Acceptance

It's amazing how quickly a person can get aid when brain abnormalities are discovered. A week and a half after applying for state disability, my request was granted. I opened and read the letter with as much excitement as when I received my acceptance letter to graduate school. Actually, with more. While graduate school acceptance letters are written in the positive, state disability letters are written in the negative: "We have determined that you are unable to work..." This negative statement at first led me to believe that I had been denied. "Unable" is usually not something you want to hear in a letter. But my disillusionment was soon corrected, and unlike receiving my graduate acceptance letter where I opened it and then went back to bed in sickness, with this letter I actually ran down the driveway with a grin from ear to ear. Finally I would be able to receive monetary compensation for my inability to work. Finally my disorder would be taken seriously.

With this officialism of my disability, I walk a tight rope between acceptance and perseverance. I have come to terms with the fact that I may never get better, and this has proven necessary in order to get my life in a place where I can function in my limited space. This doesn't mean I've given up on my goals. I'm still getting my degree, still working on my writing, and starting the process of moving to Seattle through subsidized housing which will take about a year. But what it does mean is that I'm allowing myself to be taken care of by the government. (I've never been happier with America.) I'm allowing myself to be okay with buying clothes from Target. I'm also allowing myself to be okay at 150 pounds with a distended stomach.

My physical appearance has caused me a lot of grief. I used to be 100 pounds, so adding 50 more to that frame has come as quite a shock. A few days ago my grandma, who is starting on Prednisone, pointed at me in fear saying, "I'm going to get fat like you." I don't know whether it was a difference in what I was wearing or just a different attitude, but yesterday she actually said I looked good the way I am. So did a former lover who I ran into a couple weeks ago and hadn't seen in years. This lover herself has always been overweight (yes, I had a fling with a girl in my college days) and I have always considered her to be absolutely gorgeous. What made her gorgeous was no doubt the way she carried herself. She acted like a hot commodity, and so she was. Not only with scrawny me but countless men with whom she came into contact.

I still wonder how to feel sexy when my clothes are off, and I still wonder what I'll tell men when they ask me what I do for a living. I see the latter scenario going a bit like this: Man: What do you do? Me: I'm a writer. Man: What do you write? Me: Book reviews, mostly. Man: Oh, can you make a living off that? Me: (blushing), well, I try. Man: What was your latest review? Me: Umm, I can't remember... It was a year ago. I've been in school. Man: Oh, so do you have your degree: Me: Not quite yet. Man: So are you in school now? Me: No, not really. I also write screenplays. Man: Oh, have you sold any? Me: Well, not yet. Now, I know I don't need to answer to anyone about how I spend my time, but the fact is, up until I got sick I worked all my life, and it's hard to define myself outside of a paycheck.

Acceptance and perseverance is not just a struggle for us disabled folk. It's also a struggle for just about everyone. Today, as I sit at my desk by the window and gaze out at the bright blue sky, I'm accepting my distended stomach because my legs do not feel well enough to walk around the block, nor have they for the past week. I'll accept my inability to read today and instead zone out on the couch in front of the television, waiting for my creative juices to get flowing at about 2 a.m. for an essay I'm submitting to Glamour. When the actual brain fog lifts, I'll read, I'll shower, I'll walk... but when my symptoms are heavy upon me there's nothing to do but embrace them. And now I have the government behind me when I do.

Cents and sensibility

In "Sense and Sensibility," Elinor tells Marianne that whatever Mr. Willoughby's current actions are, she should know that his attentions to her were honorable, and that she did love him. "But not enough," replies Marianne. "Not enough."

I recite this scene (for I never remember passages) whenever someone who has shown interest in me decides not to pursue it to the next level. In my 20's this recitation was done with melancholy grandeur, but these days it's more just a shrug of the shoulders, filled with slight irritation instead of desperation.

