One of my lovely friends told me that my illness is probably just the catalyst for my super powers and that I need to ask about it when the Legion of Infectious Diseases contacts me via my doctor referral. I have absolutely decided to use my powers for anarchy. Pretty much because I have been given the roller derby name that is awesome and won't work for good. Just call me Contagion. Those who know me might find a different spelling option.
The doctor visit went well. I really liked her. She didn't even give me a physical examination. It sounds weird for that to be a good thing but for me it meant she believed me when I told her what my symptoms were. That and she is so awesome, she had it figured out in about 15 minutes. She thought it was still Mono. If the tests came back negative, it was probably Fibromyalgia or Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS). Then she ran all kinds of tests on me because in order to diagnose the two latter illness, you have to rule everything out.
She called me this week with the results and asked if I had time to talk. That should have been a warning to me. She said not only do I still have Mono, but the antibody counts are actually higher than they were in January which makes me a Carrier. It also sounds like an awesome origin for a Super Being. Because this is outside of her experience and knowledge base, she had to refer me to Infectious Diseases. They would contact me and be able to tell me if this was Chronic or I will be a Carrier for the rest of my life.
Let me explain Chronic and Carrier. Chronic means that the Mono will go into remission and I will be subjected to random relapses for up to 16 years. Carrier means that I always exhibit symptoms and I am always contagious. Hence the roller derby name. Now God love everybody who says that this is a relief and at least I don't have Fibromyalgia or Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. While I appreciate the sentiment because they know someone with these diseases and are relieved that I don't have to go through this mess, I am wondering why I am seeing it differently.
Did they all miss the phrase "for the rest of my life?" Fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome can be treated. They know people who's lives are not easy, but they have lives. If I am a carrier, I will always exhibit symptoms, meaning I will always be sick. The only article I could find on this rarity basically said that some people just get stuck in this one phase of Mono. Even if I can somehow manage to find a way to suppress the symptoms and actually be on my feet for longer than two hours a day, I will still be contagious. Sure, it is only passed through saliva, but I am pretty sure that no company will employ someone who is a walking viral infection waiting to happen. The liability is just too great.
Don't misunderstand. I am not panicking or freaking out. I have this strange sense of peace. Maybe it's because I have been helpless to control my circumstances for almost eight months. I just figure whatever is going to happen is going to happen. I am not upset but I am not relieved or happy by any means. Although I am finding much humor in the situation. I heard the absolute best encouragement from my coworker yesterday who said, "Look at it this way. You're probably going to be forced to become a recluse and out of that you will become some great artist that everyone will just be in awe of." I think the reason this is the best thing I've heard is because she took in what was happening; looked at my future; and found the best possible outcome based on reality. (It doesn't hurt that my daydream response to this situation is to believe the exact same thing. In my version, I write the great American novel.)
It was grounding to have someone look at my life for what it is and still find something inspiring to say. I've begun to wonder if I am a cynic. I have never really thought about it before. I am usually all about finding silver linings and such that it never seemed possible that I could be. I think I am though. And I don't think it is a bad thing. I can look at what is before me without fear. I don't need to hope for my circumstances to change. I can't change what is going on. I can change me. I can adjust to my surroundings. But I can't do that and wish for things to change. What is the point of changing yourself if you are expecting you won't have to? These thoughts aren't really cynical in my opinion. I believe that is being a realist. I have always thought of myself as a realist.
What makes me think I am a cynic is the feeling I get when I talk to people who try to make me think that my circumstances are going to magically revert back to where they were. This feeling was not always there. I think I crossed a line about four months ago that turned me from realist to cynic. Something existential snapped and changed my innate reactions to people good intentions. I can't tell you what caused it, I only know that I have converted. My inner response is no longer a wistful longing to believe what the are saying.
My inner response is to picture me wearing big black boots and kicking them in the shins.
Showing posts with label Comment Inspired. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Comment Inspired. Show all posts
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Hiding Isn't Passive When You Are a Ninja - Part II
Part I is here.
