

I also realized that I am unable to have a real job. I know I already decided that I don't want one. But to know that I will never be well enough to have one is another story completely. I would miss too much work. I couldn't maintain a normal person's schedule. And there doesn't seem to be a viable federal or state program for people like me who aren't really disabled but can't always work. How am I going to survive? How will it be as I get older? I don't have extra money to sock away, not when I am spending so much to stay alive. This is stressing me out. This is scaring me. This is crazy.

And I am all alone in this. No one seems to get it. My family is doing their best and they are always there for me, like physically there but in terms of this stuff, they won't tune in to my fears and make me feel less alone with them. I don't know how to convey to them how important it would be to have some company here. It doesn't help me to hear that, "you sound better today," because that's short term and I need long term salvation and saving some medical breakthrough that we obviously can't bank on, this is my life. Just because I got out of the hospital doesn't mean I am out of the woods. It means I won that battle. But I have to keep fighting. And there are other things I want that I always thought I'd be fighting for. Unfortunately I don't have the time or the energy. No one gets that. No one understands.

My sister characterized me as being 'bah humbug' about my life a couple of weeks ago. I wasn't. Now I am. Last Saturday I went to yoga with my brother for the first time since the pneumonia. I was so touched when he put his mat next to mine in the front row instead of his usual spot in the second row to keep a close watch on me. We went our separate ways after class. I heard the song, "My Eyes Adored You," by the Four Seasons on the train ride home and every word made me feel more and more depressed and sad and lonely. I went home, cried my eyes out and fell asleep for four hours.

I wasn't crying for anything specific. I was crying for everything. I was crying for everything I might never have. I was crying for all of the dreams I may never fullfill. The children I might never have. The places I might never see. The fact that I had pneumonia and was in the hospital for four days. My dad was out the morning after his heart procedure. I was crying because they didn't find anything else wrong with me and my release from the hospital wasn't a relief because whatever the missing diagnosis is is still missing. The whole experience was another near death experience. A close call. Once again I made it by the skin of my teeth. I used to pride myself on making it places on time by the skin of my teeth and now it's living by the skin of my teeth. It wasn't what they thought it should be. Thank God. Next time will I be so 'lucky?' I hope so. But why can't they figure it out already? That's the real problem. Can't they just figure it out so I can stop living life in limbo waiting for the next enemy plane to be flying over head. Or will it be a land attack next time. Never can predict how the enemy can attack. So how to prepare? You can't. I am at the mercy of my body and my immune system that doesn't realize it's killing its own.

My body's so stupid. I wish I could tell it what to do.

I wish I had had those babies when I was 19. I wish I had gone abroad in college and not been such an idiot staying here for a guy. I wish I had been more confident when I worked at Legal Aid. I wish I had taken the job at the NYU radio station I auditioned for and got but didn't take because the slot they gave me conflicted with my social life. I wish I had stayed in my first college instead of transferring three times. What would I be like if I had allowed myself to get comfortable there. Would I have flourished? Would Brooklyn and I have broken up sooner? Would I never have gotten pregnant? Would I have been stronger and more confident and learned not to take shit at a younger age? I wish I had known my value earlier. I wish I had known I was smart and capable sooner. I wish I had known I was pretty and sexy sooner. If I had known all of that at 20 instead of 30, I could have had 10 years of real living instead of 10 years spent searching. Now I don't know what to do with any of it and I have no time to do anything with any of it. It doesn't even matter now that I have it if I am spending my time in a hospital gown dodging sponge baths from Nurse Bob with unwashed hair and glazed over eyes from all the drugs. Oh fuck it all.

Signs

What is it, you do a good job at work and they just give you more work as a reward. They perceive it as some kind of reward because it demonstrates their faith in your ability. Therefore it's really an honor, not a curse. Meanwhile your slacker - but paid the same - colleagues are dashing out of work hours before you, damnit, because they didn't have an extra assignment dumped on them.

That's what I am starting to feel like with this sick thing. Like there is an ascertainable number of ailments to dole out and whoever doles them out gives them to the people who can take them. They are given to the people who move on, to the people who make do, to the people that don't complain, to the people that make the best of it. Until the age of 21, my health was status quo for someone my age. Then I got ulcerative colitis. It kicked my ass around a little bit. But I was young and easily distracted and resilient enough to ignore my body's warning signals and drink until dawn and sweat out the hangover the next morning with a six mile run. That is, until my left knee broke down on me and my ulcerative colitis went to a place where I could no longer push myself that hard or lie to myself about the meaning behind all of my body's messages. What had been stern whispers from my body were now bone chilling screams of warning,

Despite the adversity I made it. The flare that took over my life in the beginning of August and lasted throughout the the fall was harrowing and tested my strength, endurance, stamina and ability to accept my fate simultaneously while fighting for a change in my fate. And I almost made it home. I almost made it to that illusory promised land. I almost let go and exhaled. I almost believed, hell - I did believe. My life was sunshine again and I was open again and the world was my oyster again. I made it through to the other side.

