“A well-marked case of pseudo-leprosy or ichthyosis, a scale-like affection of the skin, unsightly, obstinate, but possibly curable, and certainly noninfective. Yes, Mr. Holmes, the coincidence is a remarkable one. But is it coincidence? Are there not subtle forces at work of which we know little? Are we assured that the apprehension from which this young man has no doubt suffered terribly since his exposure to its contagion may not produce a physical effect which simulates that which it fears?”
--from “The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier” in The Case Book of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Hello, my name is Katie, and I am a hypochondriac.
There, I said it. I admit it, okay? It’s not really that I always think I am sick. It’s more that as soon as I have the tiniest, most insignificant unfamiliar symptom, I automatically jump to the worst possible conclusion.
For example, a week or so ago, I felt a mild stinging pain on the back of my left shoulder. I looked at the offending spot in the mirror, and saw a raised bump about the size of a dime. It was the same color as the surrounding skin, with a tiny reddish dot in the middle. All signs pointed to some kind of bite, perhaps from an insect of some kind, or perhaps from a spider.
I tried to just forget about it. Really, I tried. But the thing didn’t go away like an insect bite should. It’s still there. And even though it does not itch or hurt or otherwise bother me, I can’t stop thinking about it.
Maybe it’s a burn because I have some sort of terrible allergy to the detergent I used to wash my pajamas. Maybe it’s some sort of cancerous growth underneath the skin that is going to spread. Maybe it is in fact an insect bite, and the insect is something like bed bugs and my apartment has some sort of infestation I’ll never be rid of. Maybe one of the sites of my mole removals is swelling because I have a mysterious, incurable infection!
All of those things actually entered my brain at some time this week. And while the rational part of my brain knows that none of those explanations make sense, the irrational part of my brain keeps screaming, “But it could be true!”
I wasn’t always like this. In fact, for most of my life, I dealt with injury and illness mostly by ignoring it. I kept most ailments a secret from everyone, because I didn’t want anyone to force me to do anything about them. So, this is a relatively new development. I’ve been thinking a lot today about what made me start obsessing over my health, and to my surprise, I was able to pinpoint the incident.
I blame running. And I blame the internet.
In March of 2009, I went on a 9-mile run. Approximately 4 miles into it, I started to have some pain in my left hip. It really hurt to run uphill, even on the very slight inclines of curbs. Yet, being the dumbass I am, I just kept running. I finished the 9 miles and limped up the stairs to my apartment, telling myself that everything would be fine in the morning.
It wasn’t fine. My hip hurt a lot for a week or so, until I finally went to an injury screening at a local running store. The physical therapist listened to my symptoms and winced as she told me that she thought I had a stress fracture in my hip. As I was my pre-hypochondria self, this did not faze me; I had no idea what a stress fracture was. But then the physical therapist did some tests, moving around my leg and hip, and told me there was a chance that it wasn’t a stress fracture after all, but a bad pull of the psoas muscle.
And this, my friends, is where the trouble started. I was bewildered that the therapist could not tell me exactly what was wrong. Aren’t doctors supposed to have all of the answers? I thought. I must not have told her enough information. I’m sure I could figure out what the real problem is if I knew a little more about the two possible injuries. And with that, I went home and googled “stress fracture,” “hip running injury,” and “psoas.”
I think back on this sequence of events, and I wish I could tell pre-WebMD Katie not to do it. But alas, I cannot stop her. And as you can imagine, it’s been all downhill from there.
Turns out that according to the internet, stress fractures are the worst possible thing that could ever happen to a runner. They bench you for weeks or months. And hip stress fractures are the worst of all, because the hip has a delicate blood supply that can get really messed up if a fracture occurs. Augh! I was going to have a messed up blood supply, I just knew it!
For the next six weeks, I could not stop compulsively looking for more sites about hip stress fractures. I was trying to both convince myself that I had one, and convince myself that I didn’t. Since there was not enough evidence either way, I automatically assumed the worst.
I’ve been like that ever since. I have a really bad headache? Well, it could be the sinus problems that run my family, but it also could be a brain tumor. (The internet says so!) I have some pain in my abdomen? It could be indigestion or a common stomach bug, or it could be appendicitis! (No, really, the internet says the location of my pain is consistent with it!) I have pain in my shins? Well, it could be the incredibly common running injury, shin splints, or it could be (bum bum bum!) a stress fracture! Or, it could be (bum bum BUM!) compartment syndrome, and that can sometimes lead to (ominous noise) amputation of the leg! THE INTERNET SAYS SO! (I had to lie down when I read the amputation thing. I was a hair’s breadth away from passing out.)
There were some isolated incidents prior to my psoas injury (yes, it did turn out to be my psoas) when I leapt to ridiculous medical conclusions. While I was in graduate school, for instance, I pulled a muscle in my neck and eventually convinced myself that I had meningitis. But that time, I went to the doctor and she told me definitively that it was a muscle pull. But now that I realize that sometimes, doctors don’t know for sure what’s going on, no one can convince me that any medical malady is not the worst-case scenario. Even the doctors don’t know for sure!
The doctors don’t know which possibility is the true one. But the internet knows ALL the possibilities! And I have the internet, so clearly I am qualified to diagnose myself.
That bump on my shoulder could be a slow-healing but harmless spider bite. Or it could be a precancerous cyst. I’m not sure which, because I stopped googling it once I read about precancerous cysts.
At least I know when to stop.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
Like Me
“The impulse to touch a sleeping child never fades, no matter that the child is a good deal larger than her mother, and a woman—if a young one—in her own right. I smoothed the hair back from her face and stroked the crown of her head. She smiled in her sleep, a brief reflex of contentment, gone as soon as it appeared. My own smile lingered as I watched her, and I whispered to her sleep-deaf ears, as I had so many times before, ‘God, you are so like him.’”