Trying to keep from berating herself for being an idiot, she reminded her inner critic that this was the first night the air conditioning had been on in the building. She had not lived there the previous summer and had no way of knowing that the air would cause the paper to rustle like that.
Wanting to blame someone she stirred up some fake righteous indignation against the paperboy. Or man. Or woman. As she made coffee, she imagined calling the paper and demanding that her subscription be canceled and a refund issued immediately. After the first few slugs of coffee entered her system, she realized she probably did not need to add caffeine to the adrenaline.
As she started to see the humor of the situation, her coping mechanism kicked in with a few self-mocking observations. She began to laugh at herself. Maybe she did have every right to be afraid of an unknown noise. But that could not account for her total lack of clarity that caused her to fling the door open with only her wits to defend herself. Considering her witless behavior, she calculated the odds of her intelligence against an attacker and estimated them to be a gazillion to one. She thought no more about it as she went about getting ready for work. On her way to the bus stop, she started to feel the creeping paranoia, but was able to dismiss it immediately because of the lingering embarrassment. Besides the sun was bright enough to shoo away any negative thoughts.
During her twenty minute bus ride, she decided the story was too funny not to share. One of her coworkers an older friend who couldn't help playing mother would be upset. But she was positive she could spin the tale well enough that mocking herself would ease any lectures by showing she realized how stupid she had been. Riding the wave of inspired fact twisting, she got excited as she rehearsed retelling the adventure in her head. It all went according to plan.
She made it sound courageous and idiotic at the same time; everyone was too busy laughing to think much about it. Starting the work day off with a good laugh, made the rest of the day breeze by without incident. At 4:45 the office rustled with the sound of everyone gathering their things in preparation for the coming of 5:00. Giving in to her motherly concern, her coworker asked if her key chain with mace was quickly accessible. She also managed to hint about hanging one next to the door so she would always have a weapon next to the door. Jane said it was a great idea and knew that there would be a can of mace on her desk the next morning that her friend “just happened to come across.” Feeling comfortably warmed by the concern, she headed home again.
The warmth waned as she started thinking about what to prepare for dinner. She enjoyed cooking, but cooking for one was more difficult than cooking for four. Again, she felt a softening to the idea of searching for a mate. It wasn't that she was against dating or marriage. She just didn't want to be someone who went looking for a relationship out of desperation. Determined to not let such a little thing as cooking push her towards a marriage of convenience, she decided on tilapia. She could whip that up in a matter of minutes. She had made the recipe many times and had written out the calculations for a serving of one. Turning the corner onto her street, she felt again like she was being watched. Deciding she had better learn to control her crazy before crazy controlled her; she banished the unwanted thoughts from her consciousness and headed home for a much needed, uneventful evening.
Again waking in a panic to the sound of her newspaper, she laughed at her body's response to something that had already been identified as harmless. Enjoying a personal consideration about the conscious verses unconscious, she was able to get ready in a good mood. At least the adrenaline was good for getting going. She wondered if she could find an alarm clock that would play spooky sounds instead of soothing sounds to recreate the effect every morning. Dismissing it as pointless because invariably she would become used to being scared awake and therefore no longer scared awake, she left for work.
As she approached the creeptastic corner, she decided to own her fear and rename the intersection. Her internal monologue voice switched to a deeper more authoritative sound and decreed to all personalities residing within the boundaries of Jane's physical being that the intersection would now be addressed as the corner where paranoia meets fear. Or CWPMF for short. Trying to decide how that anagram would be pronounced, she forgot she was waiting for the bus and jumped when it pulled up in front of her. Grinning sheepishly at the driver, she showed her bus pass and headed toward her section on the bus.
I have a massive headache today but wanted to post this in hopes that it will pressure me to finish the story. I hope I am not delusional when remembering I have already proof read and edited this.
Trying to keep from berating herself for being an idiot, she reminded her inner critic that this was the first night the air conditioning had been on in the building. She had not lived there the previous summer and had no way of knowing that the air would cause the paper to rustle like that.
