A Lack of Emotional Concern

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(ă-nō’sō-dī-ă-fōr’ē-ă), Indifference, real or assumed, to the presence of disease, specifically of paralysis. [G. a- priv. + nosos, disease, + diaphora, difference]

I learned a new word today: anosodiaphoria. It is a medical term, not even in the Oxford English Dictionary, that means “indifference, real or assumed, to the presence of disease, specifically of paralysis.” It was coined by Joseph Babinski, discoverer of the famous Babinski, or plantar, reflex in which scraping the sole of the foot determines spinal cord damage. Babinski first noted anosodiaphoria in 1914 in a few paralyzed patients who were all “meh” about their paralysis. Another, more general definition describes anosodiaphoria as a “lack of emotional concern.” A recent medical paper on the subject is titled “Blissfully Unaware.”

My dad and I took my mom to the doctor today–specifically, to the neurologist to receive the results of her annual memory evaluation, an extensive battery of tests performed last week. It was pretty much unnecessary, given what we know:

  • That her mother died of Alzheimer’s.
  • That her sister had early-onset Alzheimer’s and was robbed of seventeen years of life starting in her late 50s.
  • That my mom gets lost and can’t drive a car and can’t remember why (two accidents).
  • That she has trouble forming new memories.
  • That today she asked us at the breakfast table, as we were leaving, twice in the car, and again in the lobby of the doctor’s office, “Now, what is this for again?”

My mother’s neurologist is a young man of south Asian ancestry with luminous brown eyes and a quiet, fastidious mien. He spoke in soft, measured tones, and his approach to delivering news to patients in layman’s terms was studied, as he though he carefully considered each ten-cent word before he said it. His hipster bowtie was flawless.

After addressing my mom’s mysterious dizziness (I’ll tell you about that some other time), he summarized his colleague’s report. Memory exams are administered by a specialist, and the scientific literature has shown a preference for having the same doctor administer the tests over time, such is their subjective bias. According to the neurologist, the exam showed improvement in some areas, decline in others, and stasis in still more. It struck me that he was building to something, but was remembering back to that day in medical school when they explained how using certain words can cause your patients to shut down. “Cancer” is one of those words. “Alzheimer’s” is another.

Last year, this same neurologist told us my mother had “mild cognitive impairment,” but I knew there was nothing mild about her deficits. He described her condition as a “gray area” between normal and not normal and offered hollow assurances that lots of people find themselves there who do not end up with dementia. Today, he was a little more assertive.

Overall,” he said, “there did seem to be a mild trend of decline.”

Such gentle language: the passive voice of “there did seem” rather than “you have.” The uncertainty introduced by the use of “seem.” It’s not a definitive, yes-or-no thing that has happened like, say, getting impaled by rebar that has fallen off the back of a speeding flatbed. Rather she’s just experiencing a “trend.” A trend is a process, a direction, but not necessarily a destination. The cruelly optimistic implication is that trends can be reversed. Furthermore, hers is a “mild” trend, like warming springtime temperatures or rates of marijuana use by senior citizens.

But the neurologist was just warming us up. My mother’s test results now point to “a mild stage of something more progressive, likely some form of dementia.” Whew. That’s a relief! I thought he was going to sell us car insurance there for a second. Dementia, yes, we’re familiar. My mother recently asked my dad if Jeb Bush was president.

Lest we get hopeful, though, he then offered that this form of dementia was likely not of the vascular type. My mom, who did a fantastic job of following along, interjected and asked for clarity about the form of the disease that she does not have. After explaining how some forms of dementia are due to blockages in the vascular system that nourishes the brain, the neurologist finally reached the crescendo of his plodding andante.

“The change in those domains [that she exhibited in her exams] are more associated with Alzheimer’s.”

Well then.

It was the first time that word had been used by a clinician to describe my mother’s condition–the closest we have gotten to the Dreaded Diagnosis thus far. She took it like the taciturn Midwesterner that she is: stoically, silently. As far as she is concerned, there is nothing more to be said, and nothing more to do.