--from Dragonfly in Amber by Diana Gabaldon
Wednesday will be my 28th birthday. I will have survived 28 years on this earth. Before you go navigating away, thinking that this will be some lament about how old I am getting, let me assure you that is not the case. For one thing, recent events have really taught me to appreciate that I’m still here. (I still wish you could come back, Stephen.)
But before Stephen’s accident, I was never one to freak out over getting older. I came to the realization long ago that I can’t pause time. Every day I get a little older, and the particular day that I cross the threshold into another year doesn’t mean much. I tend to view my birthday as the one holiday I don’t have to share with anyone else. Plus, I get a free drink from Starbucks, a free pastry from Panera, and a free stirfry from Flat Top! (Join birthday clubs, people. They rule.) Plus, there is usually also cake and an excuse to eat it. What’s not to like?
This whole, “Oh crap, another year has gone by and I haven’t gotten to a better place!” business doesn’t tend to enter my mind. I’m lucky enough to be living in a city that I love, in an apartment that is a huge step up from my last one, doing a job that I enjoy at a pay rate I deserve. I have supportive, loving friends and I do a pretty good job of staying involved in my community. I try a lot of new things and stick with many of them. I have no reason not to feel like I am not where I should be by age 28.
Well, except for the fact that I’m still single. I would be lying if I said that this never bothers me, but I can honestly say that I’m okay with being single about 90% of the time. When a wedding invitation comes, I wish I had a date to bring. When I’m sitting at a table of couples, I feel like the odd one out. But overall, I’m comfortable with my life as it is. While I hope that someday I will meet someone that hangs around for the long run, after years of beating myself up about what I’m doing wrong, I’ve accepted that it will happen or it won’t. I can’t do anything about the timing. I’m content to make the best of whatever relationship status I happen to be in. Maybe I’ll meet someone tomorrow, and maybe it’ll be when I’m 50. I refuse to live as if I’m just waiting for that day.
But there is one thing that makes this whole philosophy more complicated: someday, I want to have kids. And while I’m sure I could be equally happy to meet someone at age 50 as I could be at 28, I don’t think the idea of having kids at age 50 is a good one.
It’s not that I’m one of those natural mother-y types. I’m actually kind of afraid of kids. They make me nervous. Babies are a little easier, as I do not have to think of appropriate things to say to them. But toddlers? Preschoolers? Ack. They always look at me with such expectations. I feel like I never meet those expectations. I have the potential to be an interesting and fun companion, and then I fail miserably at it. I’m not much of a nurturer, either. When kids are struggling with something, my impulse is to do it for them, not coax them along. No, I’m definitely not the natural mother.
I also don’t subscribe to the “Motherhood is the world’s most noble pursuit” stuff. Of course I really admire anyone who brings up a child. But it’s not because I think they are noble. It’s because I am certain that parenthood is epically hard. It’s a never-ending list of responsibilities and opportunities to be judged.
So if that’s how I feel about motherhood, why do I want kids, anyway? There are a lot of obvious, cliché reasons, but the reason I’m thinking about today is this: I am so curious to know how my kids would turn out.
Growing up, I never looked all that much like either of my parents. My sister has always looked more like my dad. When she was younger, she sounded just like my mom on the phone. But there weren’t any strong links like that between my parents and me. In recent years, however, I can’t even count the number of times I have looked in the mirror (either figuratively or literally) and seen each of my parents.
I can look at something and visually picture the way it must work; that’s my dad in me. When I read, always remember much more about the characters than I do about the places or events; that comes from my mom. When I walk out of a theater into a crowded lobby, I feel like the crowd is pressing in on me and can’t wait to get out of it; I know my dad feels like that, too. When I’m sitting at work and I discover a really big problem with the books, under my breath I mutter, “Eiya, eiya, eiya”; that a mantra of my mother’s and (so I hear) also of my grandmother’s.
Yes, I am a lot like both of my parents. And I can’t help but wonder how my kids would be like me. Would my daughter worry about every slight ache, pain, or variation in her pulse? Would my son be utterly incapable of playing a team sport? Would my daughter have an eye for detail? Would my son say “Eiya, eiya, eiya” to himself?
Of course, I am also eager to see how my children would be different from me, and how they would be like whoever their father might be. There are a lot of things about me that seemingly came from nowhere. (For example, neither of my parents seem to have much interest in writing.) But it’s the similarities that capture my imagination.
Above all else, I hope that if I have children someday, when they turn 28 and reflect on how I am a part of them... I hope they are as proud to be like me as I am to be like my mother and father.
Love you, Mom and Dad. Thanks for helping me through 28 years and beyond.
--from Dragonfly in Amber by Diana Gabaldon
Wednesday will be my 28th birthday. I will have survived 28 years on this earth. Before you go navigating away, thinking that this will be some lament about how old I am getting, let me assure you that is not the case. For one thing, recent events have really taught me to appreciate that I’m still here. (I still wish you could come back, Stephen.)
But before Stephen’s accident, I was never one to freak out over getting older. I came to the realization long ago that I can’t pause time. Every day I get a little older, and the particular day that I cross the threshold into another year doesn’t mean much. I tend to view my birthday as the one holiday I don’t have to share with anyone else. Plus, I get a free drink from Starbucks, a free pastry from Panera, and a free stirfry from Flat Top! (Join birthday clubs, people. They rule.) Plus, there is usually also cake and an excuse to eat it. What’s not to like?
This whole, “Oh crap, another year has gone by and I haven’t gotten to a better place!” business doesn’t tend to enter my mind. I’m lucky enough to be living in a city that I love, in an apartment that is a huge step up from my last one, doing a job that I enjoy at a pay rate I deserve. I have supportive, loving friends and I do a pretty good job of staying involved in my community. I try a lot of new things and stick with many of them. I have no reason not to feel like I am not where I should be by age 28.
