It is the sixth of February, and approximately 10% of 2018 now lives in the past. This should make me feel something, but alas, alack.
Somehow, I have read 13 books since New Year’s, and only four of those are graphic novels, so I sort of feel like champion of the year? I am aware that this is wildly delusional, but cognizance and acceptance are two very different things, hence the difference in their spelling.
In less fun news, I have seen two specialists in two days, both of whom insisted that I wasn’t special for being referred to them, to which I suggested they change their job titles. Future sufferers of broken and confusing bodies need not enter their offices with any preconceived notions, nor should these poor doctors be burdened with the responsibility of bursting such delicate bubbles. I’m looking out for everyone here.
In all fairness, both doctors seemed nice. I’ve only met them once each, and I was exhausted on both occasions, but both seemed willing to accept that (a) my suffering is real and (b) they could do something to help, which is more than I can say for some of the physicians I’ve subjected myself to over the years. Then again, the Hippocratic Oath does not obligate treatment, except where it actually does, but who even reads anymore?
This post has become much more ridiculous in tone and vocabulary than I originally intended. I think this is what some psychologists would call a “coping mechanism.” When sharing news of my declining health, I usually default to detachment, compelled to minimize the seriousness of the situation lest listeners sympathize with my plight. Leaning on levity to convey my utter hopelessness, on the other hand, feels like expressing myself in a foreign language. It is kind of magical, but kind of terrifying, like seeing Nessie rise from the lagoon, only to realize that you are seeing Nessie rise from the lagoon.
(Actually, wrapping my tongue around norsk is more comfortable than this painstaking analogy. I hope you at least thought about typing “lol” in the comments, regardless of whether you really laughed aloud.)
Comedy can be its own kind of indifferent pretense. Laughing at the prospect of a doctor injecting a “soft needle” into my spine to flood my nerves with steroids gives others permission to do the same. Or, maybe, to make jokes about how I “need to get this straightened out,” or to call me a cripple, or to quip that I walk slower now that I use a cane. Except, all of those have already happened, when I wasn’t laughing at how much it sucks to be a 28-year-old who has lived with some mysterious chronic pain for 15 years. At least, if I tell my story this way, bad Scottish analogies and all, I get to laugh a little. Which I know you aren’t supposed to do, but riddle me this, sparky – why tell a joke if you don’t yourself think it’s funny?
Off the rails or not, the above rambling is what you can expect of this blog – sometimes books (because they are all I have to keep me sane), sometimes health talk (because it consumes so much of my life these days), sometimes musings on the use of humor in healing (but not much, because I am no expert, no matter what I say). As long as you don’t expect any quality of content, you shouldn’t be disappointed.
No promises, though.