The Bottom Line

I think I've mentioned, with some regularity, how very ready I am to put 2009 behind me. Without doubt, this has been the most challenging year of my life. Of course I'm not so deluded to expect that the clock will move to 12:01 on January 1st and all will magically be well... but I am just deluded enough to hope that will be the case.

I think I've also mentioned - perhaps with some regularity! - that MSU scares me when he drives. Not always, but often enough to think of it as a constant. It may be the pilot training that allows him to take such a cavalier attitude toward maneuvering through traffic and navigating the roadways, but whatever it is, it doesn't approximate the defensive driving that was pounded into my brain as a new driver (that has stayed with me all this time, mostly because I am certain that everyone else on the road is out to get me). Since I've been injured, he's done most of the driving. I'm sort of a wreck when we get home.

Yesterday, as we zoomed through the ultra-skinny and constantly-in-construction-and-therefore-never-the-same carpool lane on the northbound I-15, MSU was cruising at his normal well-over-the-speed-limit velocity and had assumed his standard position of waaaaaay over to the left. There is no break down lane, there are just two skinny lanes protected on either side by retaining walls. MSU's standard cruising attitude positions the car about six inches from the left retaining wall (2 if the side mirror counts).

I think I've also mentioned that I LOVE my Nimble German Car. I love it beyond all logical reason. Needless to say (I hope), it seriously freaks me out when MSU drives it balls-to-the-wall and six inches from certain destruction.

Back to yesterday, I found myself not just tense, not just slightly ascairt, not just peeved, but downright terrified and sick to my stomach as MSU hung to the left and messed with the heater controls, the radio, his cigarettes, and his lighter. As he took his eyes off the road repeatedly and for several seconds at a time. As he took his hands off the wheel entirely to feel around in his jacket for his phone. I cringed in my seat, eyes dribbling helpless tears, waiting for my Nimble German Car to have its left side mirror ripped off by the retaining wall; or worse, for the front end to bump a slightly erractically placed bulkhead and send us spinning into the other lane, the other retaining wall, the other cars.

When we safely arrived home, I wracked my brain trying to figure out why my reaction had been so intense. The details of yesterday's commute aren't really different from any other day, but my reaction sure was. I allowed my little rodent brain to chew it over as we went to get haircuts for MSU and Z-bo, and continue mulling over dinner.

After a satisfying sushi dinner, complete with a surprise appearance by My Really Stupid Friend (who I am very angry with right now, but enjoyed the surprise anyway) and two large decanters of sake, it finally hit me: I can't take one more thing. Not even one. And I'm so afraid of that One More Thing that any proximity of possibility is enough to strike terror into my heart and soul.

As I pondered this bolt of lightning to the brain, I realized further that it isn't really the One More Thing that I fear... it's what is going to happen to ME should that One More Thing manifest. Because, hey... One More Thing. It is what it is, right? There have been SEVERAL One More Things over the course of this past year, and all of them have been dealt with (some more constructively than others). What's One More Thing on top of all those other Things?

The breaking point, that's what it is. The event horizon. The point of no return. The squaw that stroked the camel's sac, so to speak. The surety that One More Thing would certainly compromise the thin veil of sanity I currently hide behind struck me like a speeding train. And though I don't really know what that means, I know it is real enough to be feared... because I suddenly felt, really FELT, how stretched and frayed that thin tether to reality in my consciousness is. How close I really am to the point where my body, my chemistry, my very cellular structure will orchestrate a hostile takeover for the no-confidence vote of my mind. And so many recent impulses suddenly made sense: reaching for the garish purple-black berries of the nightshade that grows where I take my cigarette breaks, to pluck a few and pop them into my mouth, actually touching one before I realized what I was doing... pausing at the top of the back staircase, marveling at the glittering and deadly cement perfection of it... upping my life insurance policy at open enrollment to three times my annual salary, because more is better. Right?

My consciousness didn't even take note of these events until well into their execution. Nor did my consciousness, until last night, take note of the significance. Which answers a question I've long wondered about: does a crazy person know they're crazy? Apparently not, friends. Good to know, eh?

So hurry up, 12:01 on January 1st 2010. Hurry, please. I need a little magic.

Excerpt From Actual Conversation Today

Last Saturday night, I injured my wrist trying to do something by myself that I had no business trying to do by myself. Last Sunday, I went to the Emergency Room, where ER staff promptly blew off the immobilize-everything protocol and sent me home with a velcro wrist splint on full duty. Wednesday, I followed up with my Primary Care Manager, who was LIVID at the botched-up ER procedures and referred me to Orthopedics, after completely taking me off duty and prohibiting any use of my left arm whatsoever.

