I'm not superstitious or anything, but...
I just thought that I would (in the words of Garp) predisaster myself yesterday, thursday, october the 12th so that Friday the 13th would look joyous in comparison.
And boy let me tell you.
It could have been worse, well, maybe, I don't know, maybe not. On the bright side, there was no death, nor permanent bodily injury to anyone. I left my house in a state of virtual war zone, with a bowl of caked-on eggplant and mushroom risotto to fend for itself among the tomato crusted bowls and pots of this weekend's stew. (Normally my kitchen stays clean, needless to say, when I fall apart, so does it.)
The doctor was duly frightened by the golf-ball-sized swolen lymph nodes and prescribed hard-core antibiotics (when asked if all alcohol was out of the question he said, a few glasses of wine would be fine, now I know. I also, incidentally and most likely unrelatedly learned that Staph infections while manifesting themselves anywhere on the body, maintain their reservoir in the nasal cavities. Shocking and fascinating all at once. Alas, when I returned to retrieve my prescription, the pharmacy had already closed, so here's to three more nights in which I cannot rest my neck due to severe discomfort. Blah. Whine, sob.
Pushing ahead and sloughing through work, I did manage to finally get to Jenny at 8:45, wander around the downtown area of LA (which guaging by the concierge's baffled expression, isn't generally walked about at night, but was indeed quite safe.) We found a strange bakery/cafe that was more of a diner than anything else, and drank several cups of mediocre coffee, enough to keep us going until now (3 am). Upon return with gin and tonics in hand as she smoked a ciggy in the valet area, we were accosted by the Hummer2 driving asshole, who while crass and uncultured, managed to boast about his jet company housed in Boston and his participation in what had to be a young republicans group that sent him to South Africa, you know, to throw money at those poor ignorant black folk with AIDS and the victims of rape. And by the way, since Jenny was in town doing training for the local health department on AIDS prevention interventions, could we elucidate how it was transmitted. Christ on a cross! as a dear friend might say. The Hummer was a rental and he was highly unimpressive, but the best I could muster were a few disinterested looks and a pedantic tone while co-explaining the intricacies of why different kinds of sex were riskier than others in terms of permeability of ripped tissue.
But those, those were all minor compared to the ordeal on getting my ass to LA. As I drove, alone, I coached myself. "It'll be fine, you're making good time. You won't get lost..." in a sort of an obsessive mantra. The doctor today suggested that there is help for ocd, if I wanted it, and I was too tired to even be offended. Of course, he said his ocd got him through med school, so go figure. So I am a neurotic slob who couldn't even manage to clean out the car, and as I am passing Simi Valley, and feeling like my stomach has been punched because that is where Tim died just a few days ago, and he's NOT coming back, and it is Columbus day, which means that it would have been my anniversary, and Wednesday I have to come back for the funeral, and I don't know if I can take seeing his lifeless body, and I feel doubly sick and sad and terribly alone and Tori Amos' "Under the Pink" album is blasting, and I am singing, screaming, really at the top of my lungs along with her "Hey, what's it gonna take, til my baby's alright... ah, pretty good year" and tears are streaming down my face, and there I am focusing on the road ahead, and the cars braking slightly before me, and I suddenly realize that there are lights flashing behind me, but no siren, so I carefully wend my way across 4 lanes, and yes, it is me that is being pulled over, and I magically have all my papers in order, but the cop makes a joke about my hispanic surname, that he just arrested somebody by that name, and where did I live? And had I been drinking ? (oddly enough, no) and what was my mother's name, and where did she live? And I bit my lip and gave monosyllabic answers and nodded my head to keep from shaking or crying and tried to be polite, but my hands were trembling because in fact I had absolutely no idea how fast I was going (82 miles per hour, he said, which in my defense, was what everyone else was doing too) and when he came back, after checking again whether I had had any recent infractions (no, not in 10 years), he said that irregardless he needed to give me a ticket because I was going over the speed limit, but it was just a little ticket, he claimed, and YES he said "irregardless" which is NOT a word in the English language and Jenny, my fellow grammarian comiserated with me over this particular point, noting that police where not hired for their ability to correctly employ English or any other language for that matter. So my hand wobbled as I held the little clip board, specially designed, no doubt for traffic tickets in their unique shape and size, and he look impatient as I actually read the entire sheet that I was meant to sign, and I ask in that tremulous voice if I indeed have to go to court, as it claims on the signature line, and then the tears are building and building and he is explaining that I will get something in the mail, and I can do traffic school by internet, and I stare at his moon face and squat, bald, head as it shines the afternoon sun back in my eyes and I can't stop