Well, except for the fact that I’m still single. I would be lying if I said that this never bothers me, but I can honestly say that I’m okay with being single about 90% of the time. When a wedding invitation comes, I wish I had a date to bring. When I’m sitting at a table of couples, I feel like the odd one out. But overall, I’m comfortable with my life as it is. While I hope that someday I will meet someone that hangs around for the long run, after years of beating myself up about what I’m doing wrong, I’ve accepted that it will happen or it won’t. I can’t do anything about the timing. I’m content to make the best of whatever relationship status I happen to be in. Maybe I’ll meet someone tomorrow, and maybe it’ll be when I’m 50. I refuse to live as if I’m just waiting for that day.
But there is one thing that makes this whole philosophy more complicated: someday, I want to have kids. And while I’m sure I could be equally happy to meet someone at age 50 as I could be at 28, I don’t think the idea of having kids at age 50 is a good one.
It’s not that I’m one of those natural mother-y types. I’m actually kind of afraid of kids. They make me nervous. Babies are a little easier, as I do not have to think of appropriate things to say to them. But toddlers? Preschoolers? Ack. They always look at me with such expectations. I feel like I never meet those expectations. I have the potential to be an interesting and fun companion, and then I fail miserably at it. I’m not much of a nurturer, either. When kids are struggling with something, my impulse is to do it for them, not coax them along. No, I’m definitely not the natural mother.
I also don’t subscribe to the “Motherhood is the world’s most noble pursuit” stuff. Of course I really admire anyone who brings up a child. But it’s not because I think they are noble. It’s because I am certain that parenthood is epically hard. It’s a never-ending list of responsibilities and opportunities to be judged.
So if that’s how I feel about motherhood, why do I want kids, anyway? There are a lot of obvious, cliché reasons, but the reason I’m thinking about today is this: I am so curious to know how my kids would turn out.
Growing up, I never looked all that much like either of my parents. My sister has always looked more like my dad. When she was younger, she sounded just like my mom on the phone. But there weren’t any strong links like that between my parents and me. In recent years, however, I can’t even count the number of times I have looked in the mirror (either figuratively or literally) and seen each of my parents.
I can look at something and visually picture the way it must work; that’s my dad in me. When I read, always remember much more about the characters than I do about the places or events; that comes from my mom. When I walk out of a theater into a crowded lobby, I feel like the crowd is pressing in on me and can’t wait to get out of it; I know my dad feels like that, too. When I’m sitting at work and I discover a really big problem with the books, under my breath I mutter, “Eiya, eiya, eiya”; that a mantra of my mother’s and (so I hear) also of my grandmother’s.
Yes, I am a lot like both of my parents. And I can’t help but wonder how my kids would be like me. Would my daughter worry about every slight ache, pain, or variation in her pulse? Would my son be utterly incapable of playing a team sport? Would my daughter have an eye for detail? Would my son say “Eiya, eiya, eiya” to himself?
Of course, I am also eager to see how my children would be different from me, and how they would be like whoever their father might be. There are a lot of things about me that seemingly came from nowhere. (For example, neither of my parents seem to have much interest in writing.) But it’s the similarities that capture my imagination.
Above all else, I hope that if I have children someday, when they turn 28 and reflect on how I am a part of them... I hope they are as proud to be like me as I am to be like my mother and father.
Love you, Mom and Dad. Thanks for helping me through 28 years and beyond.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Friend
“‘I was thinking only yesterday afternoon about the relationship we’ve been building up, how valuable it was, something really good. But that was silly, wasn’t it? I was dead wrong, I …’
‘No, you’re dead wrong now, you were right then,’ he broke in. ‘These things don’t just stop like that, you know; human beings aren’t as simple as that, they’re not like machines.’”
-- from Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the nature of friendship. I’m lucky enough to have many friends in my life. The people that come to mind first are those that live nearby and that I talk to and see frequently. But there are many others. I’ve always referred to the girls that I run with as “my running friends.” I have many former coworkers that I now consider my friends. There are friends from high school that I have reconnected with, and friends from college that I seldom see, but never really lost contact with.
Although I am closer to some of these people than others, I’ve come to believe that it’s completely legitimate to refer to them all as friends. I used to think I should clarify the nature of my relationship with each person each time I talked about him or her. “Oh, he was my friend in the dorms during my first year of college.” Subtext: But we’re not really friends any more. “I met her through so-and-so, and sometimes we talk online about running.” Subtext: But honestly, I barely know her.
There was a day not so long ago that I was thinking through my list of friends, clarifying and classifying people like this. And the frightening thought that occurred to me was, if I sat there long enough dissecting my friendships, I would probably end up discovering that, by whatever mysterious definition of “true friend” I had in mind, I probably had no friends at all.
So, I stopped adding those qualifications each time I referred to someone as my friend. After all, there are many different kinds of friendships. And who knows? Perhaps the broadening of the definition of “friend” in my head would help me to treat the people in my life with the consideration that friends deserve.
But then Stephen died. (If you’re wondering how long it will be until I write a blog where he does not make an appearance… truthfully, I don’t know. But it will probably be a while.) In the weeks following his death, I thought a few times about the way I call so many people friends. I wondered if this habit had cheapened the word for me. I had a difficult time when I would tell other people, “My friend Stephen died,” because I found myself wanting to make more qualifications. But he was not just my friend. He was … my Stephen. Nothing but his name captured the nature and nuance of our friendship, but perhaps if I had been more conservative about using the word “friend,” people would better understand how much I cared about him.
This line of thinking is ludicrous, of course. Even if I was more stingy about calling people friends, it doesn’t mean that everyone else would be, or that everyone else would better understand how I was feeling. Besides, all of my friendships are unique. “Friend” does not adequately describe the details of any friendship.
But still, is it right to just call almost every acquaintance I have my friend? What does “friend” really mean, anyway?