Wanting to blame someone she stirred up some fake righteous indignation against the paperboy. Or man. Or woman. As she made coffee, she imagined calling the paper and demanding that her subscription be canceled and a refund issued immediately. After the first few slugs of coffee entered her system, she realized she probably did not need to add caffeine to the adrenaline.
As she started to see the humor of the situation, her coping mechanism kicked in with a few self-mocking observations. She began to laugh at herself. Maybe she did have every right to be afraid of an unknown noise. But that could not account for her total lack of clarity that caused her to fling the door open with only her wits to defend herself. Considering her witless behavior, she calculated the odds of her intelligence against an attacker and estimated them to be a gazillion to one. She thought no more about it as she went about getting ready for work. On her way to the bus stop, she started to feel the creeping paranoia, but was able to dismiss it immediately because of the lingering embarrassment. Besides the sun was bright enough to shoo away any negative thoughts.
During her twenty minute bus ride, she decided the story was too funny not to share. One of her coworkers an older friend who couldn't help playing mother would be upset. But she was positive she could spin the tale well enough that mocking herself would ease any lectures by showing she realized how stupid she had been. Riding the wave of inspired fact twisting, she got excited as she rehearsed retelling the adventure in her head. It all went according to plan.
She made it sound courageous and idiotic at the same time; everyone was too busy laughing to think much about it. Starting the work day off with a good laugh, made the rest of the day breeze by without incident. At 4:45 the office rustled with the sound of everyone gathering their things in preparation for the coming of 5:00. Giving in to her motherly concern, her coworker asked if her key chain with mace was quickly accessible. She also managed to hint about hanging one next to the door so she would always have a weapon next to the door. Jane said it was a great idea and knew that there would be a can of mace on her desk the next morning that her friend “just happened to come across.” Feeling comfortably warmed by the concern, she headed home again.
The warmth waned as she started thinking about what to prepare for dinner. She enjoyed cooking, but cooking for one was more difficult than cooking for four. Again, she felt a softening to the idea of searching for a mate. It wasn't that she was against dating or marriage. She just didn't want to be someone who went looking for a relationship out of desperation. Determined to not let such a little thing as cooking push her towards a marriage of convenience, she decided on tilapia. She could whip that up in a matter of minutes. She had made the recipe many times and had written out the calculations for a serving of one. Turning the corner onto her street, she felt again like she was being watched. Deciding she had better learn to control her crazy before crazy controlled her; she banished the unwanted thoughts from her consciousness and headed home for a much needed, uneventful evening.
Again waking in a panic to the sound of her newspaper, she laughed at her body's response to something that had already been identified as harmless. Enjoying a personal consideration about the conscious verses unconscious, she was able to get ready in a good mood. At least the adrenaline was good for getting going. She wondered if she could find an alarm clock that would play spooky sounds instead of soothing sounds to recreate the effect every morning. Dismissing it as pointless because invariably she would become used to being scared awake and therefore no longer scared awake, she left for work.
As she approached the creeptastic corner, she decided to own her fear and rename the intersection. Her internal monologue voice switched to a deeper more authoritative sound and decreed to all personalities residing within the boundaries of Jane's physical being that the intersection would now be addressed as the corner where paranoia meets fear. Or CWPMF for short. Trying to decide how that anagram would be pronounced, she forgot she was waiting for the bus and jumped when it pulled up in front of her. Grinning sheepishly at the driver, she showed her bus pass and headed toward her section on the bus.
I have a massive headache today but wanted to post this in hopes that it will pressure me to finish the story. I hope I am not delusional when remembering I have already proof read and edited this.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Hiding Isn't Passive When You Are a Ninja - Part I
Jane shivered as she turned the final corner on her walk home. Lately she hadn't been able to shake the feeling that someone was watching her. It was making her paranoid and grumpy. Living downtown was exciting and energizing for the most part. But it did have its downsides. Being single and living alone fit her independent nature. Until evenings like this when she wondered if maybe there wasn't something to be said for actively finding a guy to settle down with.
