The Furious Spinner

At least right now I know why I write. The reason came as a surprise to me. Mario and I were talking about writing a few days ago. I was saying how much I like my characters and I want to see what happens to them. Then I blurted out, "Actually I want to make certain things turn out okay for them. I can't do that any other place." The truth is we have no control over life. I know, I know. You'll quibble with me and point out all the places we do have control. Those are all little things. We have no control over the big things. Death for one. Sickness for another. Our jobs. And let's not even go into politics. Some will say we have control over how we live. I beg to differ. Many, many, many people have absolutely no control over how, where, or when they live. But let's stick to middle-class America for a moment. Still think you have control? It's a funny thing control. Every time I think I have a little of it, something happens to show me different.

For instance I went to the doctor's for my pre-op today. I got enough sleep the night before. I've been doing my hypnotism CDs and relaxation and yoga. I think I've got it covered. I'm a few miles from the office and I think this is good I'm not really nervous. Soon after I get that gurgling in the stomach which indicates I'll need to stop at the bathroom soon. (Common fear response.) Then I get to the office, stop at said bathroom, then go inside, joke around with the receptionist and write a check out for my co-pay. Sit and wait. Get called into the office almost immediately. Get weighed. Go into the examining room and my heart is suddenly thundering. I'm thinking shit, this will make my blood pressure go up.

So I try to breathe deeply to calm myself. The nurse takes my blood pressure, then asks me if I have high blood pressure. This question causes adrenaline to shoot through my body so my heart rate and blood pressure go up even higher. I say, "No, I'm just nervous." "I can tell." Later she says I've made the right decision and my doctor is great. I wish I'd brought Mario. The doc comes in and examines me. Then she says I need to have more blood tests to make sure my kidneys can handle me going under. Which means I'll be on needles and pins for days waiting for the dreaded phone call. I also need another CAT scan. She also says there's a chance I'll have to have a third surgery. Then she gives me the consent form to sign. I read again all the things that could happen: infection, blindness, cerebral fluid leakage. I say, "Do you really think this will happen?" I point to the cerebral fluid leakage which is one of the reasons I didn't get the surgery for so long. I don't remember what she said. My hand holding the pen starts to shake. My eyes water. I just want to run, run, run away. I am barely able to sign I am shaking so much. But I do. She hugs me and says encouraging things.

After my appointment was over, I went and got blood taken. I am so tired of sickness and death. I'm tired of medical tests and hospitals and doctors. I want things to be different. I want to be different. All day I kept wishing I was different. Why can't I be calm? Why am I so afraid? Why do I worry? Why can't I be different. Good different. I've read enough fairy tales to know I need to be specific in my wishes. I want to be good different in this body in this lifetime.

Surrender, surrender, surrender.

Yes I know. How does one do that?

When I had the TV (as Randi Rhodes calls it), I watched Dr. Phil a few times. He would listen to someone's problems and then he'd say something like, "Well just stop doing that." The “that” being whatever the behavior was. I would just laugh. It seemed obvious to me he had never had an illness, never had a compulsion, never had to deal with BIG issues. Because of this, he was under the illusion that we have control. I'd talk to the TV. "Well, gee, Dr. Phil, why didn't I think of that? I'll just stop being depressed (or OCD or anorexic or whatever the person was having problems with).”

Yes if someone is smoking they should quit. If they’re drinking to excess they should quit. If someone keeps dating losers, they should quit. Etc. But in the grand scheme of things, those are little things. Big things: no control. The thing that is hardest when you have no control is living a life when you have no control because you still want to control something!

So I write my stories. Although I am one of those writers who says that her characters go their own ways (and they do) despite my protestations otherwise, I still feel as though I am making their lives better—not controlling their stories, per se. Just making the road a bit easier for them. Or something. I’m not certain I can articulate it. I thought I could when I started this but that was an hour ago and now it’s almost 2 a.m.

Ah well. I started out to write something coherent. Something to get me through the night. I stopped and read Jane Yolen's journal. Her beloved husband recently died, and I am awed and moved by her grace and dignity as she moves through difficult times. Blessings on her journey.

Now I must continue mine. Upstairs in bed. Or downstairs on the couch, wrapped in a quilt listening to the heat come on and go off. Sometimes when fear and loathing is stuck to me like this, it’s better to be alone—just in case it’s contagious. I’m hoping the Old Mermaids will gather around me. Maybe they can soothe me into becoming the woman I once was: strong and fearless. Okay, stronger and less fearful. And healthy. That would be nice.

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