Yesterday I saw the musical Wicked for the seventh time. I’ve said before that Wicked is my favorite musical, and last night reaffirmed that for me because even in its seventh viewing, it taught me something new. During the final song of the show, two friends sing a song to each other that says, “Because I knew you, I have been changed for good.” It makes me cry every time, and this time was no exception, because it made me realize a way in which Stephen will never die. He changed me.
While Stephen and I had a good number of things in common, we still remained two very different people. He saw the world through very different eyes than me, in both good and bad ways. Though I am something of a doomsday thinker, I find other people’s optimism encouraging; Stephen found it annoying. Stephen saw something worthwhile and interesting in almost everyone he met; I have a terrible habit of writing people off without giving them a chance. Being around Stephen forced me to think outside my normal lines and interact with people I normally would have ignored. He challenged my way of thinking. He changed me. And I’ll carry him with me always, in that piece of me he shaped.
Since his death, I’ve been afraid that I will forget him. I think of the months and years and decades I will continue living without him, and I worry that I’ll forget the sound of his voice or the ridiculous habits he had. And the truth is, I might forget those things. But that does not mean I will forget him. Our friendship did not end when he died, any more than it ended when we left college and rarely spoke. As Jim says in the quote at the top of this post, these things do not just stop. I have been changed for good.
I have rambled a bit through this post, but mostly I wanted to say that the experience of losing Stephen has taught me the value of allowing people that challenge you into your life. True friends, I think, are the ones that make you think outside your box and grow as a person. The beauty of that is, of course, that no two people are alike, and so every person on this earth has the potential to be my friend.
I can’t help but think that the previous sentence would have made Stephen want to vomit. In fact, there is another quote from Lucky Jim that I think sums up what his reaction would have been: “Dixon hesitated; Bertrand’s speech, which, except for its peroration, had clearly been delivered before, had annoyed him in more ways than he’d have believed possible.”
Yes, Stephen would find this post annoying, and that does make me wonder if this is all just mindless drivel. Even now, Stephen is forcing me to rethink this elaborate, philosophical conclusion I have drawn through mourning him. But that only reaffirms the fact that our friendship continues.
‘No, you’re dead wrong now, you were right then,’ he broke in. ‘These things don’t just stop like that, you know; human beings aren’t as simple as that, they’re not like machines.’”
-- from Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the nature of friendship. I’m lucky enough to have many friends in my life. The people that come to mind first are those that live nearby and that I talk to and see frequently. But there are many others. I’ve always referred to the girls that I run with as “my running friends.” I have many former coworkers that I now consider my friends. There are friends from high school that I have reconnected with, and friends from college that I seldom see, but never really lost contact with.
Although I am closer to some of these people than others, I’ve come to believe that it’s completely legitimate to refer to them all as friends. I used to think I should clarify the nature of my relationship with each person each time I talked about him or her. “Oh, he was my friend in the dorms during my first year of college.” Subtext: But we’re not really friends any more. “I met her through so-and-so, and sometimes we talk online about running.” Subtext: But honestly, I barely know her.
There was a day not so long ago that I was thinking through my list of friends, clarifying and classifying people like this. And the frightening thought that occurred to me was, if I sat there long enough dissecting my friendships, I would probably end up discovering that, by whatever mysterious definition of “true friend” I had in mind, I probably had no friends at all.
So, I stopped adding those qualifications each time I referred to someone as my friend. After all, there are many different kinds of friendships. And who knows? Perhaps the broadening of the definition of “friend” in my head would help me to treat the people in my life with the consideration that friends deserve.
But then Stephen died. (If you’re wondering how long it will be until I write a blog where he does not make an appearance… truthfully, I don’t know. But it will probably be a while.) In the weeks following his death, I thought a few times about the way I call so many people friends. I wondered if this habit had cheapened the word for me. I had a difficult time when I would tell other people, “My friend Stephen died,” because I found myself wanting to make more qualifications. But he was not just my friend. He was … my Stephen. Nothing but his name captured the nature and nuance of our friendship, but perhaps if I had been more conservative about using the word “friend,” people would better understand how much I cared about him.
This line of thinking is ludicrous, of course. Even if I was more stingy about calling people friends, it doesn’t mean that everyone else would be, or that everyone else would better understand how I was feeling. Besides, all of my friendships are unique. “Friend” does not adequately describe the details of any friendship.
But still, is it right to just call almost every acquaintance I have my friend? What does “friend” really mean, anyway?
Yesterday I saw the musical Wicked for the seventh time. I’ve said before that Wicked is my favorite musical, and last night reaffirmed that for me because even in its seventh viewing, it taught me something new. During the final song of the show, two friends sing a song to each other that says, “Because I knew you, I have been changed for good.” It makes me cry every time, and this time was no exception, because it made me realize a way in which Stephen will never die. He changed me.
While Stephen and I had a good number of things in common, we still remained two very different people. He saw the world through very different eyes than me, in both good and bad ways. Though I am something of a doomsday thinker, I find other people’s optimism encouraging; Stephen found it annoying. Stephen saw something worthwhile and interesting in almost everyone he met; I have a terrible habit of writing people off without giving them a chance. Being around Stephen forced me to think outside my normal lines and interact with people I normally would have ignored. He challenged my way of thinking. He changed me. And I’ll carry him with me always, in that piece of me he shaped.
Since his death, I’ve been afraid that I will forget him. I think of the months and years and decades I will continue living without him, and I worry that I’ll forget the sound of his voice or the ridiculous habits he had. And the truth is, I might forget those things. But that does not mean I will forget him. Our friendship did not end when he died, any more than it ended when we left college and rarely spoke. As Jim says in the quote at the top of this post, these things do not just stop. I have been changed for good.