"Grrrrrr," she said making a rumbling sound low in her throat. It didn't sound very intimidating to anyone who may have heard it; it was more like a purr than a growl. The sound reverberated more loudly in her head, making her feel more like ninja than a damsel. Except that ninjas are stealthy and quiet. Noises were more for pirates. She threw her shoulders back and slowed her naturally quick gait to a bouncing jaunt. She hoped she looked confident, pleasantly comfortable in her neighborhood as she strolled home. Failing that, she hoped it at least made her look mentally disabled.
She started to giggle as she remembered the story her friend, a fellow public transportation fan, once told her. Every day on her way to work Kaybee would share the bus with a gorgeous girl who was well put together. This girl always had a wide circle of empty seats surrounding her. Apparently her rocking back and forth while muttering to herself intimidated even the shadiest looking character on the scariest bus route. Kaybee always theorized that the girl was actually fine, but acted like that on the bus to discourage attention. Single women have ways of looking scarier than they could ever possibly be. Like the king snake, hoping appearances will fool predators into thinking they are the deadly coral snake instead of a harmless fake. Thankfully there are no magic rhymes to allow people to distinguish between someone who is mentally unstable from someone who just wants to keep people at bay. Jane became completely distracted from any fears by composing rhymes. "Rock and then sing, death she might bring. Sing before rock, she will freeze in shock." "Laughing at the unknown, your mind will be blown. Knowingly laughing, safe for attacking." By the time she reached her apartment building, she had forgotten her sixth sense had been acting up. In the safety of her snug studio she laughed off her suspicions as silly and unrealistic. Still she checked her deadbolt three times before retiring for the night which was twice more than she normally would. But she had lived so long on her own, she had become and expert at compartmentalizing her fears in favor of sleep.
Bolting upright at 5:00 am with a gasp, she awoke from a deep slumber. Every hair was standing on end and her skin prickled with the rush of adrenaline that pushed through her veins. Catching her breath, she tried to remember her dream so she could confront the fictional fear and calm her subconscious. She able to vaguely recall a TV chef conducting a contest in her Aunt's kitchen, but nothing seemed scary about that.
The whispering, rustling sound was barely audible, but horribly out of place. Suddenly she knew it wasn't her dream that had awakened her in a state of panic. Not being able to identify what it was, her logical side tried to preach reason. Unfortunately it was trying to debate against intuition that seemed to scream at her when she realized it was emanating from just outside her door. She froze, unable decide whether the sound was harmless or threatening. Forcing her breathing to slow so she could hear over her heart thumping in her chest, she recognized the sound. This did nothing to soothe her fears as she realized it was the sound of paper rustling. Someone was standing outside her door reading her newspaper. Were they waiting for her?
It was only another thirty minutes before her alarm went off starting her morning routine. After putting on a robe, the first thing she did every morning was open her door and grab her paper. She reached for her cell phone, wanting to call someone. Anyone. But the terror of being heard cautioned against it. Summoning up her courage, she silently crept up past the kitchen area to the entryway being careful to avoid making shadows under the door in case the mystery person was looking. Suddenly she realized that now she was acting like a ninja and her mind wandered into thinking about how comfortable it would be to sleep in one of those suits. The non sequitur nearly forced a hysterical laugh. Stopping, she mentally shook herself into focus before continuing forward. Her previous perception of the almost too small studio was altered forever. The eight feet to the door felt like a mile. She tried to sink into the wall next to her door and almost fell trying to look through the peephole from an awkward side approach. No one was there. Still the rustling continued. Deciding she would rather face her horrible fate than spend one more minute in suspense she unlocked the deadbolt and flung the door open. The very second the door was unlocked, she wondered why she didn't grab a knife from the counter on her journey to the door. Defenseless, she stood looking. At nothing. As her eyes drifted downward, she watched the top few pages of the paper rise and fall to the current of the hallway air conditioner.
