Pity, then, that I've been in a hospital for three weeks. Almost to a person, everyone I've met and see every day is nice and easy to talk to. And still I have become prickly because of all of the talking. Talking, talking, talking: at mealtimes, during nurses' visits, in the play room, everywhere, all the time. Desperate for privacy and quiet, I have begun to avoid the common areas, but people also come into our room. I have hung a sign on the door that says, "Please knock before entering. Thanks." And then, to soften the message, to make it sound less snappish (the period after "Thanks" says it all), I shaped the sign into a word bubble and taped it near the mouth of a paper sheep. So now everyone knocks, but they still come in--of course they come in; they have to come in; and, as I said, they're really nice--and I feel a little edgier every time. When there's a knock, I say, "Oh, my god," and Alex yells, "Yes? Come in!" in a cheery way. It's good that he's here.
Yesterday was an off day for me. Bill went home, and that was part of it--the angels cry when our family leaves--but also this place is getting to me. Carolyn bought Vivian and Taylor lunch from the outside world, and we all ate together. (Taylor ordered Taco Bell, and Vivian ordered Vegan pho. They are a study in contrasts, but they are pals.) As you might expect, over lunch there was conversation. We talked about the street numbering in Utah, which, if you are an outsider, is maddening. East 800 South, anyone? But then Laura (another child life specialist) mentioned Prague, and Carolyn brought up Croatia, and I could have kissed them. It was more talk, but somehow this talk was restorative. I think it took me out of here a little and engaged my imagination in something other than anxiety and fear over Vivian's well-being.
That's what people's letters do for me, too. When I receive one, I tuck it away in my purse and read it when I'm alone. My grandmother once showed me some chocolate that she had hidden in her toilet tank so that she could enjoy it without my grandfather haranguing her about her weight. We share DNA, she and I. It's a form of eternal life.
Because yesterday was so bad, I dug into the stack of postcards my friend Alisa had given me for moments like this. She wrote a message on each one to provide some comfort or perspective. Yesterday's was that part from the Regina Spektor song from Orange is the New Black: "Think of all the roads. / Think of all their crossings. / Taking steps is easy. / Standing still is hard." It was such a funny thing to draw that card because I've been thinking so often about the parallels between this and that other kind of incarceration. Also, I watch that show, and those lines have always stood out for me in the blur of the song. It is very hard to stand still, and while I've learned this lesson at several points in my life it has not become any easier to take. Well, maybe it's become a little easier; one gets practice. But it doesn't come naturally to me.
I wonder if Alisa still feels the truth of these lines. For the past nine days she's been hiking the Wonderland Trail, which goes all the way around Mt. Rainier. So many steps, and they can't all have been easy to take. She'll be back tomorrow, so she can tell us then. I wonder if she wrote this one postcard with her journey and my journey in mind, and if she figured that mine would be harder. If so, that was generous of her, don't you think?
I will try to be generous, too. As I wrote and erased that sentence, someone knocked on our door, looking for Vivian. "Yes?" I called. The nurse's aid poked her head in. "She's in the play area," I said. "Ok," she said, and she closed the door again. So simple, so unobtrusive, yet I felt my heart seize up during this interaction. I wanted to cry. I wanted to say, "Please just leave us alone." You see? I think I'm losing it a little. There was nothing wrong with what just happened, and the aide is so nice, and I like her very much. So I retyped, "I will try to be generous, too." I can hear some of my friends saying that I should start by being generous with myself, taking care of myself, cutting myself some slack. I'm trying to do that, really, but I'm also almost ashamed over how crummy I feel, and I'm trying really hard not to telegraph it to Vivian, who is doing quite swimmingly these days, and not to make the people who work here hate me.
At times like this I wish I were a better person. Or is everyone this way? If everyone is this way, you have to tell me.
Lots of love from flawed old me.
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