Hey, Good Lookin’!
Notice the new coat of paint?
I’m so tired from making all the decisions and adjustments you see here now, I’m just plum tuckered out. But I couldn’t wait to show you. See ya tomorrow!
xo,
Mary
Tea In Bed: Sometimes, That’s Your Day.
If you have a chronic illness and the fallout from it, you know what it’s like to feel lousy.
And it’s a great thing when you have respite from the (not so merry) merry-go-round, sure. But with the blessed absence of symptoms also comes a low-level dread: When will I get sick again?
Maybe you will. Maybe you won’t. But if history is an indicator, you probably will. It’s a real fly in the prescription-strength ointment. You can’t ever really be free, not really.
And so it was that a wispy-but-dark cloud settled over my head in July because Symptom A appeared and stuck around long enough to make me worry. Then (because of worry?) Symptom B appeared. “It’s nothing,” I thought, and instantly began to think of everything I might have eaten or not eaten, done or not done to make this “nothing” happen.
Chronic conditions, especially those of the intestinal variety, are particularly cruel to the psyche. Surely it’s something you’re doing — or doing wrong — that’s making your condition worse. Eat more yogurt. Don’t drink any coffee, ever. Sleep more. Don’t eat eight hours before bedtime. Meditate. You’re not meditating? Well, there’s your problem. It’s as though an intestinal disaster and the management of the leftovers could be beautifully restored if one was more virtuous, sane, well-slept. No pressure, but you’re lazy/lacking willpower/something else or you’d feel better.
Yesterday I spent the entire afternoon into the evening reading books in bed, having tea, and telling my body, “We’re cool. There’s nothing wrong. See how we’re just lounging in bed and reading like there’s nothing wrong?” This is funny, because if I am lounging in bed and reading for hours, something is for sure wrong. I’m almost pathologically productive — until I’m not.
I feel better today, I really do. I think reading and resting helped, and besides, Symptom A has been less present, on the whole, for the last week. I’m sharing about it because I know there are readers out there who also suffer from chronic illness and/or conditions and it feels right to draw open the curtain to the non-emergency, non-total-regression kind of day that is normal for so many of us. I’m not going in for an iron infusion. I don’t think pouchitis is upon me. But I felt like crud, I have been feeling like crud in this particular way, worrying like crazy about it, and I know sometimes that’s true for you, too, but it’s not enough to talk about and worry everyone, right? I know.
Tomorrow is Sunday. If you need to, and you can, even for a little while, read in bed and have tea.
Three Weeks and a Day.
posted in: Day In The Life
2
It’s been fun, talking about a summer crush, talking about grad school starting next week. It’s even been okay to think about summer coming to an end. I bought a nice sweater when sweaters were on clearance; before too long, I’ll get to wear it.
But just three weeks ago — three weeks and one day ago, to be precise, and one ought to be precise about such things, cannot ever be imprecise about them — there occurred one of the worst tragedies of my family life thus far. The terrible thing is not far from my mind, not at any time, however sweet the boys and the sweaters are.
Yesterday afternoon, I was walking home after a lunch appointment, forcing myself to recall The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock. I know the whole poem by heart and have performed it many times, but not recently. I was mentally brushing up, headed south on State Street and furrowing my brow, trying to remember what comes after, “and sawdust restaurants with oyster shells” when I heard:
“Mary!”
My sister, Rebecca Fons, was walking north on the very same street. There has to be a word in some language (Urdu? Norwegian?) which expresses the joy of seeing a beloved family member randomly on the street in a big city. It’s a singular, nothing-compares kind of joy and surprise and comedy.
Finding ourselves not needing to be anyplace right away (thank you, late August), Rebecca and I went into the library and sat at a table. As Gramma Graham would have called it, we “visited” for over an hour. We talked a lot about Megann.
Part of what has been so difficult about our cousin’s untimely death is that I care for her siblings a great deal. When I think of those three people in this world without their fourth, I literally clutch my chest: I think of losing Rebecca or Hannah before we’re old and grey and ready to go and it is impossible to get air properly. Megann’s passing has thrown into relief the truth that surrounds us at all times, the truth we cannot bear to look at for long: we’re all born, and we all die at different times.
I stopped dead in my tracks Monday morning, alarmed at what I had done: Was it was “too soon” to be sweet on Receiving Room Guy? Too soon to feel good (or talk about feeling good) when so recently, life was so low, so pitch black? I realized when I was playing cards the other night that I was having lighthearted fun. Is that wrong? Grief is so strange. Both Rebecca and I were quite emotional in the library yesterday, talking through our emotions — and I assure you there were no thoughts of cards or foolishness then.
It will sound dour as all get out, but it’s true: We’re trapped. Our lives continue until they stop; experiences rise up to meet us over and over, or we rise up to meet them, however that works. I can no more control the death of a loved one than I can control a Cupid’s arrow in my flank. And if it seems disrespectful to talk about death and Cupid in the same sentence, you take that up with life.
I have nothing to do with it, I assure you.
Quality Conversation: Update #5 on You-Know-Who.
posted in: Day In The Life
2
If you’re new to this fun summer story, go back to yesterday and get the links for the first chapters. You’ll enjoy this development far more. See you in a minute.
Also: This post is quite long, but I assure you it’s super worth it. I’ve broken it into two sections. If I break it up into any more posts, some of you guys are going to murder me.
Over the weeks, my visits to the receiving room weren’t any more frequent than usual, but I would linger and chat with Mariano for a little longer each time. He’s just a really neat person. He’s from Miami. He’s in college studying sound engineering. He speaks Spanish. He’s a bassist in a metal band — I know, I know. But before you roll your eyes, you should know that he’s a gifted musician with an impressive list of awards and accomplishments and has been playing in bands and orchestras his whole life. Oh, and he lives in the building. That’s how he saw the sign on the receiving room door! Incredible.