I have rambled a bit through this post, but mostly I wanted to say that the experience of losing Stephen has taught me the value of allowing people that challenge you into your life. True friends, I think, are the ones that make you think outside your box and grow as a person. The beauty of that is, of course, that no two people are alike, and so every person on this earth has the potential to be my friend.
I can’t help but think that the previous sentence would have made Stephen want to vomit. In fact, there is another quote from Lucky Jim that I think sums up what his reaction would have been: “Dixon hesitated; Bertrand’s speech, which, except for its peroration, had clearly been delivered before, had annoyed him in more ways than he’d have believed possible.”
Yes, Stephen would find this post annoying, and that does make me wonder if this is all just mindless drivel. Even now, Stephen is forcing me to rethink this elaborate, philosophical conclusion I have drawn through mourning him. But that only reaffirms the fact that our friendship continues.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Missing Message
“He has forgotten something. He knows that for sure when he wakes up. Something he dreamt during the night. Something he ought to remember. But sleep is like a black hole. A well that reveals nothing of its contents.”
-from Faceless Killers by Henning Mankell
Bedtime was not a particularly difficult or memorable part of my childhood. I don’t remember ever having tantrums or being otherwise upset about having to go to bed.
However, my relationship with sleep – or, perhaps not with sleep so much as with the act of going to bed – became more complicated during high school and college.
These were the years when I truly hated going to bed. I would be willing to bet that many of my friends from those years can remember me saying so constantly. I’m pretty sure a common AIM away message I put up at the time simply said, “I hate going to bed.” It wasn’t because anyone told me to go to bed earlier than I wanted; it wasn’t because I had nightmares. It wasn’t for any reason that made any sense to anyone. Even I couldn’t grasp my feelings well enough at the time to articulate them.
Eventually I came to understand this hatred of going to bed as one of the many manifestations of my anxiety. I was afraid of a lot of things back then: meeting new people, having to call people I didn’t know, getting assignments I didn’t understand, being asked to do something I wasn’t able to do… basically anything that involved interacting with people in ways that were at all unpredictable or unfamiliar. In my mind, each new day presented new possibilities for all these frightening things to happen. By evening, most of that risk had passed. I had accomplished everything I needed to and was able to just spend time with my friends or by myself, doing something mindless.
But going to bed meant the end of one day and the beginning of another. It meant that the peace was over and the worry began again. So, I hated it. It was as simple as that.
Once I understood that, my feelings at bedtime became sort of an indicator of my anxiety level. To this day, I can still use this meter. If I don’t have strong feelings one way or the other as I get ready for bed, I’m doing pretty well. If I start dreading going to bed an hour before I actually have to do so, I know I need to something to get my stress under control.
And if I actually look forward to going to bed? Then I am in a seriously bad place. (Unless of course, my reasons for looking forward to it are something to do with illness or exhaustion.) It means that I am finding the whole of life so difficult and stressful that I look forward to sleeping simply because it is something I can handle. When sleep is my escape, I know I need to reach out for some help. The only time in my life that I consistently couldn’t wait to go to bed was during my time in Sweden, but it has happened a few other times as well.
Any of you that read my last two posts know that the last few weeks have not been easy for me. The loss Stephen has hit me, and many of my closest friends, hard. As I’ve been working through my own feelings and doing my best to help my friends through theirs, I’ve found that grief is an exhausting and stressful emotion. I’ve had a hard time focusing on anything, which has caused me to worry that I will forget to do something at work or to meet someone somewhere. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find myself back in that place where sleep is a relief.
But that’s not really how it has been. My emotions at bedtime have been very conflicted. Especially for the first few days, I did not want to go to bed because I felt like I had not yet done enough that day to help Stephen. Another day had passed, and he was still dead. Why hadn’t I done anything about that? (Yes, I know that nothing I can do will bring him back. I know that nothing anyone can do will bring him back. But the rational and irrational parts of my brain are always at war, and irrational has won a few battles lately.) Stephen’s death was just not something I could live with, and I felt guilty spending my time sleeping instead of trying to figure out how to save him. I still feel that way to some extent. So in that sense, I hate going to bed right now.
But as I lay there each night thinking about him, inevitably one thought will enter my head that allows me to pass into some fitful slumber: maybe I will dream about him. That, after all, is the only way I’ll see him again. It’s the closest thing to bringing him back that I will ever achieve. So each night I think as hard as I can about him as I fall asleep, hoping that he will make an appearance in my dreams.
Thus far, Stephen has not shown up in any dreams that I remember. I’ve actually only had two dreams that I can recall since his death. One of them had absolutely nothing to do with him or even anyone he knew. The other was about his funeral. That, obviously, is not what I’ve been hoping for, and I’ve had to face the fact that my dreams are just another thing outside of my control. Sleep has not been a relief at all. It's just been another source of frustration.
Yet I haven’t given up. I sit here now, approximately two hours before my bedtime, still wondering if tonight will be the night he’ll show up in my dreams. I feel like a dream might reveal something to me. I find that when I sit in silence looking at Stephen’s picture, occasionally I will feel something tugging at the corners of my memory, like there is something about him that I am forgetting. Something that will make me smile. Something that he said once that will make this all make sense to me. Obviously, I can’t imagine that I’ll suddenly remember that he once told me he knew he would die at age 27 and he was ok with it. But what else could really make this situation make sense?
For all my struggles with whether or not I believe if Stephen still exists out there somewhere, I suddenly find myself considering the possibility that this mystery thing tugging at the corners of my memory is not something I have forgotten about Stephen, but instead something new he’s trying to tell me. Maybe he’s got a message for me. Maybe whatever it is will help me to let him go.
It sounds so stupid to me, now that I’ve written it down. But it makes some sort of sense in the recesses of my brain. Maybe, tonight, instead of trying so hard to remember him as I fall asleep, I’ll try to listen. Maybe that’s when Stephen will show up and tell me what I’m struggling to know.
It’s worth a shot.