Today I get to be the one who is interested, but not enough. When "A" finally wrote me a week ago, with a one-liner asking me how I was doing, I decided not to reply. "If he's really interested," I thought to myself, "he'll write again." Well, he's written again ("Is everything okay? No replies?") and I realize the more time elapses from our first date the more I don't want a second one. Sure, if he had followed through with the wine tasting that I had to reschedule before its first go-round to do my summer cold, I would have hopped in the car the next week and made a day of it. But I can say with pretty clear certainty that the only reason he's writing now is because I didn't write back the first time, and that's not enough reason to keep up a correspondence.

Now, usually when I have a dating decision to make, such as whether to reply to a long overdue email, I think about all the "rules" I've read, realize I should play hard to get, and then end up contacting him within 24 hours anyway. But this time, thanks to How to Make Every Man Want You, I realized that I don't want a guy who is so flaky, because I'm awesome just the way I am and I deserve more than that. Way to go Marie Forleo for finally breaking through this thick skull and giving me desirability due to increased self worth and not due to attempts at relational trickery.

One major way the book helped me, which I mentioned in my previous post, is to live like things are just as they are supposed to be right now. That means no waiting for some future date where my life will be perfect because I will finally have lost those 5, 10, 15 pounds, gotten my health back, moved into my own apartment, and started my dream job. Sure, she says, you should always strive for what you want, but don't forget to live in the moment and cherish your life as it currently is. This is empowering advice for me, as I just applied for food stamps, will find out next week if I qualify for state disability (outlook: promising), and will probably have to take one more semester to finish my Master's. (That's a total of three semesters for two classes.)

Part of me is freaking out at being so limited in my ability to rise above my current station. At one point in my family's history we had money. My mom and I did not, and as any "true American" I was set on getting back to my middle class roots, to have a (small) place of my own and furnish it myself with things bought from a JC Penneys catalog. I was looking forward to getting a lime green VW Beetle and living in the city, or at least living above a Safeway and being able to go downstairs to buy my own groceries. While I'm not letting go of this dream (especially the living above Safeway part), I've realized that I have to live my life as if things will never change, while continuing to push each day for my own small mark on the world. I might be facing poverty like the Dashwoods, but they pressed on, kept their irresistability, and created lives for themselves.

By the books

One good thing about having a best friend / roommate with a well-paying job is that you get to reap the benefits of her lifestyle, one being limited entry into the dating service world. No, I don't get to have a profile but I do get to go to some of the events. The plus side for her and the agency is that of course then my roommate is more likely to go, as she will have a wingman, coach, cheerleader, and second pair of eyes. Tonight we tested out the event portion of the service for the first time and drove to a comedy night a couple cities over. Make Every Man Want You, by Marie Forleo, suggests that each woman embrace her "is-ness," so as we drove away from the condo complex we reminded ourselves that everything is exactly as it is supposed to be right now. I can't remember what my roommate's is-ness entailed, but my mantra was that I'm supposed to be sick right now, and I'm supposed to not have a job. It's all part of the organic unfolding of my life and all I need to do is embrace it. Yeah, a little cooky, but it got two girls, who often apologize for their shortcomings, in the right frame of mind.

My is-ness told me not to judge the comedians for not being funny and not to judge myself for not thinking they were. It told me not to judge my roommate for laughing out loud, especially as the rest of the audience seemed to be in the same slightly self-conscious fit of hysterics. Lessons from Why Men Love Bitches told us to not apologize for leaving during the intermission, which was necessitated by my ensuing "cerebellum flareup" (for lack of a better word) and my subsequent inability to tolerate the head comedian's booming and energetic voice. "We made our appearance and we left when we got bored, cloaking ourselves in mystery," my roommate assured me, though I felt slightly guilty since she seemed to be enjoying the booming and energetic comedy. I also felt bad after stating that there was no one of interest in the room anyway and she mentioned that the guy we were talking to seemed nice. But, I guess it's all part of the is-ness, since if I hadn't gone my roommate probably wouldn't have either.

Oh, right, I forgot to mention "A." As I'm sure you've guessed, he's just that forgettable. Last week's second date was canceled to do my cold so severe that it hurt to swallow my own spit, and after A's enthusiastic post-date email and enthusiastic rescheduling for an unspecified time this week, I have yet to hear from him. No sleep, or even thought, lost on my part. (No, I did not mention the spit.)

