I have been sick as a dog today, as my mom would say. My throat hurts too much to eat or talk very much. I've been achey and can't get warm. Oh, and my bones hurt. I took a ridiculously long nap after work, and ate some chicken noodle soup. As I lay with my leaky nose and gook-clogged throat, I thought about how there are all different kinds of suffering. My mom lives with pain every day that would make most grown men cry. Tim is in a place with his illness where he had most bad days than good.
This led me to wonder if grief, which can lower your immune system, left me wide open for the happy little bug going around. Depression wise, I'd been doing fair this week. Something about being surrounded by 15 three and four years olds just makes me smile. I also discovered that I said Cory's name more this week than I can remember in months. I always wear her picture made into bracelets and necklaces; naturally the kids wanted to know who she was. One little lady told me most sincerely that my Cory-heart tattoo on my hand was "real cute", which touched me deeply and made me giggle at the same time.
I was busy; I was helping; I was maintaining.
Sick or not, I dragged my butt out to the studio to paint a little. Completely into my piece, I jumped at the sound of sirens, and then sat on my stool, muscles locked, waiting for them to stop. But they didn't; instead they got louder and closer by the minute. I heard someone moaning, and realized it was me. As the sirens were joined by the blat of a fire truck, I began to scream and cover my ears, simultaneously tucking my head into my lap. It wasn't far to the floor, so I slithered right out of stool into a boneless heap on the floor.
It felt like that day again, but this time I knew no matter how much noise they made getting here, they wouldn't make it in time. Tim couldn't make me stop screaming, and watched from a prudent distance as I did the only thing I could think of- turned on some super loud music to drown the sirens out. Hands shaking, I cranked the volume, nearly knocking everything off my desk in the process. Eventually Tim approached me. I couldn't see him because my eyes were clenched shut, but I felt him begin to pat my shoulder as I wailed on, filling the room with my terror. It was a chaotic sound track made up of ambulance sirens, fire truck horns, Fall Out Boy, and my panic attack.
"Someone's going to die." was my first coherent thought connected to the present, instead of the past.
I guess my faith in emergency responders isn't quite what it used to be. Don't feel bad, guys, I don't have faith in anyone else, either...so you're in good company.
Pat...pat...pat. Tentative and standoffish. Tim's a good guy, but he's not the man that's gonna gather you up in his arms, and let you cry all over his neck or take you onto his lap like a weird twist on Santa Claus. He's just not.
Instead, he told me to take my meds and go to bed.
Which I am doing right now, as soon as I finish this post.
I'll leave you with a question: is it that grief leaves you susceptible to illness or that physical illness leaves your brain even more vulnerable to triggers?
The chicken or the egg, folks? Think on that...it'll drive you nuts, so to speak.
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