Don't Play the Ending
A couple months ago I mentioned that I hadn't said much because I've been busy being sick, and I had no real reason to write or be introspective about that.
A few weeks ago, I changed that because after so long, the being sick was enough of a weight on me that I did, in fact, need to write about it.
Even that, though, was mostly a rant/vent. Or, I guess, more like a purging of negative emotion.
For the most part, since all of this really started, I've been more than capable of finding the silver lining among the ominous clouds. Sure, it's been on my mind, but I've had no problem breathing through it, acknowledging that it's a little scary and a little annoying, but temporary and something I'm slogging my way through toward an ending.
But the past month has been really tough. With each new doctor, I have a little less hope. I feel a little less confident that this time there will be an answer and I'll actually be near the end. After finding out that the cardiologist had found nothing - even though I was fairly certain he would, and that my problem had nothing to do with my heart - I was so disheartened. I was so sad. I was downright depressed, feeling like there was no solution and there was no hope...feeling like I'd be handicapped like this forever.
As a result, I pushed harder. I have discovered that I am capable of feeling defeat, but not capable of accepting it. Rather than resign myself to it, I became like a bloodhound. I call doctors, make new appointments, push the issue wherever I can so that something (anything) else can be done.
Last week I felt that way again. Days before I'd found out that there was a doctor who cared, who knew what was going on, and knew how to fix it! All I needed was this one medication. And all I had to do to get it was have this one breathing test. And then, on Tuesday, I got the call. The doctor had seen the test results, and...
Everything was fine.
Even though nothing had changed, I still felt like it would be a mistake to try anything that required physical exertion, like I shouldn't make any real plans because who knew when I might have another attack, like I hadn't really lived in months. Regardless of the medicines that had been switched out. Despite being put on steroids twice in the past month (causing me to gain 10 pounds in that amount of time).
Nothing had changed. And nothing was going to change. Because according to this one test, like all the ones before it, there was nothing wrong.
And I thought, "how is it possible that despite all of the things I've gone through, despite the fact that the pulmonologist saw the welts on my skin from the electrodes that had been removed days earlier, despite what he saw and heard while I described what had been happening, even this thing isn't going to result in any change for the better?"
And even though I called to make another appointment, to push for another solution or to get the medicine anyway, I still felt hopeless. I started wondering if maybe I was getting the symptoms wrong. I considered the possibility that maybe some of it was psychosomatic.
But more than anything, I felt like there was never going to be an answer. I had been stripped of my final shred of faith that this thing is temporary. There I was, heavier than I'd been in 6 years, hating everything about my stupid broken body, from the inside out.
Then, of course, I started taking time to think. And here are some of the things I've been thinking. Here is some introspection:
* The spiritual journey I seem to be on - the consideration of being a part of a religious community - has been immensely helpful through this. It is not, however, enough. Because sometimes I can't make it to the group meetings. Sometimes they get canceled. But even though I don't yet feel like I actually am part of this community, they have helped me so very much.
* I am definitely a part of another community. Or a few other communities. Some of them rather tiny - but all of them feel like home. Without the people in them, I don't know where I'd be right now. A year ago, I was really learning how to give things like love, and acceptance, and support to myself, instead of waiting to find them from other people. And now here I am, simultaneously benefitting from my ability to do so and to bolster my own when I do get them from others at some time or another, and trying to navigate how to get through something that I can't get out of on my own. On one hand, I've become better at asking for help (which, to be honest, isn't exactly saying a lot, but it's still something) because I really and truly feel like I deserve help. On the other, I'm so aware of the fact that no one I'm going to for help can actually fix me - because for every doctor I go to, there are 5 friends I'm reaching out to for emotional support. And the fact of the matter is that the most any of them can or have an obligation to do is hold me up for a couple seconds while I catch my breath, and then leave me to slog again on my own.
* Theatre training teaches so many things that are key in day to day life, if in an abstract sense. For instance: you can't play the ending. More than any prayer or reassurance or whatever, being told that by Joel the other day has motivated me to keep perspective on the situation and not let it defeat me. I can't know the end of this thing - I can't know when or how I'll get better, and I can't know that I won't. For that reason, I have to keep slogging through and believing that there might be an answer to this madness.
* I have no idea if I'm being conservative enough in my choices or too conservative. Should I have passed on that show, or this gettogether? Should I have had that many drinks, or spent the whole day sitting in my apartment? Have I signed on for too much, or am I allowing myself to be lazy? I feel like I'm trying hard to avoid situations that aren't good for me right now, but also trying really hard to pretend there's nothing wrong at times when there totally is. Should I be making other changes? Going to yoga? Getting acupuncture? Changing my diet? Will those things help me feel less tired, or just exhaust me even more?
I can't wait to run again. I can't wait to get drunk. I can't wait to spend every possible waking moment working on the show I'm producing, and worrying about nothing as much as I worry about whether a press release is done on time or the poster artwork is fitting the bill. I just hope that this is going to help me appreciate those things more, and not act as inertia that will keep me on the couch even after I start feeling human again.
And I guess I have to focus more on living with this health issue instead of just looking toward the day when it's gone.
Don't play the ending, Kate. Just do your best with this part of the story.