Behaving Badly

I hung up the phone after double-checking that I had a grocery stop scheduled with the medical ride service.  Definitely scheduled.  I still had a nagging feeling that it was going to be an issue.

I had just seen a neurologist, and gotten a bunch of blood taken for more tests.  I liked her.

“132, impressive.  The lowest I’ve seen.” She had said, referring to my B12 levels this winter, “B12 deficiency can take 6 months to a year to heal, you’ve got a long way to go – I’m going to save you the painful tests, but there’s still a lot we can rule out.”  Finally.  At least in a couple weeks I’ll have more info.  And I felt reassured when she seemed to think the deficiency is still the trouble-maker, I’ve fallen down a WebMD rabbit hole since improvement stopped.

My legs aren’t working right.  I’ve noticed sometimes since this fall, especially at night, that I walk funny.  It’s like my knees don’t want to straighten all the way.  Like I don’t have the strength to make them.

A couple weeks ago I went to the ER and overheard a man talking about his son, “He’s not trying hard enough.  He needs to move more”, he said in thirty different ways during the longest wait of my life.  I realized that I hadn’t physically pushed it since the pitch debacle, and though I was in hobbling agony for days after that, it had been over a month since I tried.

So I did FIVE minutes on my elliptical, on the very lowest setting.  It was a bad move.  I had jell-o legs for days, practically useless.  I had to go to the doctor a couple days later and couldn’t get my feet off the ground trying to jump during a neuro test.  I used to be a gymnast!  I could do a toe-touch a few years ago!  (Not a good one, but still!)  I had to go to the grocery store after, and though I was able to use the cart as a walker, getting the groceries to the cab, then from the cab to my apartment was a falling-down disaster.

I was anxious about this grocery stop.  A lime-green cab pulled up to the hospital and I got in.  I wasn’t feeling chatty.  Either was the driver.  I looked out the window, enjoying the deep blue undertones of the overcast Portland day.  (Oh how I miss Portland.  Oh how I miss everywhere but my apartment or the doctor!)

“This is the stop”, I said when we approached the store near my home.
“No stop.”, said the driver in a strong accent I couldn’t place.
“Yes, stop.  I just double-checked -”
“It’s not my problem.”
“You don’t understand, I’m nervous about just walking in the store, I can’t walk all the way from -”
“It’s not my problem.”
“Please, please call dispatch, or just let me out, I have to -”
“It’s not my problem.”
“Don’t FUCKING say it’s not my problem one more time!  Please, please, listen -”
“It’s not my problem.”
At this point he had just turned into my complex, less than a five minute walk from the store.  I unlocked my door and opened it, then SCREAMED, “Stop the fucking car asshole, and if my legs give out on me, well, well, you should feel really BAD!”

(Quite the burn, Meg.  Ouch.  FACED!)

I hobbled out of the car, flipped him off, and slammed the door.  Started hobbling up the small hill, crying angrily.  He was in a Prius.  I heard the tires and lack of engine creeping behind me.

“WHAT?!  WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!”  I yelled at the car, its windows all closed.  He kept creepin’.  I flipped him off and ushered for him to pass, and to fuck off and away.  He did.  I kept hobbling, fueled by self-righteous anger and need for groceries.

I’ll get him fired.  “It’s not my problem.”  What a dick.  What is he doing driving around sick people?!

As I approached the parking lot I spotted his lime green stupid car.  He must have been waiting to see if I made it okay.  I suddenly remembered the confused and scared look on this face as I melted down at him and realized he had no idea what I was saying.  He had no idea why “it’s not my problem” seemed so infuriatingly callous to me, nor why the stop was so urgent.

So I won’t try to get him fired.  One less thing to do.  He’s still a dick.  Fuck, I’m acting like a fucking crazy person.

Getting groceries was a disaster.  My grocery cart was very obviously needed as a walker by the time I got there, and I was still crying.  That annoying silent-sort of cry that just squirts out the eyeballs once in awhile, but starts back up full-storm on any attempt to speak.  People stared at me.  It took over an hour to get a new car there.  While I waited, luckily in a tucked-away seat, the eyeball squirting kept fueling up and dying again.

Frustration at my bodily pain.  Frustration at my life.  Frustration at life in general.

It carried on for another hour after I got home, this deep sadness that I used to be so familiar with.  I had forgotten how real it feels while it’s happening.  It had been a long long time since I felt that way.  Hopeless.  Once it lifted, not very long after, I was able to laugh at myself and the drama of the day, but it was quite a reminder of how real and scary depressed feelings are.  And of how far I’ve come.

It’s still weird times here.  Still keepin’ the faith, and trying not to worry about all of the crazy going on in my life, trying to look at the blessings.

For one, a book poured out of me last weekend!  It was an idea that came to me last spring, but I had ignored.  It kept coming to me while I was trying to sleep last week, and I finally wrote it all out this weekend.  It’s about mindfulness and all the stuff I talk about here, but real short, and called, “How I Lost All My Fucks”.  (An apt experience to follow writing that book, eh?)

I’d like to do it up as a children’s book – for adults – once I have the mojo.  So I’ll be hunting for a literary agent, and hunting for some kind of doable reliable income, whilst massaging my useless screaming legs and bitterly mumbling, “it’s not my problem”.



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