I suppose the only thing to fear is that Stephen’s profound message will be “Girls can’t do English,” “Heh, heh, alllll right,” or “I’m literally angry with rage!” I think that would just exasperate me, and yet make me miss him more.
But, Stephen? In case you can read this, let me say this: I’d gladly settle for an emphatic “I hate you so much.” Because I always knew what you really meant. Hope to see you soon.
-from Faceless Killers by Henning Mankell
Bedtime was not a particularly difficult or memorable part of my childhood. I don’t remember ever having tantrums or being otherwise upset about having to go to bed.
However, my relationship with sleep – or, perhaps not with sleep so much as with the act of going to bed – became more complicated during high school and college.
These were the years when I truly hated going to bed. I would be willing to bet that many of my friends from those years can remember me saying so constantly. I’m pretty sure a common AIM away message I put up at the time simply said, “I hate going to bed.” It wasn’t because anyone told me to go to bed earlier than I wanted; it wasn’t because I had nightmares. It wasn’t for any reason that made any sense to anyone. Even I couldn’t grasp my feelings well enough at the time to articulate them.
Eventually I came to understand this hatred of going to bed as one of the many manifestations of my anxiety. I was afraid of a lot of things back then: meeting new people, having to call people I didn’t know, getting assignments I didn’t understand, being asked to do something I wasn’t able to do… basically anything that involved interacting with people in ways that were at all unpredictable or unfamiliar. In my mind, each new day presented new possibilities for all these frightening things to happen. By evening, most of that risk had passed. I had accomplished everything I needed to and was able to just spend time with my friends or by myself, doing something mindless.
But going to bed meant the end of one day and the beginning of another. It meant that the peace was over and the worry began again. So, I hated it. It was as simple as that.
Once I understood that, my feelings at bedtime became sort of an indicator of my anxiety level. To this day, I can still use this meter. If I don’t have strong feelings one way or the other as I get ready for bed, I’m doing pretty well. If I start dreading going to bed an hour before I actually have to do so, I know I need to something to get my stress under control.
And if I actually look forward to going to bed? Then I am in a seriously bad place. (Unless of course, my reasons for looking forward to it are something to do with illness or exhaustion.) It means that I am finding the whole of life so difficult and stressful that I look forward to sleeping simply because it is something I can handle. When sleep is my escape, I know I need to reach out for some help. The only time in my life that I consistently couldn’t wait to go to bed was during my time in Sweden, but it has happened a few other times as well.
Any of you that read my last two posts know that the last few weeks have not been easy for me. The loss Stephen has hit me, and many of my closest friends, hard. As I’ve been working through my own feelings and doing my best to help my friends through theirs, I’ve found that grief is an exhausting and stressful emotion. I’ve had a hard time focusing on anything, which has caused me to worry that I will forget to do something at work or to meet someone somewhere. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find myself back in that place where sleep is a relief.
But that’s not really how it has been. My emotions at bedtime have been very conflicted. Especially for the first few days, I did not want to go to bed because I felt like I had not yet done enough that day to help Stephen. Another day had passed, and he was still dead. Why hadn’t I done anything about that? (Yes, I know that nothing I can do will bring him back. I know that nothing anyone can do will bring him back. But the rational and irrational parts of my brain are always at war, and irrational has won a few battles lately.) Stephen’s death was just not something I could live with, and I felt guilty spending my time sleeping instead of trying to figure out how to save him. I still feel that way to some extent. So in that sense, I hate going to bed right now.
But as I lay there each night thinking about him, inevitably one thought will enter my head that allows me to pass into some fitful slumber: maybe I will dream about him. That, after all, is the only way I’ll see him again. It’s the closest thing to bringing him back that I will ever achieve. So each night I think as hard as I can about him as I fall asleep, hoping that he will make an appearance in my dreams.
Thus far, Stephen has not shown up in any dreams that I remember. I’ve actually only had two dreams that I can recall since his death. One of them had absolutely nothing to do with him or even anyone he knew. The other was about his funeral. That, obviously, is not what I’ve been hoping for, and I’ve had to face the fact that my dreams are just another thing outside of my control. Sleep has not been a relief at all. It's just been another source of frustration.
Yet I haven’t given up. I sit here now, approximately two hours before my bedtime, still wondering if tonight will be the night he’ll show up in my dreams. I feel like a dream might reveal something to me. I find that when I sit in silence looking at Stephen’s picture, occasionally I will feel something tugging at the corners of my memory, like there is something about him that I am forgetting. Something that will make me smile. Something that he said once that will make this all make sense to me. Obviously, I can’t imagine that I’ll suddenly remember that he once told me he knew he would die at age 27 and he was ok with it. But what else could really make this situation make sense?
For all my struggles with whether or not I believe if Stephen still exists out there somewhere, I suddenly find myself considering the possibility that this mystery thing tugging at the corners of my memory is not something I have forgotten about Stephen, but instead something new he’s trying to tell me. Maybe he’s got a message for me. Maybe whatever it is will help me to let him go.
It sounds so stupid to me, now that I’ve written it down. But it makes some sort of sense in the recesses of my brain. Maybe, tonight, instead of trying so hard to remember him as I fall asleep, I’ll try to listen. Maybe that’s when Stephen will show up and tell me what I’m struggling to know.
It’s worth a shot.
I suppose the only thing to fear is that Stephen’s profound message will be “Girls can’t do English,” “Heh, heh, alllll right,” or “I’m literally angry with rage!” I think that would just exasperate me, and yet make me miss him more.
But, Stephen? In case you can read this, let me say this: I’d gladly settle for an emphatic “I hate you so much.” Because I always knew what you really meant. Hope to see you soon.
