The Objects of My Affection

My birthdays have long been associated with hookups and breakups. In 2003, J and I became official after watching his friend's band play in a club. In 2005 I hooked up with B, who every girl was either explicitly or secretly in love with. In grad school in 2007, my new best friend began dating her housemate, unaware of my secret crush on him. In 2008 that same best friend "broke up with me" at my party, moving on to a new girl in school who was wittier, hugely sarcastic, and way more seemingly self-assured. This year I get to turn 34 celebrating with some of my closest friends who have known me for several years -- some for decades. Unless I become a lesbian overnight or one of my male friends turns straight, there will be no hookups or breakups, at least none involving me.

Three days ago my symptoms worsened from what they usually are, and I had to use a walker around the house for the entire day. I briefly succumbed to despondency, thinking that I'd have to cancel my upcoming birthday plans of dinner out followed by up-scale bowling. Then the Me that I know returned and I promised myself that if I needed the walker for my party, I'd take it right into that restaurant and right down that bowling alley, bowling the ball, walker and all. It did however prompt me to join yet another dating site -- this time one for people with disabilities. While most of my winks have been from guys in foreign countries looking for visas, I figured the hearing impaired guy in my state or the one with Asperger's just might get where I'm coming from and overlook my disorder as he would wish his to be overlooked as well. Usually I can hide my condition until I'm ready to share it -- stating that my lack of a car is due to economics and that I spend my days working on my Master's degree. Both of these statements are true, just not full disclosures.

However, if I really do become fully dependent on a walker -- and it looks like I probably will -- my disorder will be the first thing people see about me. In a way this is bad. No one will get to know the real me before learning of my complications. But in another way it's good. There will be no secrets, no wondering if someone would lose interest in me if they knew about my difficulties. And after all, who says walker-clad me is not the real me?

Within my group of friends, some are in committed relationships, others are interested in each other, and my roommate just had a second date with a guy who seems perfect for her. I remember one of my favorite movies, "The Object of My Affection," where gay Sidney asks Nina who is in love with gay George: "What happens when all your friends find other men? Who will be at your table then?" Sidney is in love with George's boyfriend Paul, and the one man in love with Nina she doesn't want to be with. Well, if the movie is any indication of my future life, all my gay and straight friends will still be around my table, with their gay and straight partners, and I just may end up dating a hot police officer who kisses my hand while my daughter sings the lead in the school play. Even if only the beginning of that scenario comes true, I'll be happy. When your health fails, friends and family become paramount, and a romantic partner moves down to the category of nice but not necessary. I may feel despondent about that tomorrow -- but not today.

The Big Black Book

Some people have a figurative black book of all the relationships they've had. The book is heavy and filled with ecstasy and despair, or at least joy and sorrow. If you flipped through the pages of the book you would see an ebb and flow of each relationship, just as we have with anyone, including friends and family. You've long heard the statement that dating would be a lot easier if we had access to these black books -- if we were to know the bad parts about the person we're dating without having to find them out for ourselves. Sometimes exes come together after a breakup with the same man and talk about the problem that they each had in their relationship with him. Other times -- or at least on Sex and the City -- women will spread around a guy's great reputation in bed for the benefit of future lovers.

Bigger than my black book of relationships is my folder of doctor's chart notes. In college I'd feel self-conscious whenever the nurse or doctor would pull out the folder and exclaim how big it was. Women are afraid to tell partners how many men they've slept with... Well, I was afraid doctors would assume I was a hypochondriac based on how big my numbers were. Of course now we all know about my tiny cerebellum, but back then I just had a stack of visits with unfilled answers. Just like in relationships, some of my documented interactions with the doctors were fraught with misunderstandings, misdiagnoses, or what turned out to be silly reasons like a stomach ache that wouldn't go away (duh, constipation). Other times the visits were filled with important advice, diagnostic breakthroughs, or treatments for non-cerebellum related issues that I really needed. With each visit my file got bigger and bigger, just like the time and content that accrues with each day of a relationship.

Sometimes with a move, or a change in physicians, you get a "clean slate" just like you do after a breakup. Your new doctor won't know that your old one thought you had an eating disorder or that you let an important med run out and needed a refill ASAP. He won't know anything about your visits to the counselor or your mom telling the story about a relative getting healed from something like polio by falling down the stairs. But, just like with couples, these big books of information help the next physician in accurately treating your present symptoms and gain a bigger picture of who you are.

As I just had to change doctors last month because of changing insurance, I'm now at the point once again where my folder is brand new. The movement specialist looks at me funny when I say trying to drive is like skiing toward a brick wall, and my new GP doesn't believe that my side effects from a new medication are because of the medication itself and not an anxiety disorder. In time the chart will get filled again, next week with a psych evaluation for my social security claim and a follow up with the movement specialist a couple weeks after that. It's hard to let go of my neurologist of the past three years, who was the first to take my movement disorder seriously. Women with a lot of sexual partners are called sluts, and women with big medical charts are called nervous, weak, or anxious. My neurologist knew I was none of those and took my big black book seriously. A good boyfriend, just like a good doctor, won't run from what he finds within those pages. And if you come to him with a clean slate, he'll do his best to treat the new book with respect.

