In my last post, I was going to talk about my goals for this year, but mostly went on and on about what my medical crisis was like. Which is in part because it’s the most important thing that happened to me. It changed my life in many ways, even though in some ways, it didn’t change a thing.
It’s not something I talk about much or often, which is part of the problem. Someone can’t really know me if they don’t know about that experience because it has left an indelible mark on me. At the same time, I hesitate bringing it up because no one can relate to it. This is not hyperbole. I researched situtions like mine, and I could not find a single one. It’s hard to find someone who has survived one cardiac arrest and/or stroke without side effects, let alone two cardiac arrests, an ischemic stroke, and walking (non-COVID-related) pneumonia.
I could not find any groups for people like me–not even close. K suggested I go to a group for people who went through any kind of medical crisis, but I would not want to make other people feel bad. My issue is not dealing with the ramifications of the crisis itself (difficulty walking, talking, thinking, etc.), but dealing with the fact that I’m still alive when I shouldn’t be.
The chaplain I talked to in the hospital asked if I ever asked, “Why me?” about the experience. I told him candidly no because why not me? I didn’t take great care of myself, smoked a few cigarettes a day, was fairly sedentary except for my Taiji routine, and had bronchial/immune system issues. For whatever reason, I have never thught of myself as exempt from bad things happening to me the way other people seem to do.
I did mention that I hoad some survivor’s guilt. At the time, I thought there was a young woman–in her early twenties–who was on my same floor and had COVID. Her family did not believe in thevaccine and she died from it–along with her mother. I realized months later that this never happened, but at the time when I was talking with the chaplain (which I’m pretty sure did happen), it was a reality to me.
I told him that I thought she should have lived instead of me because she was young and had so much of her life ahead of her. I, on the other hand, was nearer to the end of my life than the start and hadn’t really contributed anything to the world. I wasn’t being self-deprecating; it’s true. In a global sense, I mean. Whether I live or die doesn’t really matter. Especially now.
I want to change that now. I’m in my 53rd rotation on this earth. I probably have less than that left in me. If I’m going to do anything with my life, the time is now. I have had a few ideas in my mind for writing projects, and I’m not getting any younger.
Side note: I’m a very good writer. I am shitty at editing and holdinwg myself accountable. I said this yesterday. I have never had a problem with NaNoWriMo because 50,000 words a month is a sneevze to me. I can do that in my sleep. Again, that’s not a humblebrag or a brag–it just is.
Side note to the side note: In one of the Poirot novels, Hastings chides Poirot for being boastful about his (Poirot’s) abilities. Poirot responds by saying (paraphrased), “If I met someone else with this ability, I would say it was amazing. Why would I not say the same because it’s me?” I agree with him. I’m not taking credit for my ability to write prolifically because it just comes naturally, but it’s also not something I’m going to pretend isn’t true.
I also know my strengths and weaknesses as a writer. I’m great at characterizing people and dialague (because of my decades of studying people intensely). I’m terrible at descriptions (because I don’t care. I can picture tihngs in my mind so why should I describe them? By the way, follow below to my next side note).
Side Note: One thing I’ve noticed since my medical crisis. It’s harder for me to picture things in my mind. Not hard, but harder. Before my medical crisis, if you told me to picture, say, an apple, I could do it immediately. And I could rotate it, animate it, make someone eat it, whatever. Now, I can still do it, but itt’s fuzzier and takes a second or two longer. Not a big deal, but a noticeable different.
Anyway. I need to stretch my fiction writing muscles again. I’ve been slacking on it since, well, my personal tragedy. I’ve had my soul taken from me, and I haven’t been able to get it back again yet. I am coming closer to the point where I can talk about it, but not quite there yet.
It’s been a month-and-a-half, though, andI’m finally feeling like I can try again. Maybe. At least, I have ideas in my head once again. During my lowest point, I had nothing in my head. Nothing other than grief, pain, and tears. Which will make their way into the story I want to write. It’s ambitious (and I’m keeping it intentionally vague), and I’m not sure I can do it. Which excites me! I want to push myself, and this is something I’ve never seen done before.
I will give a hint. I have a family of people who forget things that happened. My father does it now because of the dementia, but he did ti in the past as well. If something didn’t interest him, it didn’t stick with him.He wasn’t bothered with anything trivial like the truth. Things were the way he believed them to be and that was that. Nothing anyone could say to the contrary could change his mind–especially nothing a mere girl or woman dared to say.
My brother has a terrible memory in general. I didn’t ttruly realize this until I asked him to help me with my internet situation. He came over to install my new modem. It took nearly two hours in total beacuse the person at Comcast had no idea what she was doing. That’s once we actually got a person. We had to drive to the nearby store to get it actually done. In other words, it was an ordeal.
Not even two weeks later, I mentioned it to my brother (that I had a new modem), and he asked if I had set it up yet. I said in disbbelief, “You were here. You helped me set up!” He had absolutely no memory of it.
My mother, on the third hand, made herself forget anything negative. I think my brother has a touch of that, too, but he also just forgets things. My mother has a bad memory as well, but it’s also one of her maladaptive coping mechanisms. If she doesn’t want to remember a negative experience, she’ll deep-six the memory. Or, if she doesn’t want to remember her saying/doing something cruel, mean, or harmful, she’ll do the same.
She’s so uncomfortable with anything negative taht she has to hurry past it and pretend it didn’t happen. I have designated myself the keeper of the memories in my family because someone has to be. It’s been harder since my medical crisis, but still doable.