Dear Darling Ones,

I am a liar. A lying liar with pants of fire.

You know I’ve been saying, “if this is as recovered as I get, that’s not too shabby” or “I’m coming to terms with this being as recovered as a get?”

Nope.

This is trash and I’m quite cranky about it.

My neurologist’s office was like that tiny apartment Bert & Ernie share on Sesame Street. She was Ernie. I was Bert.

Dr. S was super pumped about my homework. While she was still waiting for some genetic testing, all my heart stuff was good as was the neuro intervention. She gave me an A++ in Sleeping and Stroke Recovery. She reiterated that I was doing everything right.

She was even delighted that I had invested in some wheeled stools so I could scoot around my place and do more of the “activities of daily living” on my own. She really liked that I’m adapting so well to my situation.

And it’s a good fucking thing because she also told me that this may be as recovered as I get.

That’s right, my head might always feel wooshy. My brain may always think I’m falling when I stand for more than 90 seconds. My Floppy Scoop: forever heavy and trembly and floppy.

She reiterated that I’m doing everything I can possibly do and I should keep at it. She explained how the nervous system is slow to heal and most people plateau about one year post-stroke.

I need a new word for disappointed in order to explain how I’m handling the news. I want to simultaneously cry and spit fire while shaking my fist at the heavens.

Sure, it’s good to hear I’ve done all the things right, that I’m not just a fat, lazy lump who didn’t want it enough.

At the same time it fucking sucks to do all the things right, to try your absolute best, to follow all the rules, want something more than you ever wanted something before, and still fail.

I knew it was always a possibility and the further away from March 6, 2023 a probability, but still. . .

But still. . .

Bummer.

Now, I keep on keeping on. She said I really need to focus on being careful and not falling, since I’m still a fall risk. I see her again in January and my only homework is a cardio-vascular surgery consult.

Personally, I need to focus on both my ableism and internalized anti-fatness, more on that later. So much (unpaid) work to do I really need to get on the dole!

Disappointed, but diligently yours,
Jodi

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Ugh, Darling Ones,

This week has been utter shit and it’s bringing me down.

1. I’ve had the song “The Freshmen” by The Verve Pipe stuck in my head since Christmas time. It’s 100% my fault. A few years back I made an incredibly singable playlist of one-hit wonders from the 90s. My sibs & nibs all love this playlist and whenever it’s on someone is bound to burst into song. It’s fun. At least it was fun for that week in December when they were here. Having “The Freshman” on repeat in my brain whenever I’m not actively listening to music grows less and less fun as the weeks go. I just caught myself softly singing the stupid song and immediately strapped my cans to my head and turned on some Material Issue (“Freak City Soundtrack” if you’re curious).

2. My nephew and his live-in girlfriend of three years broke up and he’s moving to Portland. He moved a bunch of his stuff into my loft Tuesday night and last night he spent the night here. It was fucking rough, man.

He’s so tired and broken and it sucks. It sucks so much. I thought dealing with my own heartbreaks was tough, but fuck. . . I’d go through every break up I’ve even been through to save him from this. I don’t know how parents deal with their children and this kind of suffering. It’s the worst. Like, I know the only way is through and this is part of being a human, but it sucks.

It doesn’t help that I’m a giant cry baby. I cry when I’m happy and sad and angry and hilarious. If someone cries in my presence, they never cry alone. So I cried with him. After BFK fetched him to to bring him to the airport I cried a bunch more for myself and how much I’ll miss him. I liked having him near. I’m crying again just remembering crying earlier. Also, shedding a few tears over how much I love BFK and how it makes my heart warm that she’s family.

3. Everything I touch turns to shit. Or at least that’s the way it feels. I’ve had some fuckups at work. One that I’m about 89% is my fault and one that is not so much my fault but I should havre been smart enough to prevent it. It sucks. Making mistakes sucks and taking responsibility for it only made me feel moderately better. I’m so so so so burnt out and I’m really hoping that lull comes to visit.