The Home Team

A couple weeks ago I joined a new dating site. Almost immediately I received about ten or fifteen emails from guys interested in getting to know me. While I later learned that the site has a reputation for being a place for men to find "fast and loose girls," the attention was quite an ego boost, especially because I posted pictures I wasn't quite sure about like one highlighting my curls and one in a fancy dress on a heavy-weight day. Turns out the men love my cuirls and they don't mind the extra weight because of my cup size. (The one who commented on my cup size I soon after ended contact with.)

My roommate and I created nicknames for the potential suitors. There was Wii Guy, Biracial Guy, Indian Guy, Italian Guy, and The Mexican. Biracial Guy turned out to be a creep, Indian Guy disappeared, Italian Guy was too young, and The Mexican is now on my yahoo messenger but we have yet to talk. Wii Guy is still in the runnings, thinking it's hot that I love to play Scrabble and feeling lucky that I give him the time of day.

As you my readers know, sometimes I wonder if I really should be putting myself out there at this stage of my health. I have a more clear diagnosis but at least so far recovery doesn't look too promising, and I continue to get progressively worse. Last night I compared my roommate's MRI scans to my own and discovered my small cerebellum that was mentioned in the report. It relieved me to see what the doctors finally saw, but it also made my condition even more real. Just a few minutes ago I read someone's profile who stated he was looking for a heroine and not a damsel in distress, and I wondered which I am.

My roommate and I went to our first baseball game tonight aside from a Giants game when we were kids, and for the first two innings I felt like a heroine. By the third inning my brain encountered sensory overload and I felt like a damsel in distress as I departed the stadium and walked to the car while my roommate watched more innings. The silence of the car quieted my brain and I reentered the stadium as a heroine, all the way up until the very last play as I cheered and clapped with the rest of the spectators at our city's rare win. Maybe, I thought to myself, if I only need to leave a baseball game for half an hour or so, I'm still datable. This feeling of not being datable is not because I'd have to leave something that a man might enjoy, but because I had to leave something that I enjoyed, and that I hope a man can enjoy with me. I now have visions of frequent summer tickets, team shirts, and bringing my future kid(s) to the game.

My aunt and uncle have a marriage that I've long admired. Their 33 years of commitment isn't based on a philosophy of "Til death do us part," but instead on the reality that either of one them could decide he or she didn't want to be married anymore, and that if that happens, they will divorce. While this might not seem romantic, it provides them a sense of security that every day they spend together is by choice. There is no sense of being forever bound against one's will or caught in something they can't escape. I realized tonight that I want to go into my quest for a relationship with the same mindset. My ex-husband stayed married to me despite my health problems because he felt obliged to do so. He played the "nice guy card" and I was left feeling guilty for any complication I created in his life. Never again do I want to be in a relationship where a guy feels bound to me out of duty or sympathy, or out of a feeling that he made his bed so he must lie in it. And never again do I want to feel that for myself.

My roommate assures me that my medical complications, even while increasing in intensity, are not as bad as I think they are as far as my ability to date. "It's a problem if you can't bathe yourself for weeks on end," she said, "Not that you can't drive a car." As I continue to open myself to possible romantic relationships I'll keep her words of wisdom in mind, and I'll make sure that anyone I date knows they have the ability to leave at any time. Not because I'm not worth committing to, but because I want every day they spend with me to be of their own free will and not out of a sense of obligation. I don't want to feel that I've tricked someone into not leaving me, but instead revel in the knowledge that he can't live without me, or that if he did, he would be losing a wonderful woman that he loved.

The Hidden Self

Knowing the self is important in the dating world, even if that self changes over time. I have many definitions attached to my personhood which will never change, and others that do, but this health definition seems very hard to come by. Doctors have tried out various diagnoses, and with each one I either reject it or accept it and attach it to my identity. For three years that diagnosis was finally fibromyalgia, but in the past few months it's shifted from that to possible seizure disorder to congenital brain abnormality.

I picked up my MRI scan on Monday to take to the movement specialist, and the report stated that I have hypoplasia of the inferior cerebellum vermis: the specifics of the congenital brain abnormality that my neurologist mentioned a couple months ago. "Yes," I thought, "I finally have a name." But when I googled this name, the diagnosis didn't seem to fit my symptoms, and when I saw the specialist today he seemed to feel the same way. Can an MRI lie? Can I have hypoplasia but in a different form? Do I have something that looks like hypoplasia but is really something else? All my new neurologist can tell me, from looking at my scans, is that my cerebellum doesn't have a tail, unlike normal cerebellums, and that this is the root of my brain abnormality. I walked out glad that I had some new information, however vague. When I got home I looked at my roommate's scans with a friend in medical school and I can find no tail on hers either. Now, I am no medical expert and if the specialist says there is a tail there has to be one. And if he says I don't have one I obviously don't. But for once I'd like to be able to say, "Look, this is what I have. See?"