So back to that old adage about the reward for good work is more work; the reward for a good attitude or 'being in a good place,' which is V's latest characterization of my mental state, the addition of new similar challenges, like winning a video game and having to go to the next board and the next board and they keep getting harder and you keep playing along. And then you get pneumonia and end up in the hospital. You don't know you have pneumonia because you've been busy playing the game. You've been fighting and maneouvering and bobbing and weaving. You've realized once again what your body's made of and how to manipulate it in order to work for you again. It took time; it was difficult but you did it.

And there you are for about three weeks getting progressively weaker and more fatigued and sweating and having the chills and getting shortness of breath just running up one flight of stairs and having heart palpitations and being unable to force yourself out of bed in the morning. Obviously, all of these problems are easily attributable to other things than pneumonia so you keep on keeping on. Dad's heart surgery had something to do with it. The dusty apartment you call home is a contributor. Your constantly evolving cocktail of drugs yeilding constantly changing side effects definitlety some explains some of it. The cold weather maybe? Now you are grasping at straws but pneumonia? No way. You're confident it's nothing serious and couldn't be anything serious because of what you just went through. That would be straight up cruel for the person in charge to give you something serious.

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again with the same results, the results you don't want, yet continuing on that path nonetheless thinking the next try will yield the results you want, undeterred and unworried. I am starting to think that I might be insane. I promised myself I would be vigilant about my health and heed all the warning signals and take care of myself and not push myself and not indulge in the stupid behavior of my youth. I didn't realize I was doing it but I was doing it. How did I convince myself that going to bed at 9:00pm was okay? Why did I accept the constant headache that felt like my head was in a vice grip. Waking up bathed in sweat was weird and grossed me out a little and the shortness of breath was weird for someone who is in as good physical shape as me but I didn't balk at either. So I ended up in St. Luke's / Roosevelt Hospital on Friday after coming to terms with the facts; I could not function enough to pass as normal. I was at work and couldn't pick my head off my desk. I called Dr. Lax and left the room to talk to him and slid down against the wall on the floor outside the conference room I was working in because I couldn't stand up. He told me to meet him at the ER. Then I couldn't get up from the floor without using the wall for balance and strength. Then my heart palpitations and shortness of breath kicked in and I barely made it back inside the conference room to collect my stuff. It wasn't good.

Pneumonia. Pneumonia. Pneumonia. Probably the last thing I thought it would be or could be. I have never had it. There are a million pieces to this. There's the insane angle. Clearly I am insane according to that definition. I still don't listen to my body. Then there's the unfairness piece. How could I get pneumonia. Me who could count her good days on one hand between August and November. It's a cruel joke. Who did I piss off? Then there's the be careful what you wish for piece.

I remember lamenting that ulcerative colitis is such an unsexy, unromantic, awkward chronic illness to have. To make matters worse, no one really knows what it is so you always have to explain it. I hate that part. So with this pneumonia I finally got what I was looking for. I wanted something romantic. With pneumonia there is no mess, not a lot of pain, your world is blurry and beautiful as you accept electrotrolytes and antibiotics coursing through your veins as you lay in your bed and watch the first snow and drift in and out of sleep. Flowers abounding in my room. Me playing crossword puzzles in bed while the nurse comes into my room to check my temperature and bring me some tea. It's a neutral disease. It conjures up weakness and womanliness. Reading and resting. Daydreaming about what I will do when I get better. Wearing a dressing gown while male interns come check on me more than necessary and blush when I flirt with them from my bed.

When the doctor told me I had a spot on my lung (or some spots, I don't recall) and that it was pneumonia, I was mildly relieved. Pneumonia was something new. Something I've never had. It's treatable but it's serious. It's painful and exhausting but doesn't require the same type of vigilance as keeping up with ulcerative colitis. It requires electrolytes and sleep. Antibiotics and tea.

Spending time in the hospital is a trip. When Dr. Lax said, "we're keeping you," I didn't mind. I was curious. A hospital stay is something I've never done and I also comprehend that I am not capable of taking care of myself or I wouldn't be in the situation I was in. As AC explained, hospital stays are for bad patients. And that must be me; I don't heed warning signs or maybe I've been focusing on the wrong ones, the ulcerative colitis ones, and not keeping an eye out for any other weird signals my body was giving me. The bottom line is not that I've given up but I have no choice but to enjoy the ride. I don't have control over everything. I only have control over how I deal with it. If there is 5% of me that can function on a given day, I am going to stand in that sliver of the pie and go about my day. That's just who I am. I am not looking for excuses not to live life to the fullest, not to go to work, not to go for a run, not to go to yoga, not to go out on a Saturday night. Now there are new warning signals for me to watch out for is all. And it is so validating to hear pneumonia when you have been feeling as exhausted as I had been. What a relief to allow myself to be sick and have the luxury of not having a choice regarding what to do on a given day and to be freed from all of my obligations, both self imposed and from the outside. I am not allowed to work until Monday. Doctor's orders. So much for a reward for a job well done.