the tears and he starts to say that it isn't a big deal, just a traffic ticket, and I bite my lip practically to the point of drawing blood, but it doesn't make him disappear or stop saying that he knows I have been going through a lot, and I shake my head angrily while carefully averting my eyes, lest I make contact and crumble into ash right before him and he keeps talking at me about how it isn't a big deal and I hold my hand up as if to stifle his speech, and the sibilant whine of tears escapes my lips in a soft hiss. And he kindly takes the hint and tells me to take a minute to compose myself, and he'll get out of my face, and I nod him away, and then the tears really rip open and then it is an all out open sob, and I curl up against the driver's side door, and try to approximate a fetal position, and my phone is vibrating somewhere under my ass, and I can't even look to see who it is. But the crying won't stop, and the sobs build up so that I can't breathe, and I don't care about some fucking traffic ticket, but I just keep sucking wind, and gasping for breath and the last time this happened I was in a puddle on the floor in Mexico, and my mom talked me through it, five years ago maybe, but I know it is a panic attack, and all the floodgates have burst, and every last little bit of loss that has accumulated over the years, and fear, and sense of abandonment, and desire for isolation come barreling through my chest, and rob my lungs of air, and I keep hugging myself, pulling my legs up to my chest, resting my outer thigh against the steering wheel, and my hands begin to tingle, and lose sensation, and the sound of the hyperventilation itself provokes more panic, and I know I have to find that phone. So I call my mom, and she doesn't answer because, of course, she is at rehearsal, and I call my dad, and he says, call 911, but the thought of that is even worse and makes me sob harder, and I manage to croak that the police officer is still parked behind me, and thankfully isn't blaring his high beams into me as if to bore holes in the back of my head. My dad doesn't have my mom's soothing patience, but rather wants me to solve the problem immediately, get a grip! He shouts into the phone, wanting me to snap out of it, but yelling only makes it worse, and I manage to open the door and slump halfway out, and heave in short breaths, which draws the officer from his car, and my lips are tingling now too, and he wants to know if I want an ambulance, and I shake my head no, but he calls the paramedics anyway, and I apologize through gasps, that my boss just died, and when the paramedics arrive one of them is kind, and tries to talk me back down. He talks me through my options, as the fire truck pulls up in front of me, too. They can't give you anything, you can't stay here, you need to calm down. Is there anyone you can call? I weakly shake my head "no" and the men confer, and they ask about medications, and I whisper them, and explain that they are not related to amphetamines, and they insist (quite insensitively, in my opinion, knowing that I was in the process of multiple loss) that there MUST be someone I can call to come pick me up, and where did I say my parents lived, and well, they can't possibly get you and I shake my head that I know, and I want to add that there is no one who can pull me out of this but me, and the nice one seems to be fending off the others who want me to sign something and he says I don't have to, and only later do I wonder if I am going to be charged an ambulance fee, for an ambulance I didn't request, and as I am forcing, forcing, forcing myself to slow my breathing, a little laughter comes into my mind as I muse that the police officer is probably really sorry he pulled me over because of this whole stupid ordeal that it spawned, and wouldn't he feel guilty if I died, and it was all because he gave me a speeding ticket when it was really not at all necessary. And all the while my body seems to be hovering above me, and the idea of them taking me away somewhere seems almost appealing. Where would they take me? I wonder. Would it be easier there? Would everything hurt a little less, would I just give it all up, and sink under the weight of my responsibilities. The me that is hanging above the me that is still sucking wind in a slightly less tangled ball toys with the idea of a 19 nervous breakdown, juggles it in the air, like a lazy hackey sack that falls back into the hand with a satisfying beaded crunch. No. The other part of me pulls hard on the strings that are threatening to detach and float away, who needs the car? The voice asks. Would they lock me up? Would I be a criminal?
But I finally land, with a thud and a crunch inside myself. Grounded. I ask the men to leave me alone, for ten minutes. They oblige only because the one, the nice one with piercing blue eyes, makes them leave for good, and the poor shlameel that pulled me over sits and waits for me to get it together. And in another ten minutes I do, and I take a drink of water, and I apologize to him, like I did to the paramedic who was taking my blood pressure, and to the kind one who chased them away, even as they were saying I couldn't possibly drive like that, and he argued that I had no medical condition, I was just upset, and he understood, and made them go away, and made me stop apologizing, or tried. And the mortification that I felt paled in comparison to the relief of ripping open, splitting at the seams and just, for once, for the first time after all this year, letting go.