A few hours later, I asked my dad if I could read the report, which the neurologist had promised was written in “accessible” language. That’s when I learned my new word. And that’s when I realized how random and fragile the art of neurological diagnosis really is.

The report found that my mother’s memory did not decline. Great news! Except that her memory was “poor” last year and remains so, as does her learning function. She did experience decline in language (the ability to come up with the right word on queue) and in executive function (the ability to plan, organize, and conduct a task to completion), which I have often summarized as my mother “falling off a cliff, cognitively speaking.”

She asks sometimes about words–today she mixed up “affluent” and “effusive”–but thankfully her ability to her express herself has not yet been compromised. We have noticed the executive function thing, though. That’s when your mom is supposed to be getting dressed for her Golden Anniversary party, a fancy catered affair attended by fifteen out-of-town guests that was months in the planning and has cost thousands of dollars, and the guests have arrived and are all downstairs waiting, and she disappears into the bathroom for too long, and when you find her, everything in the bathroom closet is on the floor, because she started doing her makeup but went looking for a Q-tip, which she has in her hand, and then she got sidetracked somehow, and now she doesn’t really feel like “going out to dinner” anyway.

Her recent evaluation was neurological but also vaguely psychological, in that the clinician endeavored to understand my mother’s mood. Unfortunately, the test was conducted the day after said Golden Anniversary party weekend, when my mother was still high on being around people she loves for two straight days. She did great! The neurologist reported a “confound of any potential mood changes,” and he smiled adorably when he told us there was no sign of depression.

Really.

There was no sign of mood change when my mother raged at me and the front desk lady for no reason on the night of my father’s surgery?

There was no sign of mood change when the anniversary guests were waiting and my mom announced to my dad and me that she didn’t want to go, that she had nothing to wear (she said this while wearing a brand-new, custom-tailored Talbot’s suit purchased specially for the occasion), and that she wished my father was married to someone else so he could take that lady instead?

There was no sign of mood change last night, when my dad and I emptied the kitchen pantry trying to find the dog’s bowls–my mom hides things–and had the audacity to discard her priceless collection of 50 carryout containers and some of the 10,000 cafeteria napkins she’s hoarding, and in response my mom put herself to bed, hilariously fuming, “Fifty years of running my kitchen clearly aren’t good enough for you, so I will never go in there again.” No sign at all?

Not even on Christmas eve, when my mother told me that she thinks about killing herself every day?

Such a relief! And really good to know.

The doctor who did the report also noted that she showed signs of anosodiaphoria related to her condition. My dad and I looked it up together, and we puzzled over its application to my mother’s situation. But on the drive home, I think I figured it out.

My mother can’t remember my name, and someday soon she won’t remember me at all. But so long as she is still herself, she will never, EVER, think that it is ok to disclose the dark thoughts that plague her mind–and certainly not to a doctor, a person in authority, a man. She thinks her dementia is her fault, a terrible, embarrassing failure of her own making. And, while she will admit that it is real, she would rather die than talk about how it makes her feel. Hence whatever it was that she said or did to indicate anosodiaphoria, or “indifference to the presence of disease”: a shrug, a refusal to answer, or perhaps a firm statement like, “It is what it is.”

This isn’t the cheerful acceptance of the green-tea-swilling, yoga-pantsed, meditating Buddhist. No, this is the grim resignation of Ohio farm folk, people who canned their food, darned their socks, and survived barren winters in metal sheds while their babies died of typhus. That’s an actual thing that happened, to my mother’s great-grandmother, but the story’s impact on subsequent generations was profound. There are other stories too–like, the story of how my mother’s grandfather was such a cheap sonofabitch that he wouldn’t let his 40-something year old wife have her baby in a hospital, and he refused to summon a doctor until just before she bled to death. And the half-born baby died of asphyxiation. And my mother’s mother witnessed the whole terrible scene as a girl, and she never told her own daughter, my mom, that she loved her, until the Alzheimer’s devoured the part of her brain responsible for remembering that our people don’t show emotion. Yes, grim resignation is coded in our DNA.