4. On top of all this, I still have ever-present, free-floating anxiety I cannot shake.

Everything is a drag right now. Every thing.

Despite my vow to curtail frivolous spending, I decided to shove some capitalism into my soul full of holes. I was banking on this making me feel better. Shoppers high? Shiny new thing?

Instead of buying a thing, I decided I would buy myself a fancy treat. Cookies. Chocolates. Something like that. I found some cookies that looked really good and I was in, until I learned it was $27 for four cookies. FOUR COOKIES FOR 27 DOLLARS! That’s craziness. So instead I bought myself some Little Debbie Valentine’s Snack Cakes for $2.49. This still seems like a ridiculous price for Little Debbies, but what can you do?

At least the free grocery store flowers I got last week are still going strong (pictured above) so I got that going for me.

Blah,
Jodi

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Ironically, it’s driving me right up the wall. And in another ironic twist this angry hermit never wants to leave the house so much as when she can’t. Thankfully, my brother-in-law is close by and willing to come to my rescue. I’m also thankful that the Chicken Fingers (it’s what I call my writing group) are tolerant and patient and probably only said a few bad things about me missing our meeting tonight even though it was my turn to be critiqued.

Even with all the patience and willingness to help, I still feel rotten. Car problems make me have to face my worst anxieties all at once — having to ask for help, being a burden on other people, a sudden loss of independence, and utter, total, and complete helplessness.

Bah! It sucks, and I like to believe that everyone feels this crappy when their car is broken. Right? Right?

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The four us marched into the waiting hallway together armed with Caribou coffee, and found my parents sitting against one wall with my Uncle Richard, who was sporting a GIANT anti-Obama button of some sort. Nice. Because there wasn’t going to be enough tension in the hallway with dad and the two daughters he hasn’t spoken to in years. Yes, years. Let’s throw in a little political bait on election day to make things a little more tinderboxy.

As soon as I sat down my mom asked me how I was doing, and I promptly burst into tears. It’s hard to talk politics or anything else when there’s a 6’5″ woman with greasy purple hair sobbing in the waiting hallway. Not that my dad was doing any talking, instead he chose to stare pensively into space as though if he didn’t look at Sister #2 and #4 they wouldn’t actually be there across from him.

Not that they could be ignored. I don’t know if it was their nervous energy or an attempt to buoy mom’s spirits, but those two were like Abbot & Costello cracking incessant jokes, none of which were funny. Between my intermittent crying and their jokes, I’m pretty sure everyone else in the waiting hallway wanted to kick our asses. I don’t blame them.

And then because there weren’t enough of us to annoy them, my Aunts Rosie and TeTe came waltzing in wearing similar (though not matching) sparkly sweatshirts that proclaimed their pride at being Grandmas.

I wish I was kidding or exaggerating about any of this. But I’m not. You can ask anyone in the hallway. I’m sure they’d remember us.

The rest of the time passed in a salty, sleep-deprived, unfunny jokes, awkward non-conversation haze. Tuesday will go down in the annals of Supergeniusdom as one of the worst days ever. A day so bad it has taken me two days and sixteen hours of sleep to properly recover.

Speaking of recovering, my mom is doing swell. The cancer had not spread to her lymph nodes (which she repeatedly pronounces noids) and she is going to spend the week off from work playing with her new iPad.

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The death of an icon like Michael Jackson is one of those unifying events that reminds us how very much we have in common. I would defy you to find an American thirty-something who cannot remember the first time they saw Michael Jackson dance, scooting across the floor in a motion that we didn’t even have words for yet. It was only later that we learned it was called the Moonwalk.

Like most girls my age, Michael Jackson and his music was very much a part of my childhood. He was so important, I remember the slumber party we had when we finally rented the Thriller video (that included the making of). This was before cable had come to Blaine, Minnesota, there was no MTV.

There are no words that seem capable of expressing the emotion that comes when the “luv” of your life dies. Everything seems inadequate and cliche and an echo of everything else being said.

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