So he talks to me about music, I talk to him about writing and quilts. We talk about all kinds of things. Mariano said to me a while back, “Well, I’d love to see your quilts sometime.”
Now, did I take that to mean “Maybe I could drop by and see your quilts sometime”? No, I did not, because I am a Total Nerd. No, I took this to mean, “Why don’t you haul a bunch of quilts down here to the gross receiving room where the lighting is terrible and show them to me where they can get dirty from sitting on the counter, and then haul them back upstairs?”
I had two friends who literally smacked their foreheads when I told them this. I can hear you doing the same thing. I also did the same thing. Later.
And so, a couple weeks ago, I hauled a big stack of quilts downstairs and had a little show-and-tell. Mariano was impressed. A few days later, I came in for a FedEx and he said, “Hey, you showed me your art. I thought I’d show you what I do.” And he gave me a copy of his album. Neat-o.
He went to get my package and I took a deep breath. I thought it would be easier to ask him to get a drink sometime if I wasn’t actually looking at him.
“Hey, do you want to like, get a drink sometime?” I said, doing my best, “I just thought of this just now” voice. “I mean, I really like talking to you and this is like, the worst place to have a conversation.”
He reappeared with my box, smiling. “I’d love that.”
* * *
For my birthday, I decided to buy myself a gift from the School of Life shop. I won’t wax on about how wonderful this organization is because right now, nobody cares. After you’re done here, though, google it; you’ll be glad you did.
Weeks ago, I ordered several sets of their beautiful question cards, including the “Conversation Toolkit” deck. Conversation cards aren’t anything new, but the School of Life is so thoughtful, so smarty-pants, I knew the conversation cards would be amazing. I swear to you, I did not have anyone in mind when I ordered the cards. (Remember: I didn’t pick up the “show me your quilts” thing, so.)
I got a notice that my package, shipped from the UK, was finally going to be delivered. And I had a brilliant idea: Why not ask Mariano if he wanted to do these cards with me! It was perfect! I sent him a text (we had exchanged numbers) and said:
“There’s a package coming from the UK. Let me know when it comes in. I’m going to open it down there with you. I’ve got an idea.”
The package came. Mariano gave me a razor to cut the tape. We opened the box to find these gorgeous boxes of beautiful, thick cards with wonderful questions printed on them. We set a date for Sunday night. I wondered if we should go to a bar for the game, but I felt comfortable asking him to just come up to my unit, like “Melrose Place.”
We had a blast. An absolute blast. What fun it was to learn about someone in this way! Zero small talk, zero fartin’ around. We jumped right to answering questions like, “Do you think other people regard you as a good listener?”
The whole time, though, I’m thinking, “I have to tell him I blogged about him. I have to.” Because at a certain point, not telling Mariano about all this felt dishonest. And then, miraculously, my chance was literally in the cards. I pulled a question:
“What’s the most surprising conversation you’ve ever had?”
Mariano told me about his neighbor back in Miami who shared a birthday with him. He told me about several remarkable conversations he had with this interesting person, what he learned over the years. I paused.
“I bet I can top that,” I said. I swallowed hard. Then, “I need to tell you something. I blogged about you. Several times.”
His eyes got big, but he didn’t make a break for it. I grabbed my iPad and summarized for him the first post. Then I said, “There were a couple other posts. But the most important thing is the open letter. I wrote it to hopefully read to you eventually. So…can I read it to you?”
He nodded. He took a drink of his gin and tonic. And I read the letter.
When I finished, I looked up at him. We were sitting on my couch. He was looking at me, smiling.
“I think you’re really beautiful, too.”
Me. Nerd Girl. Beautiful. Oh, Lord have mercy. I blushed about nine ways from…something. I mumbled, “W-well, that’s just… Wow, I mean, thank you. Um…”
There was an awkward silence. And then I said, just freakin’ going for broke:
“Do we kiss, now?”
“Yeah,” he said, and we were like two magnets, just zap!
Boy, did we smooch. I smooched Receiving Room Guy, you guys!! Can you believe this?? It was amazing! I mean, the whole thing is amazing: This is really a terrific story. Even if it wasn’t happening to me, I’m pretty sure I’d think it was an extraordinary tale.
Now, just hold your horses: We just smooched. For awhile, yeah. But that’s all, because, well, that’s all. (For the record, this would be the first time in the history of this blog I have ventured into smooch detail. No matter what happens next, don’t expect any more details of this nature! Blech!)
Anyhow, there’s what happened, my dear, sweet friends. You heard it here first.
How cool is that?
Receiving Room Guy Update (Tomorrow.)
posted in: Day In The Life
2
Remember when I wrote about the really lovely and sweet guy who starting working my building’s receiving room? I wrote about him several times, in fact.
You remember: I called him “Receiving Room Guy” and I wrote about how I gave him my pancakes. Then I wrote about how he was practicing bass guitar in the, you know, receiving room, then how he and I really were starting to be friends and how he was sewing. Then I wrote an open letter to him because I was feeling weird about continuing to have a friendship with someone who I had blogged about to thousands of people.
Well… There’s been a development.
An extremely interesting one. I mean, even if it wasn’t my life, I would find this development interesting. If you were me and you told me (?) this development, I would maybe have to go get a bucket of popcorn.
And tomorrow, I shall tell you what happened. Why not tonight? Because I have to tell this thing exactly right and writing is hard. The development is just 24 hours old and a girl needs to think for heaven’s sakes. You’ll have to tune in tomorrow to find out just how delicious a story it really is. For now, I’ll tell you three things:
- I read him the letter.
- While we were sitting on my couch Sunday night.
- I have Mariano’s permission to both tell you his name and the story of what happened.
See you tomorrow.