Anosodiaphoria. You could tell, the doctor thought it was curious that my mother doesn’t seem to mind that she is losing her mind. In fact, she’s mad as hell, and since there is no rational place to direct her anger, she takes it out on everyone around her. I feel for her, I really do, at least in the abstract. But in the moment, I often find myself incapable of accessing the empathy, kind words, and genuine emotion I would bestow on literally any other human being in the same situation, up to and including Saddam Hussein.

The reason is because I still can’t quite separate out the fragile old woman my mother is at present from the passive aggressive nightmare she has been all along. As long as I can remember, her default setting is to cast everyone else as her tormentors while she bullies us all into compliance. My whole life, no matter what she said or did, no matter how terrible, I never received a single word of apology from her. And any suggestion that perhaps some elements of my childhood might have gone a little better (or just, you know, my failure to empty the dishwasher in a timely fashion) always resulted in outrageous, sarcastic accusations designed to pathologize any utterance of dissent: “You hate me. You think I’m the worst mother ever. You think I’m a monster.”

It’s a brilliant strategy, actually, because every fight ended with me apologizing. “No, Mommy, I love you, I’m sorry, I love you, I do, I’ll empty the dishwasher right now, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

At present, this tendency manifests as my mother’s refusal to offer any hint of apology when her memory problems inconvenience other people–like, say, when she compulsively threw away a bag containing $70 worth of hearing aid batteries, or she made me late for work when she hid my car key. Instead, she gets angry at us. We don’t respect her, we don’t care about her, we ignore her–when really, our entire lives revolve around her. My sister says I should pretend our mom has the words “I’m sick” written across her forehead. But what I know is true is that she was sick long before she lost her mind, and I am having trouble forgiving her for that.

Still, I rally. I take time off work, I show up, I eat shit for as long as I can stand it, and then I run away, often after saying something I regret. Then I hate myself for being unable to stay perfectly poised in the exact fraction of a moment where my mother lives, with no before or after, no old wounds let alone fresh ones, as though last night’s Great Tupperware Meltdown and the last forty years never happened.

I admit it, I have become hard. I exhibit a lack of emotional concern. I am indifferent to the presence of her disease.

I guess I have secondary anosodiaphoria, if that’s a thing. But none of us is blissfully unaware.

 

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2015 Year in Review: Poisoned, Set Adrift

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2015 began with a poison kiss.

I didn’t even know I had New Year’s Eve plans until a few hours before midnight. J* texted me while I was at the gym to see if I wanted to spend the evening with him, and I rationalized, “Hey, better late than never.” We agreed that he would pick me up at 7 to drive an hour to visit friends of his in a far suburb. That gave me a leisurely two-and-half hours to finish my run, stop off at the store, and slap on the pretty stick. About 30 minutes later, he texted again, wanting to know if I could be ready to leave at 6, just an hour hence.

I was still on the treadmill.

With a mighty effort, I managed to get home, stop sweating, and be ready when he arrived to pick me up. We were trying to be there in time for something called “an Irish toast,” though neither of us understood what that meant. Because I thought we were going to his English friend’s home, I imagined a custom of some import, a break in the evening’s festivities at which our absence would be noted. J* drove with urgency and then like a madman. At one point, lost in conversation, he missed our exit, trapping us on an airport service road. He got angry. Then, when we missed the last bailout, he got angry some more.

I had witnessed one of his outbursts on the phone, but never in person. Now, I was trapped in the passenger seat of a car that felt like it was going way too fast, driven by a grown man having a tantrum. He muttered and yelled, addressing himself in the second person. He slammed his fists on the steering wheel. He shifted the manual transmission in waves of anger. When he slowed in the airport parking lot to ask for directions to the exit, I looked at the glittering terminal in the distance and wondered if I should make a run for it. I froze.

I dated a violent man once, so in those seconds of uncertainty, I reverted to what I knew: be quiet, stay still, act small. Even so, when J* challenged me to confront him, I foolishly took the bait.

