If my life were a movie, it would start with me collapsing in my front hallway and the credits would roll as I woke up from a week’s long ‘sleep’ (i.e., drug-induced unconsciousness), ready to fight whomever and whatever needed fighting. I had a tube in my nose to help me breathe, but I didn’t know anything about that. All I knew was that I was in a strange place with strangers all around me, and I was having none of that. But the movie would have ended before any of my cussing was heard. The last shot would be of my eyes flying opens and the medical team cheering.
Credits roll as there’s my Rocky montage of me leaving the hospital and taking a brisk morning constitutional every day–going a bit farther with each walk. No, it’s not that inspirational so maybe roll credits as I leave the hospital. That’ll leave them crying, right? I’m being sarcastic because I’m becoming more and more uncomfortable with the miracle label.
Look. I get that these are hard times. We’re still in the middle of a pandemic in which the best we can hope for is that it becomes like the flu. A few thousand people die from it every year, but it’s mostly treatable. We get a shot that covers the five or six most likely strains per use and roll the dice. The best we can hope for is that wearing masks will remain a thing along with social distancing, but I don’t hold out hope for that. The Republicans are Republicanning and I have all but checked out of politics because it’s just grim.
I know more than one person has mentioned that they needed good news such as my medical story arc. I don’t begrudge people that, but it’s my actual life–the one I’m still living. That one slice of my life is inspiring, sure, but only if you keep a tight focus on that one week. If you pull back the camera to show more of the context, well, it becomes less inspirational. And, not to be too cynical, but’s not actually about me, the person. Why do I say that? Because it could have happened to anyone. I didn’t have a hand in the miracle that everyone keeps claiming happened. Ok, yes, my fourteen years of Taiji practice has probably helped me come back as close to ‘normal’ as I did, but the rest was love and luck. Neither of which I had anything to do with.
What I’m trying to say is that the miracle is not specific to me. It could have happened to anyone and I am extremely lucky it happened to me. I’m grateful that it did. However, I cannot live my whole life in a state of constant gratitude because that is not the way I operate. I am not a saint; there is no halo over my head; I am but a mere mortal.
My mother really thinks that my story should be a movie. She’s mentioned it several times, the latest being yesterday. She said it’s a miracle and that people would really benefit from seeing my story. To which I say (internally), “I don’t give a fuck.” Which is not entirely true, but it’s how I feel right now. It’s really hard to explain my objection to being viewed simply as inspiration p0rn, but I’ll do my best. It has to do with the fact that it’s not seeing me as an actual human being. It’s similar to how I bristle at being viewed as the model minority. Yes, it’s ostensibly a positive stereotype, but it still strips the humanity out of the person it’s describing. It’s the same with gushing about the miracle that was my return to life. It’s something that happened to ME in a very deep and personal way. I don’t necessarily want to talk about it at the drop of a hat.
My mom’s insistence that it would make a good movie makes me think, “Is it not good enough that I came back? Shouldn’t that be enough in and of itself?” That’s my mother through and through, however. Nothing is ever enough–which is a typical Asian mother. But it’s a weird mix of her being overprotective (not wanting me to drive) and pushy at the same time (are you sure you can’t walk farther than that?) that is very annoying, frustrating, and guilt-inducing at the same time.
I’ll be real with you. I’m chafing at having my parents around all the time. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but before the hospital, I spent 95% of my time alone. It’s been very difficult having them around 95% of the time–neither of them believes in boundaries. If they have something in the forefront of their minds, then it has to be voiced immediately. I tried to tell my mother that she doesn’t need to voice every thought that enters her mind. She claims that it helps her think, but I think that’s a weak excuse. At any rate, it’s annoying when she just has this stream-of-consciousness moment that stretches out into more than a few minutes. It doesn’t help that she’s reinforcing the chattering voice inside my own head–one that I try very hard to keep silent.
They are supposed to be going back to Taiwan in five weeks–which means they’ll have been here a total of three months. That’s the longest they’ve been here in a few decades, and it’s really wearing on me. Normally, when they come, it’s for six weeks at a time. And even then, they sometimes end up leaving earlier because my father can’t stand being here for that long. He’s being especially difficult now and it’s in part because he wants to go back to Taiwan. He prefers to be there than here–until he goes back. Then he talks about wanting to be here because he cannot stand being in his own skin. Since he can’t fathom that anything is wrong with him, he projects it to everything around him.
At this point, I’m desperate for some alone time. I get a little of it in the morning because I wake up before my parents do and maybe an hour in the afternoon when they go for a walk/take a nap. Not at the same time, obviously. Other than that, it’s full-on parents all the time, which is way too much parents. I’m at the point where I’m willing to promise a lot to get them to go. I’ll email them every night telling them I’m ok. I’ll Zoom with them once a week for fifteen minutes. I’ll–well, that’s about the extent of what I’m willing to do, but it’s much more than we communicated before the recent incident.
I’m grumpy as hell. I feel as if I can’t (metaphorically) breathe. I want my freedom back and even that sounds bad to my ears. Of course I should be grateful that my mother is here and taking care of me. Except, she isn’t. She’s more taking care of my father than me, which she’ll admit herself. I just had to help her with her cellphone because she managed to turn off her Wi-Fi connection. She didn’t know that was the problem, though. She was just upset because she didn’t have any new Gmail messages or Line messages (an IM service). I pressed the Wi-Fi button and looked like a fucking genius. When in doubt, make sure the device (or service) is actually on.
I feel an internal pressure to put on a smiling face and only talk about the upside of what happened to me. A bit of external pressure as well because what do I have to complain about in the grand scheme of things? But, again, I’m human. I can be as petty as fuck, and I have bad days as well as good ones. Just because I’m lucky to be alive, it doesn’t mean I don’t experience frustrations just as other people do. Before I went into the hospital, I was quite the champion complainer. I’m not saying that’s a good thing, but it’s a part of me that I actually kinda like. I don’t want to lose it completely.