Annnnnd I have iritis again. Just one eye. Same eye where it flared up this summer. It snuck up on me, this time — a couple days of feeling uncomfortable in my contact lenses, then seeing it not improve much when I switched to glasses. Luckily, no pain or sensitivity to light this time. I went to Dr D’s office yesterday morning (above photo is from there, just one corner of a tiny exam room that is stuffed with lots of… international stuff). A medical student was shadowing him for the day. I’m sure she was surprised to encounter such an odd bird first thing in the day. I told her, cheerfully, “You’ll probably never see this condition again!”
So I’m back on my regimen of eye drops (including the ones I bought in Italy — who says I didn’t bring back any souvenirs?). And my plantar fasciitis is as painful as ever. And I’m on a break from the cancer meds due to the eye thing, so all restrictions on when I can eat are off. Which means… nothing very good.
At least I hauled myself back to the gym this morning, first time in over a month. Resilience is not easy for me, but I have so many opportunities to learn it, I have to believe I’m getting a little better at it.
I’ve been fine, just fine! A little busy lately. And surprised to suddenly feel busy. I had a dream last night that I was giving birth. A very kind friend on Facebook suggested that one interpretation for this is, I have some kind of project that will soon come to fruition. To which I say: YIPPEE! (And also: When that happens, will someone please let me know?)
I’ve always been fond of talking to strangers. It’s probably one of the reasons I doggedly insist on living in a big city, instead of moving to where the air is cleaner and the housing stock is cheaper. I have to believe that a good portion of the people I encounter in a given day living here agree with me — that contact with strangers is not only a must, but a bonus to living cheek-by-jowl with people you aren’t related to. Even a grocery shopping trip can put me into close contact with strangers here — at the food coop we belong to, you can borrow a cart to get your groceries home, and a fellow member who is on duty as a cart walker goes with you, and then returns the cart to the store for you. I have had fantastic conversations on these ten minute walks.
I hope I am transmitting my enjoyment of talking to strangers to my kids. Stark, who has a four-year-old daughter, talks about observing, as they walk around the neighborhood, how her daughter “sort[s] strangers,” figuring out who to greet, and what to say, based on her mother’s choices. The way we categorize others is the foundation for our interactions with them, Stark says, but the fact that the “us and them” approach to categorization worked at earlier periods in human history, does not mean it is always relevant to be wary of strangers now. Certainly not when I’m walking around my neighborhood. (And yet, it would still be relevant if I were to approach the owner of a 24-hour fried chicken restaurant in New Jersey, who scatters bombs in his spare time.)
Another aspect of stranger interactions that Stark brings up is “fleeting intimacy,” the kind we share in passing on the street, waiting in line, or riding the train. The importance of seeing and being seen is at play here, Stark says — when you speak to someone you normally wouldn’t, when you have some small interaction with them, under the umbrella of the transitory moment you share, it can buoy you. Lift you. Your existence in the universe is acknowledged, and confirmed.
When I was on steroids last year and the year before, I suddenly couldn’t stop talking. People who knew me recognized it as a personality shift. I also talked to plenty of people I didn’t know, or hadn’t known very well, before the medication transformed me into a hyperloquacious flaneuse, always on the lookout for the next transformative conversation on the street. I never really interrogated the reason behind my sudden, urgent need to talk to everyone. And now, suddenly, it becomes clear. My existence was under a serious threat, back then. Each day, each hour, there was a chance the meds wouldn’t work, the tumors wouldn’t respond to the lasers. The weight of that knowledge was considerable. I would have easily retreated inwards, were it not for the medication that was making me suddenly sociable. Talking to people helped me confirm I was still here, and that this fact of my being here mattered, and it made me feel good enough to want to keep being here. What an amazing thing to realize, a year plus after the fact: Talking to strangers isn’t just a hobby. It is an act that might even improve your mental state, when you are under extreme stress.
Stark’s book concludes with a section called “Expeditions”: exercises you can undertake to put yourself in contact with strangers. Some (“Say Hello to Everyone”) are more easily accomplished than others (“You Don’t Belong Here” sends you into territory where you clearly don’t belong, with all of the dread associated with that for a functional introvert like me). All of them are worth considering, and maybe, eventually, doing.
While my period of uncontrollable interactions with strangers has (thankfully) passed, I still continue to seek out opportunities for these moments, the ones you walk away from keeping a smile on your face, long past the time it should have evaporated.
Two years ago, yesterday, I showed up alone (bad move) at the cancer center for results to a CT scan, and got a nasty surprise — tumors found on my lungs. I learned that my existence on this planet was no longer under warranty. Actually, I learned the biggest secret of all — that no one is covered under warranty, that that’s just something we sort of assume if we’re ever going to manage to get out of bed in the morning.
It’s been a hell of a two years since then. But it hasn’t actually been hell all the time. I’ve been lucky. I’ve met a lot of amazing people. I’ve been helped by people I’ve never met. I’ve gotten to know or learned about many people living with cancer. And I’ve mourned people who didn’t get to survive. I’ve raised money for research. I’ve learned how to advocate for myself in the face of monolithic health care bureaucracy, and how to manage the side effects of my medication, about which there is still very little understanding among medical professionals. I learned there is a pharmacy at the Vatican, and it’s one of the busiest in the world. I’ve sung as part of a feral choir, backing up one of my favorite bands in the world.
I’ve also spent a lot of time in bed. My mattress and I have a very deep and complicated bond. It isn’t the healthiest relationship, because my bed is a classic enabler. And it’s so hard to break up with the place where you spent your very hardest moments. (Also? You need to sleep in your bed, every night.) I’m aiming to forge a new relationship with my bed, a more professional one, hopefully. Wish me luck.
And — since I don’t do this enough — I want to thank you. Yes, you there, reading this. You didn’t have to, but you did. That means a lot.
I’m just keeping a little quiet these days. Nothing to worry about. The kids will finally head back to school in a couple of days, meaning I’ll be able to reconstruct my thought processes and compose coherent sentences more frequently. And exercise. Yes.
I finally had a glass of rosé the other night, since everyone seems to be drinking it. It tasted just like the cheap bottles of white Zinfandel I used to buy myself back in my early 20s, when I had the impression that doing that made me very sophisticated. It tastes about a half step removed from a wine cooler. Perhaps I am missing the point? Anyhow, it was pink, and I do like to drink and eat pink things on occasion. I guess I’ll just focus on the pink drink being lemonade, going forward, unless someone can suggest a pink wine that will really blow me away.