“Go ahead, say whatever you’re going to say,” he demanded.

“I’m not going to say anything,” I fumed, “because I don’t want to get punched in the fucking face.”

In the twisted logic of our relationship, my words became the most grievous transgression of the night, a presumed accusation–that J* was an abuser–we never quite got past. I offered context that he declined to consider and apologies that neither of us quite believed. He offered very little, pushing back hard that my words exceeded his actions in their terribleness. In retrospect, that argument exposed the power deferential of our relationship: his ambivalence towards me could put me on my heels even if he was in the wrong. In the end, having resolved nothing, we just moved on.

We arrived at our destination–not an English home, but rather an Irish bar–about ten minutes to seven. J* bolted from the car without a second’s pause, leaving me trotting after him in heels across the icy parking lot. We exchanged no words to bridge the angry divide between us. Moments later, I was meeting his friends for the first time, smiling a plastic smile that I hoped would hide my deep discomfort.

As it turns out, an Irish toast is simply an acknowledgement that it is midnight in Ireland. The bar distributed little flights of Guinness, a canned version of Auld Lang Syne blared from the PA system, and then it was done. A piece of actual toast would have been more satisfying.

It was 7:01 PM, and the five hours to midnight spread before us like a cold and lonely road. I drank a lot, I ate too much, and I spent a lot of time in the ladies’ room. As the hours passed, J* and I found our way back to each other. He held my hand, he touched me lightly under the table, he checked to see if I needed anything. At midnight, he smiled broadly as he took my face in his hands and rendered that sweet but fateful kiss.

I was wary but hopeful as our lips met. Lost in softness and warmth, we failed to notice the poison seeping like a fog. Within hours, I was toxic. Within the month, I was adrift.

We went to J*’s friends’ house, where we watched them drink themselves into oblivion. Then we drove back to my house, where J* dropped me off as unceremoniously as a taxi service–no hug, no kiss, no promise to see me again.

Days later, my body started to go haywire–my first bout with the fun! fun! fun! of serious hormonal imbalance.

Two weeks after that, J* broke up with me in a brief text message.

Three weeks after that, a trusted neighbor assaulted me in my living room, violently groping me and attempting to tear off my clothes. I fought him off but did not call the police, because he was leaving the country the next day, and I wanted to put as much distance between us as possible. Even now, he lurks at the edge of my dreams. And when he returned to his house, just 16 feet away from mine, last spring, I found myself feeling panic every time I had to walk the dog.

Spring semester, I endured a two-month bout of bronchitis and a crushing to-do list: teach three classes, give four presentations at three conferences, attend a hundred meetings, grade a thousand typed pages (that is sadly not an exaggeration), write a million emails. All of it felt like work. By fall, I felt broken.

My relationship with my sister deteriorated. In January, she unfriended me on Facebook for a slew of infractions she declined to mention until I noticed I could no longer tag her in family photos. She made it nearly impossible for me to see her children, who used to be the lights of my life. Where we once had monthly excursions, I took them out just twice all year. My parents remained neutral or erred, understandably, on the side of seeing their grandchildren. Throughout the year, my family gathered frequently without me, having decided preemptively that I was too busy to join them. My mother started to forget me.

My friend was sick. He got sicker. In May, he died. My friends, also his friends, lost their friend. My friend, his widow, lost her husband. My loss was so small compared to hers, but still–the losses associated with this one man piled up atop one another, so that everywhere I turned I saw someone I cared about struggling to breathe through their grief.

Days after my friend died, I reached for J* and he reached back. After months of silence, we struck up an amazing, awkward, amazing friendship. It was an invitation to healing but also more pain. In August, I fell into a hole so deep I could barely see the sky. J* pulled me out. Then he left the country without saying goodbye.

The remainder of 2015 was defined by depression, loneliness, workplace misery, family problems, health problems, and another painful breakup. I could not make anything turn out right, as though the poison coursing through me wilted everything I touched. In that powerless state, I felt adrift.