When Orthopedics called me on Friday, they told me that my appointment was for January 21, 2010. I asked to speak to the Charge Nurse, and advised her that the injury is 1) acute, and 2) not immobilized. Magically, an appointment for this morning appeared in the schedule.

When I appeared at Ortho, a cursory clinical evaluation was done on the joint. However, NONE of the newly touted exam methods for diagnosing torn and ruptured ligaments were performed. When I performed one of these on myself to demonstrate, the clinical significance was ignored. One Physician's Assistant looked at the other Physician's Assistant and said, "sounds like a strained muscle." Please keep in mind that I am and have been complaining of ulnar-sided wrist pain, ulnar-sided pain upon any kind of forearm rotation, ulnar displacement, wrist and forearm bone "clicking," and limited range of motion (without pain) on the ulnar side. And in one week of partial immobilization, there has been no improvement.

The following brief-but-stupid conversation ensued:

Me: “So, you think it’s a muscle strain. Wouldn’t I be having less pain at this point if that were the case?”

Them: “No. Strains take a long time to heal. Have you ever strained a hamstring? They take forever.”

Me: “This isn’t a hamstring. It’s not even remotely comparable.”

Them: ::::exchanged looks as if to say ‘stupid civilian’::::

Me after awkward silence: “Okay, then, what next?”

Them: “Wear the splint you were given at the ER for about a week. Then back to normal.”

Me: “The splint hurts to wear. My arm aches at the end of the day. If I go without the splint, I still have pain, but nothing like the pain wearing the splint causes.”

Them: “Oh, that’s because it’s pulling your hand back slightly. We’ll just make you another one.”

Me: “Ok, but am I going to be able to see a surgeon any time soon?”

Them: “Why would you need to do that?”

Me: “Because with rotational movement, my bones are rubbing against each other. Because my symptoms indicate there may be a TFCC rupture/avulsion and/or a UT lateral tear. You can’t see any of this on x-rays and sometimes not even on MRI imaging. Because I’m telling you that my arm doesn’t look right, it doesn’t feel right, and it doesn’t work right.”

Them: “Well, what do YOU want to do?”

Me: “I want an MRI and an appointment with the surgeon.”

Them: “That’s not necessary.”

Me: “Then why did you ask me what I wanted?”

Them: :::::glaring:::::

Me after awkward silence: “Ok, so what about work?”

Them: “Just be careful.”

Me: “Careful? Right now I’m pulled off of full duty with a chit that says “NO LEFT ARM USE.” Are you modifying that to “Just be careful?”

Them: “Do you want a note for work?"

Me: “No, unless you are putting me back on full duty I already have a note. Are you putting me back on full duty?”

Them: “Sure.”

Me: “So it’s okay if I get in a fight or have to take someone down or have to lift heavy files?”

Them: “Well, no. So I guess light duty. Or whatever you call it.”


When I return next week, I will come fully armed and prepared for the battle which will inevitably ensue. Sigh.

Today's Letter to MSU - Futile or Fertile? We Shall See.

It’s been bugging me today, so I’m writing to get it off my chest.

Last night, you accused me of being mad at your request to help clean up because my game “was more important.” I said that wasn’t true. Instead of asking me what I WAS mad about, you just kept on in the same vein, each accusation more ludicrous than the last. In reality, it doesn’t really matter because what I was –am – mad about wouldn’t have been an appropriate topic for discussion at the time.

The fact is, you and I have very different priorities. And there are some situations which bring those differences to the forefront. Last night was one of those times.

You wanted me to help you clean up – NOW! – because it was “stressing you out” that Isabeau’s advisor was coming over to the house. The last time you yelled at me – yes, yelled at me – because you were ‘stressed out” was because Church was at our house and you wanted things picked up. You get “stressed out” over people coming into our house and seeing a mess. *I’m* not stressed out about it, but *you* are. In your mind (it appears), it’s an emergency and in your mind (it appears) I’m obligated to help you with it. I disagree with this concept in general, but if you’ll remember, every time you’ve “stressed out” about such a situation, I have helped you deal with it. NOW, just like you expected. You “stress out” about how our house appears to outsiders. You expect me to deal with the situation as well as deal with your stress. And I can’t think of a time when I haven’t, even when it wasn’t convenient or important to me.

