I've been awake for a few hours. It's quiet in my place,
save the sound of traffic from a nearby intersection, and the occasional
neighbor slamming the door. (HONESTLY with the fucking door slamming.)
One week ago at this time, I was in a recovery room with a
team of people surrounding me. I'd been out of surgery for over an hour, but
apparently didn't want to breathe. I'm told it would be over an hour and half before I
would start to breathe on my own rather than being assisted, and another
half-hour before I would decide to join the world again and regain
consciousness.
I don't remember anything from those hours, save two
separate memories of what most of us would likely call dreams: in each, I sat
on a park bench very near the shade of a pink-blossomed tree with a man in a
dark, well-tailored suit—the same gentleman in each engagement. Tall and thin,
I don't remember his face, other than he was quite handsome, his intelligence
obvious, and his demeanor so very, very calming.
We sat and talked. I don't recall what we spoke about in
word, nor even theme, but I do know he was my first thought upon waking in that
recovery room. My second thought, which I'm told I verbalized with as much
force as I could muster, was, "would you stop YELLING my fucking name,
woman?” In a strange side note, it turns
out that woman was a cute little blonde thing who bears an uncanny resemblance
to my surgeon friend, Kourtney—who does not practice in Fargo—which set off some internal and
short-lived confusion regarding who actually had performed the procedure.
But I digress.
I've thought quite a bit about that man on the bench. I'm
certain it wasn't one long encounter, or dream, but rather two distinct and
separate meetings. Try as I may, and meditate as I do, the content of our time
together remains a mystery. The only clue I get has twice been a
whispered voice: "Pay attention."
So this morning, as I luxuriate in the day that was supposed
to be filled with coffees, lunch, a pedicure, long bath, and packing for a season
wrap-up celebratory trip out of town this weekend, I instead sit, PJ-clad, reflecting in
my favorite recliner. I know, I know: you really thought I was
going to tell you I am sitting here paying attention. Uh … no. I am not. Reflection is my
current method of paying attention. (I have yet to really nail down the concept and practice of
being present. I'm always two or three steps ahead, trying to guide and control
things to get an outcome that seems to work best for the majority of those
involved.)
What I notice is that I've spent the last two years repeatedly saying, "I'm the only one who does what I do," at both my job, and
in relation to the Tell. Really hammering it in, ya know?
Ah, the martyr. So capable, so willing,
so alone. And I've worn this idea as though it were the mantle of truth:
my choice, nay—my DUTY—to stride tall and finish in glory, regardless of the
toll.
With this idea, the first four days after surgery should
have been a quick and easy recovery (it was laparoscopic, for Pete’s sake) instead
saw me holding things up all based on this one idea of aloneness. Steeped in
guilt for not being at work, and not getting things done there and for the
upcoming season finale, The Tell Off, I worried myself into a pile. When we
factor into that the starkly obvious state of living alone, reliant upon friends and family to
stop by and feed and help me out of bed for the first few days, my mental state
diminished, quickly and succinctly. I wallowed, my friends. I wallowed hard, sinking
deeper, all the while delaying physical healing.
What brought me around was evidence. Evidence in the forms
of emails, and Facebook messages from people I barely know, just checking in.
Calls from those I do know well, insisting I tell them what I needed. And the
tipping point: a friend new to me in the here and now, but who my soul
recognizes with a swell of love, gently suggesting that all was not lost, but
indeed, was free and roaming as it should … and that taking a shower and putting
on clean pajamas would feel really good.
I was forced to ask for help, and harder — forced to accept
it.
In the last week, my coworkers came together to figure out
how to cover things in my absence, and we're now creating ways to make sure
that if I fall off the grid again, everything is covered. Hard lessons learned,
but in the end, it all comes to the surface so we can clean it, take a good
look at it, and make it better.
My tribe closed in and descended, hands extended and hearts
open, to get the Tell Off on its way, with or without me. Plans put into place,
ideas brought forth and implemented, and soothing confidence in others instilled.
Last night was one of those nights. Five of my friends
packed into my living room, clipboards created out of books, passing a fresh bag
of marshmallows for sustenance, working every angle of tonight’s show to make
sure it was covered, and that all I have to do is show up.
Reflection upon this evidence today reveals the idea of my
solitude to be complete, utter, and disgustingly mired in bull shit.
So whaddya know: ‘turns out, I am not alone.
I am, in fact, a part of a community of people, close to me
or not, who care. Who are themselves capable. And who are so obviously willing
to be there.
Fuck that martyr business. THIS is right where I want to be. Mired in love, laughter and a metric shit-ton of gratitude.
Amen.
Fuck that martyr business. THIS is right where I want to be. Mired in love, laughter and a metric shit-ton of gratitude.
Amen.