The year began with a crazy night and a fateful kiss, but, like all measurements of time, midnight on New Year’s Eve is an arbitrary beginning for a period of decline that probably started years before. In some corners of this story, I can say comfortably that someone else was the agent of my misfortune. But in others, it was fate or chance or no one, and in still others, it was me. I made choices too. I opened a door, or closed one. I said things I shouldn’t have said and failed in a hundred different ways. J* kissed me, and I kissed him right back, even though I knew I shouldn’t. Other people–who knows, maybe even 2015 or the Universe itself–might have shoved me out to sea, but I’m the one who untied the raft from its moorings.

Now I write this blog, as if from the safety of that raft. Life often seems like a forbidding sea, and only the moon and stars at night help differentiate sky from the dark water all around me. The writing helps.

I tell my story, I vent the poison.

I plan a new future, I chart a course to safety.

I don’t know what 2016 has in store for me. But just in case, I am staying in this New Year’s Eve.

And the only person I’m kissing… is the dog.Photo on 2013-11-04 at 16.58 #6

Self-Arrest

I have never climbed a glacier (though I did slide down one on my butt in high school!), but my understanding is that one has to be prepared to conduct a “self-arrest,” whereby one uses an ice axe to stop a potentially fatal slide into oblivion. That’s kind of what happened this Christmas.

As I’ve discussed previously, I’m not a huge fan of Christmas. The holiday involves too much waste, too much self-indulgence, and not enough actual spirit-of-Christ giving. It has also been historically fraught in my family. I won’t go into that here, just trust me. I’ve earned the Girl Scout “Ruining Christmas” merit badge too many times to mention.

This year, I did Christmas differently, albeit somewhat unintentionally. On Christmas eve, I departed my family gathering early–for a booty call. It was fucking awesome, in the most literal sense. On Christmas day, I elfed with Santa and my sister-elf at a rehab center filled with ill and lonely people. Yes, “elf” is a verb, meaning, “To assist Santa by handing out gifts, greeting people, singing carols, and feeling palpably grateful that you are not a patient in that terrible place.” That afternoon, I played host to a friend who unexpectedly arrived at my house, pregnant with weariness and no place to stay. We played tourist and visited my parents, then we met up with another friend for Thai food and booze. Over the next few days, I texted with far-away friends, I went to a play, I went for a hike with a second surprise houseguest, and I laughed so hard I nearly peed myself on a public street.

Doing good for others was, as always, a soothing experience, which helps to explain nursing’s appeal for me. And being with people who appreciate me for who I am was soul-saving. After months of feeling like I am sliding into oblivion, slipping the bonds I share with everyone who cares about me and spinning not off a glacier but off the planet altogether, the choice to go my own way–to serve my own interests–this Christmas gave me a sense of purchase I haven’t felt in a great, great while.

I can feel myself starting to slip again already. The booty call was great, but I wish I could meet a guy who wants to take me to the movies. My friends are doing well, but sometimes it feels as though they are leaving me behind. And being with my parents the day after Christmas made me very sad. I worked a jigsaw puzzle with my mom, and it felt more like occupational therapy than a shared project. “I can’t see it. You do it,” she said time again, as she struggled to fit a piece into its place.

But still–it feels good to know…

that self-arrest is possible,

that sometimes I can make the pieces fit,

that there are people who can still make me laugh and, despite my precarious attachment to this world, who can help me to enjoy the view.

self arrest
Maybe when this guy gets safely off the mountain, he can be my boyfriend.

 

The Perfect Day

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I don’t like this time of year, what with its relentless focus on endings and beginnings, its ruthless celebration of children and families, and its vicious indulgence in nostalgia. Not to mention, you’re a loser if you don’t have a date.

It isn’t all bad. There is my friend who makes care packages for homeless people–600 this year! There is the holiday concert at my niece’s school, replete with happy kids so excited about their clarinets and alto solos. There is the t-shirt I got with my dog’s name on it, perhaps the greatest article of clothing ever gifted to me. There are the holiday lights that help to blot out the inky darkness, which seems to begin around lunchtime. There is a lot of candy.

