Taking a little break

Not that kind of break

Hi everybody! Happy Memorial Day Long Weekend/Unofficial Start of Summer to those who celebrate! I’m just hanging around, noodling on the keyboard, completely dysregulated from any schedule and wondering what to do next. Welcome to Crone Life, all about my journey into matriarchal sage-hood.

I’m stopping thinking about how to continue my Tale of Two Wrists (for now) because I’m not happy with the condition it’s in (the writing; my wrists are doing fine). I'm a little tired of myself and my suffering and considering how I should express it in a truthful and non-self-pitying way. Maybe a little self-pitying. For example I have spent the past two weeks post-shoulder surgery with my right arm strapped to my torso, unable to take a shower. My hair was so greasy! But all I had to do really was putter around the house and ask for help making sandwiches. The thing I got mad about was that I had to ask for help. Shouldn't my husband and son know what I want before I have to ask for it? Is it not obvious that a one-armed person needs help and you should anticipate what they might need before they need it? It’s a story of mute resentment as old as time.

Actual greasy hair (and skin). Wow, what a great haircut!

I had a followup visit with the surgeon, venturing into the city via train to get my dressing checked and removed. The moment when the surgeon walked in and I saw him for the first time post-surgery (this is not true, I saw him in the hospital room when he showed me an x-ray image on his phone, but I wasn’t fully awake) was surprisingly emotional. I felt such gratitude for his care and as though we had been through something big together. He reached out to shake my hand, but of course I couldn't extend my right hand while in the sling, so we ended up clasping hands, my left in his right. It felt good.

It led me to think about trust, and trusting experts whom you don’t know (even if you’ve checked their google reviews). Everyday we are trusting someone to follow the traffic rules, to not run us over. To not carry a concealed weapon. To not put cyanide in over-the-counter medications. If you think about this too long, you will go crazy and god knows many have. When I think about being unconscious in the OR, I feel uneasy. Rationally, I know all those people (why are there always at least a dozen people there?) have caring roles and everything is for my benefit and health, but there’s always that slight paranoia. I have both an endoscopy and a colonoscopy scheduled for over the summer, so will have every opportunity to consider this further.

Most of the time I feel safe. Based on past history, I am my own biggest threat (think about it). Maybe I just don’t know how to interact properly with the physical world. Or maybe the world itself is dangerous? It can’t be all my fault. But the point is, no other person has caused me harm. Well, I guess the students could have put away the cable I tripped on. But they’re all teenaged babies, let’s face it. I probably should have stowed the cable myself. If only I’d thought of it in time.

I’m not a paranoid person, but I'm aware of the possibilities of harm. Some of them, anyway. At the height of #MeToo, I tried to explain to my husband, who is just about six feet tall and fairly broad, about how women need to be physically careful out in the world and there is always an undercurrent of fear for everyone, including me. He didn’t really get it. He’s concerned about exploitation and control, but the mental kind, not physical. I’m scared of both, though I feel prepared to deal with attempts at mental coercion. I always have trust in my own smarts and ability to navigate difficult social situations. But I also fear that moment of paralysis, when you can't believe what is happening and you can’t even open your mouth to say “No.” Not that that’s happened to me in a while.

The other side of helplessness is accepting it and trusting people will help and you’ll be fine, which is much my preferred method of operation and hasn’t led me wrong. I’m grateful to my friends Amy and Sarah, who have given me rides when I needed them. I appreciate my boss, who in the throes of closing out a 40-year career and adjusting to a new grandchild, has remembered to text me every few days to see how I’m doing. But I do fear that asking for help means I’m a selfish monster who doesn’t know how to give back. What’s the right thing?

What else am I doing on this last day of this long holiday weekend? Trying not to imagine a live-action Lilo & Stitch remake, shying away from gingham and/or linen shorts, not planning a barbecue … the list is endless. At least the sun came out (finally).

News From Veronica

She has learned to love going outside, which is fine when the weather is nice and we can just leave the door to the deck open (there’s a cat-friendly magnetic screen, which neither cat understands, so they try to crawl under) but last week was too cold, so there was a lot of squeaking on both sides of the door when Someone wanted to check again to make sure it wasn’t still raining. And then of course wanting to come back in 90 seconds later when it was, indeed, still raining.

I enjoy being home with her. She likes to follow me around the house, staying just out of reach, but at least she’s there. She’s lived with us for almost a year now, so I should do a Veronica Gotcha Day post sometime in June. She’s grown a lot, both physically and mentally, but she’s still very squeaky.

Thanks, of course, for reading! Please click the heart as your gift to me (my gift to you is on your screen right now). Enjoy your long weekend at the end of May (if you’re having one) and just enjoy, as much as you can, in general.