Monday, January 03, 2011
Belief
“In communicating any religious belief, the operative word is faith, a concept illustrated by our very presence in that classroom. … If I could hope to one day carry on a fluent conversation, it was a relatively short leap to believing that a rabbit might visit my home in the middle of the night, leaving behind a handful of chocolate kisses and a carton of menthol cigarettes. Why stop there? If I could believe in myself, why not give the other improbabilities the benefit of the doubt? …. I accepted the idea that an omniscient God had cast me in his image … my heart expanded to encompass all the wonders and possibilities of the universe.”
-from “Jesus Shaves” in Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris
Let me begin by saying that I am truly sorry if anything I am about to say offends anyone. I know that not everyone will agree with what I say below. I am not trying to step on anyone else’s beliefs – I’m just trying to deal with the death of my friend in any way I can.
For the past eleven days, I have had a hard time thinking about anything except the life and death of my friend Stephen. For over a week I’ve been struggling to accept that he is gone. I’ve been staring at pictures of him, digging out old notes and emails that he sent me, reading his writing, and writing down anything I can remember about him – always hoping that in all this, I will stumble across a way to bring him back. I so desperately want to bring him back, and some piece of me is still thinking that maybe, just maybe, if I love him hard enough and remember him clearly enough, he will reappear.
But of course I cannot bring him back. Nothing can bring him back now.
Stephen is the first close relative or friend that I have lost. My paternal grandparents and one uncle have passed during my lifetime, but I honestly did not know any of them very well. Stephen, on the other hand… Stephen I knew. I can still hear his voice in my head, still predict what he would have said at various moments, still remember what he liked to eat, the TV shows he watched, and the things that pissed him off. Stephen is my first real experience with death, and I’ve been surprised to find how much this experience has challenged my beliefs.
Where is Stephen? Do I believe that he is in heaven? What does heaven look like? Does he have some form of body and face, or is he just some kind of amorphous spirit? Does he have awareness of who he is (or who he was)? Does he remember me? Can he see me or hear me?
Before Stephen died, if someone asked me if I believed in life after death, I think I would have said yes. Unlike Stephen himself, I just did not believe that when someone dies, they just disappear completely. But now that I’m forced to think about the details, now that I have someone to picture there, I have found that I am not so sure.
There are a large number of things I am certain that I do not believe, now. I definitely do not believe in the pearly gates. I also do not believe in hell. If there is a heaven, there is no line to get in and no sorting process. I don’t believe in a God that would enforce entrance criteria.
Most emphatically of all, I do not believe that “God has a plan.” In fact, it has made me angry whenever someone says this to me in relation to Stephen’s death. I do not and cannot believe in a God that would plan to give both of my mother’s parents terminal cancer when they were in their fifties. I do not believe in a God that would plan to endow one of my dearest and most caring friends with a lifelong battle with depression. And I do not believe in a God that would plan to snuff out Stephen’s life when we was 27 and so excited and happy about what was to come. I don’t believe in that God, and I can’t understand how anyone can.
And with thoughts like that, I’ve had to step back even farther and ask myself the most basic of questions: Do I believe in God at all? This question wasn’t a hard one for me, though. The answer is yes. I’ve asked myself this one several times during the darker periods of my life, and I’m solidly convinced that God exists. I’m not denying evolution. I definitely concede that our physical bodies, instincts, and even intelligence were probably honed over thousands of years of natural selection. But after experiencing the heights of emotion – being desperately in love, completely heartbroken, and now losing a cherished friend – I’ve never been able to convince myself that the soul developed through evolution. Naked science may have created my body and even my mind, but I believe that there is a God that created my capacity to love.
So, given that I believe that God exists, that opens up the possibility of heaven or at least some kind of afterlife. And of course I want to believe that the people I love continue to exist in some contented state, be it in some sort of heaven or even in spiritual form here on Earth. But I’ve really struggled with this one. I want to believe that Stephen heard everything I have said to him over the last week. I want to believe that he saw how many people came to his funeral, and saw how much he will be missed. But do I? Can I open my mind enough to believe that?
I do feel some sense on his presence now and again. I swear that on the day I got back home from his funeral, as I unpacked my overnight bag, I felt as if he watched me and then rode piggyback on my shoulders for a while. But I ask myself, was that really him? Did he really come back to visit me? Or is that just my brain’s manifestation of his memory? Is it is just another way that I am trying desperately to bring him back?
That’s what Stephen would have believed. That all that was left was his memory.
I really wanted to end this post by saying that I believe he is here with me. I have spoken and prayed to my Grandma Jane, who died before I was born, many times in my life. So up until now, I really believed. I really want to believe, now. But I am still working on it.
The thing that really gets me, though, is that the first person I would have wanted to talk to about this is Stephen. I so wish I could tell him how I am feeling. Stephen stood alone in his beliefs for a lot of years, and I think he would have appreciated a conversation where someone told him something other than that he was wrong.
I don’t know if you’re out there, Stephen. I don’t know if you really came to visit me on Saturday. I don’t know if you can hear me when I talk to you, or if you can somehow read this. But, just in case you can, there are some things that I want you to know.
Stephen, I hate that you died. I hate it. I will never get over the unfairness of it. I’ve said this over and over, but I’ll say it again: I would do ANYTHING to bring you back, and there’s probably some small part of me that will never stop trying.
I should have been a better friend to you. I should have been honest and told you that I have my share of doubts about my faith and I always have. I should have talked to you more about writing; it’s a love that we share and that I never really told you about. I should have offered to read your writing. I should have sent you mine. I should have told you every time we spoke how you made me feel prettier, funnier, smarter, and more accomplished than anyone else ever has.
On the day of your funeral I made you a promise to remember you as you were, not through rose-colored glasses that turned your memory into some idealized figure. So in that spirit, let me say that you were not perfect. You were always late. You procrastinated. I had to literally kick you in the ass to get you to do the stuff you said you would for retreat crew. You thought farting was hilarious until the day you died. You did horrendously inappropriate things at formal occasions.