No, it isn’t all bad. Just…most of it.

I haven’t always felt this way. Most years, I decorate the house inside and out. I practice Christmas carols at the piano. I send out a funny Christmas letter to connect with old friends. I volunteer. I try.

This year, I haven’t even switched out the fall wreath for the winter one. (Yes, I am That Lady, who has artificial wreaths for every season.)

Last year, in fact, I had a perfect day, just a few days before Christmas. I am starting to think it might have been the best day of my life, and as I ruminate on it, I wonder: Will I ever have a day like that again?

It was fall graduation, and a young woman whom I had mentored through personal, legal, and financial problems was finally graduating with her Bachelor’s degree after several years of struggle. Seeing her walk across the stage when her name was called–that was perhaps my finest achievement as a teacher. Later that same afternoon, I hooded my first two doctoral students, also an incredibly satisfying moment.

That day, I never looked better. My skin was clear. I was down almost ten pounds. I was wearing a fetching black dress and heels with fancy fishnet stockings–a rare sartorial success for me. Over that, I was sporting my brand-new academic regalia, purchased in collaboration with my parents (multiple years’ worth of Christmas presents) to celebrate finally achieving tenure. My hair looked great, all straight and shiny beneath my tam, which I perched at a cheeky angle. I was beaming as I walked across campus. I took a selfie, and I actually had someone to send it to.

On the drive home, J* suggested I come to his place, and he would make me dinner. That felt wonderful–a place to go, and a handsome man to greet me warmly when I got there. He told me my body looked great in that dress, and I gently laughed it off as though I heard compliments like that all the time. We snuggled into the couch to watch a documentary, basking in the twinkling white lights of the Christmas tree. Then he had to meet some people, and I went home to walk the dog and go to bed. Not a perfect ending to most people’s perfect day, but it was good enough for me.

Perfect, actually. I felt at home in my own skin, I felt successful professionally, and I felt loved. I even had the grace to realize, as it was unfolding, how special it was, and I was so grateful.

It all started to unravel about a week later, and the unravelling has accelerated with each passing month, until here we are in December 2015, and there is almost nothing left.

I’ve gained weight. My hormones are a mess, so I get to enjoy my first serious bout of acne in middle age. I cut my hair, and it looks terrible most days. I haven’t worn the dress or stockings since that day, and the shoes are going south due to neglect and misuse. (Speaking as a former shoe-care professional, suede is a bad investment.) I didn’t attend fall graduation this year, and I’m certain I wasn’t missed. J* is long gone, and there is no one new on the horizon. I won’t even get started on the mess that is my family. It was a mess last year, too, but I had people outside my family for whom I was a priority, so that made it seem not so bad.

This year, it’s just me. Me and the dog, and the fall wreath, and a long, long night.

Thanksgiving

To follow up on my last post and its little cliffhanger:

I made the call and left a voicemail. He called back. We talked. He was funny! We made a date. I went on the date.

I can’t tell you about it, though, because that’s a story for First-Date Fridays, and I have two dozen first dates–plus a few aborted attempts–stacked up in the queue ahead of this one.

Patience.

As I have said to a couple of broken-hearted friends lately, no one knows how their story will end. We don’t even know where we are in the story, or who will–and won’t–be on the next page. Including loved ones, including ourselves. We can look back on what’s already been written, and we can seek to understand it, but we can’t change what’s done and gone. We can also wonder about the blank pages to come. Where will I be? What will I be doing? Who will be with me? And, taking nothing for granted, how many more pages are there anyway?

Four days ago, I would have loved to learn that I was merely living in a short story, and it would all be over soon. I am feeling better today, so I’m thinking I might be able to tolerate a novella or even a full-length book. If I could fall in love, find happiness in my work, and (or?) have my loneliness assuaged, I might someday desire to live an anthology!

But that is mere anticipation. All I can live is the present page, in the little spaces between the letters and words that write my life. I am glad to be here. Four days ago, I was in a hole so deep I could barely see the sky. I am grateful for the sky. I am also grateful for the hole. But I am most grateful for the page on which it has all been written.

