What’s not different, what is

A few days ago I wrote a post called ‘What’s not difficult, what is.’

I kept thinking that—after I got over the fact that Elvis Stojko has not returned my telepathic messages—I would tell you what’s different.

[Delightful Canadian neighbors, get that boy to give me a call. I give the go-ahead. Talk to your maple-happy peeps and see what you can do. Tell him I can skate backwards, but I look like a hippo in heat as I do it. A CUTE hippo in heat. Props where props are due.]

*****

What’s different: I’m on a new, necessary road now. What’s different is that I am the one saying, yes, this is necessary. I need help. I need your help and your help and your help.

I am almost 40. This is not where I expected to be. If you’d asked me when I was 24 what my 40-year-old self would be up to, my 24-year-old self would have been her optimistic self: happily predicting all sorts of theatre success, plays being produced constantly across the state, acting roles coming in by the day, material riches, a great marriage, a big farmhouse with a big farmhouse table, rescue dogs, and terrific kids. And no acne. And great hair. (And no cellulite, because by the time I got to be That Old, there would be a cure for that.)

I’ve had some plays produced. I haven’t acted since the girls were born, unless you count the acting that comes as self-survival in a small town: Why, yes! Fine! Hanging in, how about you? Great! Great! Didn’t you go there for vacation last year? Skiing again? Whistler! Terrific!

The truth is more humble: I have wonderful rescue dogs, and terrific kids. And great family and friends. And you.

It’s not what I pictured at 24, but I am grateful for what I have.

My illness and its treatment play funny tricks with a mind that’s already addled. The meds…if you are new to this world, try to imagine NyQuil, with four NyQuil chasers, and maybe a shroom or two. This will pass, the doctors assure me. I go along with it. I asked for aggressive treatment this time. The big guns have been brought in, and they are aimed at my head. I catch their bullets in my teeth, laughing, wiser now.

The potential side effects are gory: diarrhea, stomach pains, nausea, vomiting, skin rash, hair loss, weight gain, acne flareups, thyroid screwups. I need blood tests for a while, weekly. I need some hands to hold and chew on for those. I almost broke my poor mom’s hand in the ER before I was admitted to the hospital—just from the blood they needed to draw as simple protocol.

I try to take a lot of deep breaths during the day, these days. I have never been a good breather. It makes me hyperventilate, thinking about my breathing.

I could not navigate my way through this time alone. My mother bought a host of pill cases. She divides the medication, she oversees the meds so I don’t have to think about it. Thinking is spotty right now. Thank you, Mom.

My father sent some money for heating oil and clothes for the girls. Thank you, Dad.

My brother and my sis-in-law write loving letters and reach out from across the country, and it makes such a difference. Thank you, J and K.

Gorgeous loved ones Ali and Molly and Wil and Rebeccah and Maude check in regularly. They, and people I don’t know well, feed me, hug me, hold me. Thank you so much. If you have extra food, don’t hesitate. It’s welcome here, and will be for a while.

This is a slow process, this getting well. I have found it incredibly difficult to ask for help. I am asking now. I can’t do it alone anymore.

What’s different is that I wound up in the hospital after an event that frightened me, after my illness got the better of me. I can’t quite talk about that yet. Too hard. Still making sense of it myself.

I recognize it will do that at times, get the better of me, no matter what I do. Medicines always need tweaking, especially over time. But I can do my best to stay on top of it, to stroke the beast, to feed it cookies, to learn to live with it.

Am I scared? Sort of. My brain spins too fast or not at all, and plunges into darkness. I am tired of sobbing beside the washing machine, tired of my grief at my situation taking over all that is good in my life.

Yes, I am tired of the dark. It is time for light. Time to take my elbow and rub a bit of clean into the panes of glass, so I can see out.

Help me see out, if you can. I extend my hand. This is new for me. But in a way, it feels right to come clean, to say, Hey, no, I’m not all right. Yes, it’s a little embarrassing. Okay, it’s really stinkin’ embarrassing. But I am working hard to get better. Please, don’t judge anyone in your life. Who knows how hard they have it? I mean, really truly have it?

Bless you all most kindly. You have no idea how much you mean to me. That hasn’t changed.

And those rescue dogs and baby girls of mine? They haven’t changed either, but how I hold them, well, that’s changed some. Hugs are tighter now. Yes, indeed.