Terminally healthy

When I was a kid, I used to stand up too quickly and be overcome by a vertiginous lurch that my mom insisted meant “you sit on your butt too much - go take out the trash.” I had not-so-secretly hoped it meant I had some kind of disease characterized by auras and a tendency to sprawl for hours and read. I also used to go outside on sunny days, squint, and watch all these molecules of matter present themselves. I though it might mean I was a prodigy, because I had seen it done by the kid genius in Little Man Tate or rather, the video editors of Little Man Tate. If I wasn’t a prodigy, I’d settle for having special mutations. I later learned of corneal scratches. How disappointing.

I now have to ask myself two questions. 1) Why were you such an optimistic hypochondriacal freak? 2) What the hell had you been doing to your eyes to have enough corneal scratches to think you were seeing molecules? Scraping at them with the toothpicks you liked to deposit behind the living room couch? (My mom was shocked when she rearranged the furniture).

The problem was, I was always healthy. I’ve never broken a bone. I don’t have any allergies. What is a kid like that to do to take some time off? I had no reason to lie in bed and be visited by people who would suddenly realize how much they loved me.

I really don’t know where this came from. Perhaps it was visiting my mom at the hospital where she worked. The people there always seemed so cheerful, though it was a cancer ward. The nurse’s station had seasonal decorations and pictures and candy. I didn’t associate it with terminal illness or death, though I knew all about cancer. I still ponder my childhood sometimes and can’t believe my mom has worked in that kind of environment for so long and survived it. “Survived” may be the wrong word, she has prospered in her field, and is one of the strongest, most positive people I know. I don’t think many people would come to that conclusion watching hundreds of people being consumed by incurable illnesses. Then again, maybe it’s because I really liked Jello?

My desire to be sick better translates into my desire to be homebound or bed-ridden. I’ve often thought it would be nice to be so debilitated that I couldn’t drive myself crazy trying to plan what I should be doing while eternally feeling that I’ve come up short. One of my former bosses told me about a book called Women Who Think Too Much, which declared that intelligent women are so much more predisposed to depression and other psychological hullabaloo, because they just can’t turn their noggins off. Why, that’s totally…obvious. It’s always judge, plan, judge, analyze, plan, accomplish, analyze, judge…

I’ve had times in the last year when my health temporarily left me. I had to put everything on hold, because I couldn’t breathe or eat. (It’s amazing how stupid all my post-it notes seem when I wince every time I swallow). Or I’ve started to think about the maladjusted cells that could be teeming inside me, waiting to interfere with my plans. It makes the plans seem pretty advanced for a being that really only needs food, water, shelter, and love. Oh, and high-speed Internet.

Now I’ve learned a way to deal with this vacillation between driving myself to madness via to-do list and over-analysis of my last twenty-three years and the next ten and the desire to turn off my mind for awhile and just be.

It’s called television.

Related Posts

1. An after birth
2. Save your hide
3. Picking up where we left off
4. Me on shuffle
5. Benign
6. Keeping my day job…and a change of underwear
7. Deep fried antioxidants