But I loved you, despite and because of all that. And if you are still out there, Stephen, I hope you will come to visit me and hear me when I call. You deserve to live on – and though I can’t honestly say I’m sure I believe it, I hope you do.
-from “Jesus Shaves” in Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris
Let me begin by saying that I am truly sorry if anything I am about to say offends anyone. I know that not everyone will agree with what I say below. I am not trying to step on anyone else’s beliefs – I’m just trying to deal with the death of my friend in any way I can.
For the past eleven days, I have had a hard time thinking about anything except the life and death of my friend Stephen. For over a week I’ve been struggling to accept that he is gone. I’ve been staring at pictures of him, digging out old notes and emails that he sent me, reading his writing, and writing down anything I can remember about him – always hoping that in all this, I will stumble across a way to bring him back. I so desperately want to bring him back, and some piece of me is still thinking that maybe, just maybe, if I love him hard enough and remember him clearly enough, he will reappear.
But of course I cannot bring him back. Nothing can bring him back now.
Stephen is the first close relative or friend that I have lost. My paternal grandparents and one uncle have passed during my lifetime, but I honestly did not know any of them very well. Stephen, on the other hand… Stephen I knew. I can still hear his voice in my head, still predict what he would have said at various moments, still remember what he liked to eat, the TV shows he watched, and the things that pissed him off. Stephen is my first real experience with death, and I’ve been surprised to find how much this experience has challenged my beliefs.
Where is Stephen? Do I believe that he is in heaven? What does heaven look like? Does he have some form of body and face, or is he just some kind of amorphous spirit? Does he have awareness of who he is (or who he was)? Does he remember me? Can he see me or hear me?
Before Stephen died, if someone asked me if I believed in life after death, I think I would have said yes. Unlike Stephen himself, I just did not believe that when someone dies, they just disappear completely. But now that I’m forced to think about the details, now that I have someone to picture there, I have found that I am not so sure.
There are a large number of things I am certain that I do not believe, now. I definitely do not believe in the pearly gates. I also do not believe in hell. If there is a heaven, there is no line to get in and no sorting process. I don’t believe in a God that would enforce entrance criteria.
Most emphatically of all, I do not believe that “God has a plan.” In fact, it has made me angry whenever someone says this to me in relation to Stephen’s death. I do not and cannot believe in a God that would plan to give both of my mother’s parents terminal cancer when they were in their fifties. I do not believe in a God that would plan to endow one of my dearest and most caring friends with a lifelong battle with depression. And I do not believe in a God that would plan to snuff out Stephen’s life when we was 27 and so excited and happy about what was to come. I don’t believe in that God, and I can’t understand how anyone can.
And with thoughts like that, I’ve had to step back even farther and ask myself the most basic of questions: Do I believe in God at all? This question wasn’t a hard one for me, though. The answer is yes. I’ve asked myself this one several times during the darker periods of my life, and I’m solidly convinced that God exists. I’m not denying evolution. I definitely concede that our physical bodies, instincts, and even intelligence were probably honed over thousands of years of natural selection. But after experiencing the heights of emotion – being desperately in love, completely heartbroken, and now losing a cherished friend – I’ve never been able to convince myself that the soul developed through evolution. Naked science may have created my body and even my mind, but I believe that there is a God that created my capacity to love.
So, given that I believe that God exists, that opens up the possibility of heaven or at least some kind of afterlife. And of course I want to believe that the people I love continue to exist in some contented state, be it in some sort of heaven or even in spiritual form here on Earth. But I’ve really struggled with this one. I want to believe that Stephen heard everything I have said to him over the last week. I want to believe that he saw how many people came to his funeral, and saw how much he will be missed. But do I? Can I open my mind enough to believe that?
I do feel some sense on his presence now and again. I swear that on the day I got back home from his funeral, as I unpacked my overnight bag, I felt as if he watched me and then rode piggyback on my shoulders for a while. But I ask myself, was that really him? Did he really come back to visit me? Or is that just my brain’s manifestation of his memory? Is it is just another way that I am trying desperately to bring him back?
That’s what Stephen would have believed. That all that was left was his memory.
I really wanted to end this post by saying that I believe he is here with me. I have spoken and prayed to my Grandma Jane, who died before I was born, many times in my life. So up until now, I really believed. I really want to believe, now. But I am still working on it.
The thing that really gets me, though, is that the first person I would have wanted to talk to about this is Stephen. I so wish I could tell him how I am feeling. Stephen stood alone in his beliefs for a lot of years, and I think he would have appreciated a conversation where someone told him something other than that he was wrong.
I don’t know if you’re out there, Stephen. I don’t know if you really came to visit me on Saturday. I don’t know if you can hear me when I talk to you, or if you can somehow read this. But, just in case you can, there are some things that I want you to know.
Stephen, I hate that you died. I hate it. I will never get over the unfairness of it. I’ve said this over and over, but I’ll say it again: I would do ANYTHING to bring you back, and there’s probably some small part of me that will never stop trying.
I should have been a better friend to you. I should have been honest and told you that I have my share of doubts about my faith and I always have. I should have talked to you more about writing; it’s a love that we share and that I never really told you about. I should have offered to read your writing. I should have sent you mine. I should have told you every time we spoke how you made me feel prettier, funnier, smarter, and more accomplished than anyone else ever has.
On the day of your funeral I made you a promise to remember you as you were, not through rose-colored glasses that turned your memory into some idealized figure. So in that spirit, let me say that you were not perfect. You were always late. You procrastinated. I had to literally kick you in the ass to get you to do the stuff you said you would for retreat crew. You thought farting was hilarious until the day you died. You did horrendously inappropriate things at formal occasions.
But I loved you, despite and because of all that. And if you are still out there, Stephen, I hope you will come to visit me and hear me when I call. You deserve to live on – and though I can’t honestly say I’m sure I believe it, I hope you do.
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