I'm by no means a wallower. I live my life to the fullest even with my brain disorder. I look at the positives in everything and rarely do I feel that my situation is hopeless. While I still don't feel that my life is over, I am caught between relief that something has been found and disorientation that the doctors are still as baffled as I am as to what those findings mean.

Since this is a dating blog I will come back to that, though in no way do I wallow in this either. But my ever present dating thought is: What if I don't get better? Okay, I can deal with that. But what if I get worse? Over the past three years I have gotten worse and while I'll stay hopeful that treatment is out there, there's a fine line between denial, acceptance, and despair. Earlier in my life I was in the denial phase. I tried to live as others lived and hoped that my symptoms would go away as magically as they appeared. I'm nowhere near despair, but I am now pretty fully into acceptance. Reaching the acceptance stage has helped me to do positive things like get government assistance and apply for low-income housing -- things I wouldn't have done if I'd still had the belief that my symptoms would resolve themselves. Maybe acceptance is an important step to moving forward, not an antithesis to it. Maybe it's important to realize things may never change, and then to see how the world can change around you, to love you and accept you just the way you are.

This blog doesn't feel very focused, but I don't feel very focused myself right now. I'm full of answers and just as many questions, if not more. Every day brings knowledge about the self that was always there but hidden away until a particular moment. I've always had a congenital brain abnormality. I've had it since the day I was born. But just five years ago did I start to experience it, and just a few weeks ago did I learn that it was there. It's almost like learning of a secret relative -- this person was always attached to you by blood but you just didn't know it. He or she was defining you even before you knew they existed. So how do I welcome this new/old family member into my home?

I haven't dated in awhile, but I've had some great moments with great friends. Most of my time is spent sitting on the couch watching other people's lives on the TV screen. But every once in awhile I get to store up enough energy to be present in the actual world, dancing and singing to familiar songs at a concert, or sipping tea by the water, or even playing Scrabble in a Scrabble club instead of at the kitchen table with my roommate (while she plays at the club as well). These moments make it okay that I've lost the ability to run, drive, and now even read novels. It makes it okay that over half my life is spent in deep sleep and that my dreams are almost more real to me than my waking hours. Maybe that's why we don't get everything in life. Because when life takes away something, it makes those other things much more precious. Hug your loved ones today. Tune in to what your senses are experiencing. Revel in every touch, sound, and sight. And I'll do the same.

To Grandmother's House We Go

When my grandma sold her California house that she bought around the year I was born, I was for the first time in a place where I could emotionally let the house go. I had spent 12 years living with her on and off, the biggest stretch being between the ages of 3 and 10. I moved back from ages 17 to 21 and again at 23 a year before getting married. Throughout my life, whenever I dreamt of home it was my grandma's home, and my happiest years were spent under its roof. I married that fall ready to create my own home of memories.

Three falls later I signed final divorce papers. Turns out my husband didn't want kids like he said he did, so while we were making a home for ourselves (and our cats), it wasn't the home that I had envisioned for us. I came to realize that I used my husband as a way to create stability for myself, and a nuclear family to replace the one I only sort of had. But I wasn't in love with him -- I only wanted to create children with him. Just the two of us wasn't enough for me.

My grandma moved into a retirement home in Washington once she sold the house. As I moved between Washington, Oregon and Massachusetts, I reveled in any chance I got to visit her. Her voice, the smell of her home, the furnishings,... it all brought me back to my happy childhood and and my sense of security. A few months ago my grandma got sick with pneumonia. While recovering she moved in with my aunt, and she recently made the decision to sell her retirement home and move in with my aunt permanently. As an 81-year-old she lacks the health and mental stamina to keep living on her own, and because I'm ill myself I can't take care of her the way I'd hoped. While I know the move is necessary, to lose one's grandma's house--and to lose her role as the head of that house--is to lose something sacred. But whenever I do lose another piece of her, the universe seems to give me something to help lessen the blow.

When I first came to Washington to live with my aunt and uncle after my divorce, I got a job at the Seattle Space Needle. I fell in love with the area, especially Queen Anne Hill located right to the Northeast of the Needle. Its quiet streets looking down on the heart of the city reminded me of my old California neighborhood, and when I moved back to Washington after graduate school I knew that's where I wanted to live. Disability made me put that dream on hold and live with my best friend rent free while I'm unable to work. But disability, in the end, is going to allow my Queen Anne dream to come true.

There is a subsidized apartment complex on the top of Queen Anne, and as it is for low income residents it will only cost me $100 a month to live there -- 30% of my monthly income from the State. A recent drive to the complex proved it to be everything that I had ever hoped my Queen Anne home to be. It will take over a year for my spot on the wait list to reach the top, but the knowledge that I will have my own little "house on the hill" makes losing my grandma's house a little less hard to bear. And as I'd have to wait another year or two for another subsidized housing spot if I move in with someone else and then break up, my Queen Anne studio will be mine for a long long time.

With my health the way it is I don't long for children the way I used to. My family, my friends, and my animals make up for that loss that I used to feel. The next time I marry it will be for love and not for what I think that love will give me. And until then my slow legs will walk the streets of Queen Anne, and each piece of sidewalk will welcome me.