I do wonder though, as I did during A's eye rolling at my not doing this or doing that, if I am really in a place where I can date now anyway. Maybe I need more well days first. Maybe I need a job and to spend time with my Seattle friends and get more local experience under my belt. But then when I think this way I remind myself that I have experienced a plethora of, well, experiences. Sure I haven't been to this mountain, I haven't been to a wine tasting, and I haven't made it across the border into Vancouver. But I've put myself through both undergrad and graduate school, been married, seen my dad through death, and I have about 13 google pages dedicated to my book reviews. Not too shabby if you ask me. Sure, I may not be a woman of leisure who spends her time in self-entertainment, but I'm a fighter, a warrior, and just a little bit of a hero. If I listen to my "is-ness" the right guy will see this as a reason to love me, not just something to tolerate or admire from a distance.

No one acts with more "is-ness" than improv comics. Every situation is presented to them without much say on their part. Every line that someone says is a page in their funny book that they themselves didn't write but have to act on. Almost every action is a reaction to something else but has to be presented as an action. And every action/(reaction) is an effort to bring coherent order and a cumulative plotline to a chaotic assortment of words and movements. Sometimes their (re)actions are funny, and sometimes they're not. Sometimes they move the comedy along, and sometimes they bring it to a screeching halt. My life is an improv, a dancing around the is-nesses of my personhood. And dates are an improv with an audience of one. "A" and I both left our seriously short lived dating life at intermission, but someday I'll find someone--and be someone--who wants to see the act all the way through.

When one door closes

Yesterday I said goodbye to one life and hello to another. My cat Oscar has been with me for the past two years, ever since I saw his cute little face in a Craiglist ad. I was all alone in Massachusetts, would soon lose my closest friend there in an ugly "breakup," and Oscar with his sweet nature and constant purring filled the kitty void that I'd been feeling for quite some time. Because he was elderly and had FIV I knew our time together would be temporary, and yesterday as I held his head in the crook of my wrist he got the shot that passed him on to the everlasting.

I don't believe in God or fate, but I've always felt that the Universe gave Oscar to me so that he and I could be sick companions together. The first time I took him to the emergency vet, six weeks ago, I received feedback from my own doctor that I may have a seizure disorder. That emergency visit revealed that Oscar had an extreme and recurrent case of constipation that might not be treatable. As the month progressed I cherished every moment with him, and coinciding with his apparent resurgence in health due to an extremely regulated diet filled with prescriptions, results came back that I did not in fact have a seizure disorder. Oscar and I were once again biding time together waiting to see whether we would get worse or better.

Night before last Oscar got worse. I'll spare my readers the gory details, but he was completely backed up, was vomiting profusely, and needed an enema. Even as my roommate and I drove to the vet I knew that this might be it for Oscar, and as I drove back with the x-ray in hand proving that he was in fact just as ill as he was six weeks ago, I knew my time with him was down to a matter of hours.

While I was sleeping waiting for the vet appointment where he would draw his last breaths, I received an email from my neurologist stating that last week's MRI showed a congenital abnormality of my cerebellum. Now, it seems selfish to say that Oscar's work was done, for of course I would have liked to have had him for many years to come. But the uncanniness of his and my diagnoses on the exact same day made me feel that the universe was ready to take him back and get him ready for his next appointment as a companion for a sickly cat lover.

I don't know yet what it means to have an abnormal cerebellum, only that the diagnoses fits perfectly and that I cannot express my relief to finally have concrete evidence as to why I'm not well. My relief was mixed with sadness as Oscar died before my eyes, but I draw comfort from the memory of my roommate's family animals being present at Oscar's wake as her father buried him on their beautifully bucolic property. One big dog, one little dog, and a huge cat trotted down the driveway with us as we carried the Xerox box with Oscar's lifeless body. My roommate's father dug the hole, placed him in it, and covered it back up. I placed a little yellow flower on the grave and returned home with empty hands and a full heart. Oscar, wherever you are, I'm thinking of you.