Bad patient

There’s never a good time for a panic attack.

Sitting at my desk at the office typing a dictation wasn’t any better or worse than any other time. I went from clickety-click-click to holy shit, why can’t I catch my breath? And why does my arm hurt?

I tried deep breathing but OMG I CAN’T BREATHE, MUCH LESS DEEP BREATHE.  I rubbed my arm, took a gulp of water. The old tricks weren’t working. I hadn’t had a doozy like this since 1988 when I actually had to leave a They Might Be Giants concert, in a small venue no less, because I felt like my chest was going to explode.

I called Ginger who works across the lobby.  “Do you have any aspirin?”

Her gaze shifted from her screen to me. “What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.”

She didn’t believe me.

After half an hour and much jackassery on my part about medical insurance, we were in her car which was clamoring for gasoline and gliding through one of the sketchier neighborhoods of Cincinnati.  Locals will know it as Over the Rhine or OTR.

Have you ever tried to buy gas in a rough neighborhood? Society and commercial enterprises do not cut those folks a break.

The line was too long and Ginger didn’t want me to escape from the car and run pell mell through the cracked streets back to the office so we drove on.

All the while I was telling her I was fine, take me back to the office, it’s nothing.

“And what happens when you have a heart attack at the wheel, crash your car, kill three people including yourself?” I love an optimist, don’t you?

And there I was with a wristband, the dreaded hospital gown, a bruised arm (the fabulous nurse thought I was joking about my veins), and 3 plus hours to kill with one of the best friends a panicked chick could hope for.

Thankfully it was nothing, but the ER doctor was clear – women should not ignore their symptoms. Heart attacks in women mimic the symptoms of an ordinary (ha!) panic attack. It’s always better to be safe than sorry. Ginger was right to force me to go.

 

If only we’d found the surgical masks.

 

Looking for heaven, found the devil in me

It’s been too long again, but that’s the way life goes these days. I work, I sleep, I engage in capers both gratifying and soul sucking.  There are actually moments when I turn over control to someone else and (gasp!) relax. While I still Instagram the crap out of life, I’ve been reluctant to blog about all that’s gone down, down, down because I was afraid you would….

1.  Think I’ve gone insane. (Not an unfair assessment.)

2. Offer me advice. (Please don’t.)

3. Label me a bad mother. (Get in line behind my kids.)

4. Not believe me.

5. Believe me.

So here I am, toes wiggling at the precipice of another change. The best laid schemes of this here narcissist went out and fell in love with tried to get laid elsewhere and the resulting behavior of yours truly was so unpleasant that now, not only do I get to see what it feels like to be on the other side of the fidelity fence, I also get to move house again. Too precious, I know.

While I’m feeling karmically relieved by my own comeuppance, I’m huffy about moving again so soon. The recently acquired place never quite achieved home status.  Now it contains so much bad juju I’m fixing to flee it like it’s haunted by the ghosts of a thousand bad decisions.

Thanks be that everything I own fits in a Toyota Corolla, I’ve been heard to say quite a bit lately. The other thing I’ve been saying a lot lately?  I’m sorry. I think MathMan would like for me to stop it already. The voicemails, texts and face to face apologies were enough. The sky-writing in French may have been a bit over the top.

So while I pack my things and adjust to another new place and routine, here’s a list of things I intend to bore you with in the coming days? weeks? whatever. Why waste all this perfectly good sturm und drang by not writing about it? At least that’s what I keep telling myself. If I can’t find purpose in this mess, what then?

Anyway…..

1.  My discovery of hiking and what is wrong with you people, why did you never tell me about how much fun it is?

2.  The divorce diet vs. the break up diet

3.  Training for a non-existent 5k

4.  The Truth and other lies we tell ourselves

5. How I’ve blown it as an absentee parent

6. Giving up sugar. Less a lament than a confession.

Until next time,

L.

Montage

At what age do you intend to grow up?


This question, posed Sunday afternoon by my aunt made my cousin holler “Mother!”

Nah, I said. It’s okay. I know what she means.  When was I going to stop making a hash of my life? When was I going to become serious about things and stop wasting my alleged potential?

I smiled at her as I played over the montage of the day before in my head.  It was pretty much the typical post-divorce free at last! reel of all the pleasures one can have with their clothes on. 

Without hesitation I responded.  After being married for twenty-five years and helping raise three kids and working full time and making and killing a career and taking care of a household and rarely having the time, energy or money to have fun, that answer is easy.

Never. I already did that.

If by being grown up she means continuing my life of have to and not taking in an impromptu wine tasting tour through scenic hills and not having drinks with friends and not dancing to loud music in bars with other mid-lifers living out their crises and not standing on the riverbank watching the water flow and not going to antique fairs and learning how to let go and enjoy without worrying about every damn thing, then the answer is most assuredly never.

This freedom has its downside, of course.  My retirement plan is an early death. I am happily taking care of my obligations and barely scraping by. Were it not for my good friend The Electrician, I wouldn’t have a roof over my head. My children are, at best, ambivalent about me. MathMan and I remain friends, but I struggle with how much I hurt him.  My parents have given up hope and only wish me happiness. My siblings probably think I’ve lost my mind and, as my aunt said, it looks like I’ve lost my way, if it ever existed in the first place.

And yet?

Not to go all Oprah on you here, but maybe by losing changing everything, I’ve finally gotten what I needed.

Of course, were I Oprah, losing everything would mean I’d have to fucking kill myself because that is a lot to lose.  But you get my point.