Coming EVENTUALLY, Part 2
"Grrrrrr," she said making a rumbling sound low in her throat. It didn't sound very intimidating to anyone who may have heard it; it was more like a purr than a growl. The sound reverberated more loudly in her head, making her feel more like ninja than a damsel. Except that ninjas are stealthy and quiet. Noises were more for pirates. She threw her shoulders back and slowed her naturally quick gait to a bouncing jaunt. She hoped she looked confident, pleasantly comfortable in her neighborhood as she strolled home. Failing that, she hoped it at least made her look mentally disabled.
She started to giggle as she remembered the story her friend, a fellow public transportation fan, once told her. Every day on her way to work Kaybee would share the bus with a gorgeous girl who was well put together. This girl always had a wide circle of empty seats surrounding her. Apparently her rocking back and forth while muttering to herself intimidated even the shadiest looking character on the scariest bus route. Kaybee always theorized that the girl was actually fine, but acted like that on the bus to discourage attention. Single women have ways of looking scarier than they could ever possibly be. Like the king snake, hoping appearances will fool predators into thinking they are the deadly coral snake instead of a harmless fake. Thankfully there are no magic rhymes to allow people to distinguish between someone who is mentally unstable from someone who just wants to keep people at bay. Jane became completely distracted from any fears by composing rhymes. "Rock and then sing, death she might bring. Sing before rock, she will freeze in shock." "Laughing at the unknown, your mind will be blown. Knowingly laughing, safe for attacking." By the time she reached her apartment building, she had forgotten her sixth sense had been acting up. In the safety of her snug studio she laughed off her suspicions as silly and unrealistic. Still she checked her deadbolt three times before retiring for the night which was twice more than she normally would. But she had lived so long on her own, she had become and expert at compartmentalizing her fears in favor of sleep.
Bolting upright at 5:00 am with a gasp, she awoke from a deep slumber. Every hair was standing on end and her skin prickled with the rush of adrenaline that pushed through her veins. Catching her breath, she tried to remember her dream so she could confront the fictional fear and calm her subconscious. She able to vaguely recall a TV chef conducting a contest in her Aunt's kitchen, but nothing seemed scary about that.
The whispering, rustling sound was barely audible, but horribly out of place. Suddenly she knew it wasn't her dream that had awakened her in a state of panic. Not being able to identify what it was, her logical side tried to preach reason. Unfortunately it was trying to debate against intuition that seemed to scream at her when she realized it was emanating from just outside her door. She froze, unable decide whether the sound was harmless or threatening. Forcing her breathing to slow so she could hear over her heart thumping in her chest, she recognized the sound. This did nothing to soothe her fears as she realized it was the sound of paper rustling. Someone was standing outside her door reading her newspaper. Were they waiting for her?
It was only another thirty minutes before her alarm went off starting her morning routine. After putting on a robe, the first thing she did every morning was open her door and grab her paper. She reached for her cell phone, wanting to call someone. Anyone. But the terror of being heard cautioned against it. Summoning up her courage, she silently crept up past the kitchen area to the entryway being careful to avoid making shadows under the door in case the mystery person was looking. Suddenly she realized that now she was acting like a ninja and her mind wandered into thinking about how comfortable it would be to sleep in one of those suits. The non sequitur nearly forced a hysterical laugh. Stopping, she mentally shook herself into focus before continuing forward. Her previous perception of the almost too small studio was altered forever. The eight feet to the door felt like a mile. She tried to sink into the wall next to her door and almost fell trying to look through the peephole from an awkward side approach. No one was there. Still the rustling continued. Deciding she would rather face her horrible fate than spend one more minute in suspense she unlocked the deadbolt and flung the door open. The very second the door was unlocked, she wondered why she didn't grab a knife from the counter on her journey to the door. Defenseless, she stood looking. At nothing. As her eyes drifted downward, she watched the top few pages of the paper rise and fall to the current of the hallway air conditioner.
Coming EVENTUALLY, Part 2
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