And boy let me tell you.
It could have been worse, well, maybe, I don't know, maybe not. On the bright side, there was no death, nor permanent bodily injury to anyone. I left my house in a state of virtual war zone, with a bowl of caked-on eggplant and mushroom risotto to fend for itself among the tomato crusted bowls and pots of this weekend's stew. (Normally my kitchen stays clean, needless to say, when I fall apart, so does it.)
The doctor was duly frightened by the golf-ball-sized swolen lymph nodes and prescribed hard-core antibiotics (when asked if all alcohol was out of the question he said, a few glasses of wine would be fine, now I know. I also, incidentally and most likely unrelatedly learned that Staph infections while manifesting themselves anywhere on the body, maintain their reservoir in the nasal cavities. Shocking and fascinating all at once. Alas, when I returned to retrieve my prescription, the pharmacy had already closed, so here's to three more nights in which I cannot rest my neck due to severe discomfort. Blah. Whine, sob.
Pushing ahead and sloughing through work, I did manage to finally get to Jenny at 8:45, wander around the downtown area of LA (which guaging by the concierge's baffled expression, isn't generally walked about at night, but was indeed quite safe.) We found a strange bakery/cafe that was more of a diner than anything else, and drank several cups of mediocre coffee, enough to keep us going until now (3 am). Upon return with gin and tonics in hand as she smoked a ciggy in the valet area, we were accosted by the Hummer2 driving asshole, who while crass and uncultured, managed to boast about his jet company housed in Boston and his participation in what had to be a young republicans group that sent him to South Africa, you know, to throw money at those poor ignorant black folk with AIDS and the victims of rape. And by the way, since Jenny was in town doing training for the local health department on AIDS prevention interventions, could we elucidate how it was transmitted. Christ on a cross! as a dear friend might say. The Hummer was a rental and he was highly unimpressive, but the best I could muster were a few disinterested looks and a pedantic tone while co-explaining the intricacies of why different kinds of sex were riskier than others in terms of permeability of ripped tissue.
But those, those were all minor compared to the ordeal on getting my ass to LA. As I drove, alone, I coached myself. "It'll be fine, you're making good time. You won't get lost..." in a sort of an obsessive mantra. The doctor today suggested that there is help for ocd, if I wanted it, and I was too tired to even be offended. Of course, he said his ocd got him through med school, so go figure. So I am a neurotic slob who couldn't even manage to clean out the car, and as I am passing Simi Valley, and feeling like my stomach has been punched because that is where Tim died just a few days ago, and he's NOT coming back, and it is Columbus day, which means that it would have been my anniversary, and Wednesday I have to come back for the funeral, and I don't know if I can take seeing his lifeless body, and I feel doubly sick and sad and terribly alone and Tori Amos' "Under the Pink" album is blasting, and I am singing, screaming, really at the top of my lungs along with her "Hey, what's it gonna take, til my baby's alright... ah, pretty good year" and tears are streaming down my face, and there I am focusing on the road ahead, and the cars braking slightly before me, and I suddenly realize that there are lights flashing behind me, but no siren, so I carefully wend my way across 4 lanes, and yes, it is me that is being pulled over, and I magically have all my papers in order, but the cop makes a joke about my hispanic surname, that he just arrested somebody by that name, and where did I live? And had I been drinking ? (oddly enough, no) and what was my mother's name, and where did she live? And I bit my lip and gave monosyllabic answers and nodded my head to keep from shaking or crying and tried to be polite, but my hands were trembling because in fact I had absolutely no idea how fast I was going (82 miles per hour, he said, which in my defense, was what everyone else was doing too) and when he came back, after checking again whether I had had any recent infractions (no, not in 10 years), he said that irregardless he needed to give me a ticket because I was going over the speed limit, but it was just a little ticket, he claimed, and YES he said "irregardless" which is NOT a word in the English language and Jenny, my fellow grammarian comiserated with me over this particular point, noting that police where not hired for their ability to correctly employ English or any other language for that matter. So my hand wobbled as I held the little clip board, specially designed, no doubt for traffic tickets in their unique shape and size, and he look impatient as I actually read the entire sheet that I was meant to sign, and I ask in that tremulous voice if I indeed have to go to court, as it claims on the signature line, and then the tears are building and building and he is explaining that I will get something in the mail, and I can do traffic school by internet, and I stare at his moon face and squat, bald, head as it shines the afternoon sun back in my eyes and I can't stop the tears and he starts to say that it isn't a big deal, just a traffic ticket, and I bite my lip practically to the point of drawing blood, but