Later today, when we go around the table and account for that which we are thankful, I will adhere to the script and reply, “My family and friends,  my job, the dog.”

But I will be thinking: me.

What’s Good?

I have had been laid low recently, a combination of physical and emotional ills. If not for my little yellow dog, I would not have left the house, and we have spent most of the last four days nestled in bed together. I find myself disconnecting from the world–declining invitations, ignoring overtures, disappearing from social media. My mantra is “Reach out to people who reach back,” but just now I feel as if I can scarcely lift my arms, let alone reach for someone.

(If you’re one of those people who has reached out, I am so sorry for not responding. Please don’t give up on me.)

The flexibility of my work schedule–the non-financial compensation that academics so highly prize–is counterproductive for me when this happens. Because of the looming Thanksgiving holiday, I could stay in bed for a good two weeks before anyone would notice. But my relationship to my work–that is a story for another day.

Today, I am trying not to close doors as soon as they open, even though a future beyond this low horizon is impossible to imagine. I responded to a text from a new suitor I met online (not Tinder; a different site). He’s “old school,” so he called me and left a nice voicemail. I wasn’t expecting that. But just returning the call feels like an impossible task for which I need to: clean the house, or at least the bathroom, ok, maybe just the toilet; take a shower, but wait–I need to go to the gym first, but I’m too gross to go out in public, so I should take a shower, then go to the gym; then I’ll tidy the house and clean the toilet; discard the dead plants and throw out the rotting Halloween pumpkins; take the dog out; sweep the leaves off the front walk; maybe find a shred of self esteem under there? Shower again. Then call.

It’s just too much.

The woman who crafted the online profile, the woman this man wants to talk to, is a stranger to me. I look at her pictures, and I read her witty self-descriptions, without recognition. Just trying to be her, let alone a woman who can endure the endless disappointments of online dating, would be the performance of a lifetime. I imagine trying to talk to this man, and I can’t script a conversation that doesn’t end with me in tears. (This poor man. Little does he know, he has drifted into the eye of someone else’s midlife hurricane!)

In an effort to rally, and in homage to my friend who writes the most hopeful blog and Facebook posts, when I know for a fact she ain’t always feelin’ it, I am going to make a list of Martha Stewart-style Good Things to try to pierce the gloom and let some light filter in. Because it’s just a phone call, right?

Good Things (aka Fronting):

  • I am not a Syrian refugee.
  • I am not an ISIS bride.
  • I am not Bashar al-Assad’s food taster.
  • I am not Putin’s botox injector.
  • I do not have to wipe Kim Jong-un’s ass (because you just know someone does, amiright?).
  • God willing, I will never have to see Donald Trump or Ben Carson naked.
  • David Vitter LOST, and 250,000 Louisianians will have access to health care as a result.
  • My dog is super cute.
  • I live in a nice house that is mostly not falling down.
  • I drive a car that is less than five years old.
  • I have a car.
  • I have a steady income and health insurance.
  • I am not trapped in a hurtful marriage.
  • My parents are both still alive, and I get to spend time with them.
  • One of my best friends is in a happy, committed relationship for the first time since I’ve known her.
  • I just bought a pair of teal slacks.
  • None of my teeth are sore.
  • There are leaves in need of raking, which is an exercise in mindfulness if ever there was one.
  • I binge-watched all of that show “Ballers” on HBO yesterday and think the Rock could get an Oscar if he found the right role and director.
  • I have an HBO-Go password, which belongs to an ex-boyfriend’s roommate’s friend, who once got so drunk he peed the floor, which the roommate filmed and my ex-boyfriend shared with me.
  • I do not struggle with addiction.
  • When the guy I like, but who doesn’t really like me back, texted me the words “great tits” unbidden yesterday, I had the self-respect not to be I’m Cool With It Girl and didn’t text him back.
  • Sometimes making a list, giving a name to the Black Dog that haunts you, and telling other people about your struggles, can help.
  • I really do have great tits.