I'm not gonna lie to you. I'm tired.
And it's not the type of tired taking a
nap is going to help. Believe me, I'm good on naps.
But when I wake up, the things that are
making me tired are all still there.
I still have cancer, obviously. But I
actually think I can manage that. It is such a big thing that, maybe,
my expectations of what I can do about it are pretty low. I can't
really do anything about it... Expectations met!
When I was a lot younger, the Chinese
Water Torture was all the rage. It was in movies, television, books,
real life: water dripping onto a person's forehead, one drop at a
time, until they can't take it any more and start screaming out what
the torturers want to know. And the torturers didn't even have to be
Chinese. In fact, they rarely were.
That's what the things that are sapping
me feel like: one little thing after another until I just want to
scream, but I don't really have the energy for that either. Besides,
where I live... no one can hear you scream. Well, Sheri could. But
when she's with me, the drip, drip, dripping seems more manageable,
less scream inducing.
Can I give you examples? Sure. But if
you have any idea what I'm talking about, you have your own examples:
the car needs an oil change; the library books have to be returned;
you need another prescription filled; your computer has a virus you
can't get rid of; you've got emails or letters to answer; there are a
couple of bills you have to sit down and pay; the lawn needs to be
mowed; that basement light bulb that burned out in April still needs
replaced; and on and on. Not a single one of them is worth much
worry; put them all together... it's scream time.
And if you don't have any idea what I'm
talking about, there aren't enough examples in the world to explain
it to you.
So into this environment comes a truth
so obvious, you would think it would have been one of the first
things I would have thought of when I started to feel this way.
See, all of this comes from being
self-absorbed. Me, me, me, all day, all night Marianne (calypso
anyone?). My computer, my car, my light bulb, my
cancer, my stomach problems and on and on. Each issue starts
with “My” and ends in some semblance of despair.
I got an email from a man I don't know.
He had just found out that his multiple myeloma had gone from a
“pre-” state, to full blown. He had been reading my columns and
wondered if I could give him a call so he could talk to me. The truth
that I once thought I couldn't forget, but did, hit me like the
laughter of my tenth grade health classmates when the teacher told
the whole class that my answer to the question about the name of a
poisonous snake common in swamps in the South was “Cottontail.”
When you're self-absorption meter is so
out of whack it looks like an outtake from a Bugs Bunny cartoon
complete with “BOINGGGGGGGG!!!!”, step back and see if you can
help someone else. Duh. Would I ever have remembered that if I hadn't
received the email? Like the answer to whether or not I would behave
properly in a situation which called for bravery, I'd like to think
yes, but more realistically it would be maybe.
Of course I called him and probably
didn't offer much real help, which is one of my best things. He asked
me some questions and I told him what I did, or would do, in similar
situations. Mostly, he told me what he felt and how he was dealing
with things and I told him he sounded great, which he did. One of the
first things I said to him was that I wouldn't lie to him just to
help him feel better, and it turned it he didn't need me to. He had a
terrific grasp of what his situation was and what he needed to do.
Good for him.
I asked about his wife and how she was
managing with it, because it is surely a “we” disease, and again,
it sounded like they were solid on things.
As irony would have it, though we
talked for quite a while, I did have to cut it short because I had to
go for my monthly visit/treatment at the cancer center. I said he
could call me anytime and he said he would, and maybe he will.
I do hope I helped him because he did
so much good for me. He got me to turn down the volume on the “me/my”
meter, at least for a while. I was able to remind myself that so many
of you who are reading this are also engaged in a battle of some sort
involving your health, your family, your financial difficulties, your
ability to simply keep going in a world that often seems preoccupied
with giving you reasons not to.
But here's the thing: as broken, sad ,
fearful, lost, sick as we may be... as long as it's “We/Ours” and
not “Me/Mine,” we're going to be okay. “We” gives us a pot to
capture all those drips, one at a time. And , yeah, if WE have to, we
can also set up a communal scream. That might actually be kinda cool!
There are a variety of versions of
the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in
all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a
young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of
manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to
the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man.
With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere.”
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