it doesn't make him disappear or stop saying that he knows I have been going through a lot, and I shake my head angrily while carefully averting my eyes, lest I make contact and crumble into ash right before him and he keeps talking at me about how it isn't a big deal and I hold my hand up as if to stifle his speech, and the sibilant whine of tears escapes my lips in a soft hiss. And he kindly takes the hint and tells me to take a minute to compose myself, and he'll get out of my face, and I nod him away, and then the tears really rip open and then it is an all out open sob, and I curl up against the driver's side door, and try to approximate a fetal position, and my phone is vibrating somewhere under my ass, and I can't even look to see who it is. But the crying won't stop, and the sobs build up so that I can't breathe, and I don't care about some fucking traffic ticket, but I just keep sucking wind, and gasping for breath and the last time this happened I was in a puddle on the floor in Mexico, and my mom talked me through it, five years ago maybe, but I know it is a panic attack, and all the floodgates have burst, and every last little bit of loss that has accumulated over the years, and fear, and sense of abandonment, and desire for isolation come barreling through my chest, and rob my lungs of air, and I keep hugging myself, pulling my legs up to my chest, resting my outer thigh against the steering wheel, and my hands begin to tingle, and lose sensation, and the sound of the hyperventilation itself provokes more panic, and I know I have to find that phone. So I call my mom, and she doesn't answer because, of course, she is at rehearsal, and I call my dad, and he says, call 911, but the thought of that is even worse and makes me sob harder, and I manage to croak that the police officer is still parked behind me, and thankfully isn't blaring his high beams into me as if to bore holes in the back of my head. My dad doesn't have my mom's soothing patience, but rather wants me to solve the problem immediately, get a grip! He shouts into the phone, wanting me to snap out of it, but yelling only makes it worse, and I manage to open the door and slump halfway out, and heave in short breaths, which draws the officer from his car, and my lips are tingling now too, and he wants to know if I want an ambulance, and I shake my head no, but he calls the paramedics anyway, and I apologize through gasps, that my boss just died, and when the paramedics arrive one of them is kind, and tries to talk me back down. He talks me through my options, as the fire truck pulls up in front of me, too. They can't give you anything, you can't stay here, you need to calm down. Is there anyone you can call? I weakly shake my head "no" and the men confer, and they ask about medications, and I whisper them, and explain that they are not related to amphetamines, and they insist (quite insensitively, in my opinion, knowing that I was in the process of multiple loss) that there MUST be someone I can call to come pick me up, and where did I say my parents lived, and well, they can't possibly get you and I shake my head that I know, and I want to add that there is no one who can pull me out of this but me, and the nice one seems to be fending off the others who want me to sign something and he says I don't have to, and only later do I wonder if I am going to be charged an ambulance fee, for an ambulance I didn't request, and as I am forcing, forcing, forcing myself to slow my breathing, a little laughter comes into my mind as I muse that the police officer is probably really sorry he pulled me over because of this whole stupid ordeal that it spawned, and wouldn't he feel guilty if I died, and it was all because he gave me a speeding ticket when it was really not at all necessary. And all the while my body seems to be hovering above me, and the idea of them taking me away somewhere seems almost appealing. Where would they take me? I wonder. Would it be easier there? Would everything hurt a little less, would I just give it all up, and sink under the weight of my responsibilities. The me that is hanging above the me that is still sucking wind in a slightly less tangled ball toys with the idea of a 19 nervous breakdown, juggles it in the air, like a lazy hackey sack that falls back into the hand with a satisfying beaded crunch. No. The other part of me pulls hard on the strings that are threatening to detach and float away, who needs the car? The voice asks. Would they lock me up? Would I be a criminal?
But I finally land, with a thud and a crunch inside myself. Grounded. I ask the men to leave me alone, for ten minutes. They oblige only because the one, the nice one with piercing blue eyes, makes them leave for good, and the poor shlameel that pulled me over sits and waits for me to get it together. And in another ten minutes I do, and I take a drink of water, and I apologize to him, like I did to the paramedic who was taking my blood pressure, and to the kind one who chased them away, even as they were saying I couldn't possibly drive like that, and he argued that I had no medical condition, I was just upset, and he understood, and made them go away, and made me stop apologizing, or tried. And the mortification that I felt paled in comparison to the relief of ripping open, splitting at the seams and just, for once, for the first time after all this year, letting go.
posted by ilana at 3:19 a.m.
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