In contrast, I was “stressing out” because the washing machine was broken. I was “stressing out” and asking you to call every day for a week. That’s how long it took you to respond to something that was “stressing” ME out.

More to the point, for 20 years – longer! – I’ve been telling you that drinking and driving/riding “stresses me out.” I’ve been telling you that every time you do that, you CONSCIOUSLY place our family in jeopardy. Every time you get fucked up and decide it’s okay for you to ride home, you are EXPLICITLY demonstrating that you don’t give a rat’s ass if you lose your job, if we lose our house, if you lose your marriage, if you lose your life or God forbid take someone else’s. Every time you fail to moderate your own behavior in this regard you tell me that YOU DON’T CARE about me, our family, or our well-being. Knowing this, knowing that you don’t care REALLY “stresses me out.” The worst part is that you KNOW how I feel about this but don’t think it’s important enough to respond to. And when you freak out over a stranger making some sort of arbitrary judgment about the state of our home, I have to suppress a choking fury because you’ve made it so obviously clear that you don’t really care about our home AT ALL. If you did, you wouldn’t consciously choose to put it in jeopardy every fucking weekend.

Strangely enough, you also know that your penchant for lying also “stresses me out,” but this is yet another thing that apparently isn’t a priority for you. You demand that I respond instantaneously to the things that ‘stress you out,” but when it comes to our own trust issues – the very foundation of our marriage! – you’re pretty cavalier about it. Not only have you abjectly refused to address this “stressor,” you actually had the gall to look surprised and even hurt when I noted that it’s easy to be suspicious of you because you haven’t been honest with me about certain things through the entirety of our relationship. Honestly, John… what did you THINK would happen? You didn’t honestly think that constant lying would encourage trust and faith in our relationship, did you? You couldn’t have… because I’ve been telling you differently for, again, over 20 years. So the obvious answer to why you haven’t given a second thought to something you KNOW “stresses me out” over the long term is that you just…don’t… care.

Enter the money situation… something that’s been “stressing me out” since we shifted the responsibility for the finances over to me and has most especially been “stressing me out” for the past year. Try to imagine, given our current circumstances, how “stressful” it must be to budget things so carefully – months in advance – and to be constantly robbing Peter to pay Paul just to get by. Now try to imagine how part of that careful budgeting is your Club dues and other such expenses. Now, imagine how stressful it is to hand these funds over to you – with the express intent that they will be used to pay for these Club expenses – only to be asked for the same amount of money a week later because SOMEHOW the money you were given SPECIFICALLY for that purpose wasn’t USED for that purpose. And finally, imagine how “stressful” it is to hear that you don’t even KNOW where the money went. Not only did you not apply it toward the purpose for which it was budgeted… not only do you now demand more money that has to be taken from something else… but you cannot even offer an accounting of what you did with those funds, hoarded oh-so-carefully, that were intended for an activity that ONLY YOU benefit from. For the coup-de-grace, imagine now how “stressful” it is to listen to you get angry at ME when you can’t account for the money you were given. Imagine how “stressful” it was to hear you state that being given a “budget” that you were responsible for and that all your expenses would come out of was somehow “emasculating” while I’m taking money from other obligations because you can’t seem to meet your responsibilities even when you’re given money EXPRESSLY for that purpose. You KNOW this “stresses me out.” Yet, you refuse to respond.

Perhaps the most tragic – and most telling – of all these “stressors” is your constant harping on me to change our sex life. For some reason, you aren’t able to put the pieces of the puzzle together: I KNOW that you don’t give any kind of priority to me, our family, or our home (as evidenced by your continued irresponsibility with regard to alcohol and money and also by your lackadaisical approach to household problems) and I KNOW that you won’t keep me safe (as evidenced both by the aforementioned irresponsibility and by your refusal to be honest with me), but I am still EXPECTED to give you the kind of intimacy you have in NO WAY earned. You want orgasms from me? Try trust first. You want intimacy from me? Try keeping me safe, try keeping your promises, try putting your FAMILY first instead of just giving us lip service.

You wonder why we have trust issues? This is why. If you’ve wondered why I get angry at being expected to hurry up and respond to your housecleaning emergencies, this is why. If you wonder if it’s fixable, yes it is – with conscious effort. If you wonder why I still stand by you when you refuse to keep me safe, it’s because I love you and know your potential even when you don’t.