frequency paradigm
ACADEMIC MEDICINE FATIGUE
Oh I am tired. I was forced into a dinner and then an all-day meeting with a large group of psychiatrists. It was work-related, I was not (in any formal way) under observation. Still, that much proximity to mental-health experts made me long to act out in some way, particularly at the dinner and after a few glasses of wine. Cry into my risotto. Panic and hide under a cloth napkin. Something.
One more big meeting this year and then I’ll be done with that bit of my job for a month or so. The next one will be with plastic surgeons, and it will be right around Halloween, so I have time to plan some really hideous fake scars and dare the attendees not to comment on them.
CLINICAL MEDICINE FATIGUE
One part of my South African adventure that I did not mention was how I passed out on the airplane. It is a very weird experience to faint while sitting down, as it’s more of a slow crumple than anything. Unfortunately it had to be preceded by the terrible impending-doom feeling and cardiac issues previously detailed here. I wasn’t sure what, if anything, should be done about my terrible airplane feeling, so I settled for whapping LT on the arm and saying “I don’t feel good” before swooning over onto the armrest. It only lasted a few minutes, if that, but it prompted me to go to the stupid doctor, who gave me the usual tests and said I probably have supraventricular tachycardia. You can Google that yourself if you’re bored as fuck, but the upshot is that it’s something that “just happens” to “some people” for “some reason,” and there is no real treatment unless it goes on too long and you have to go to the hospital. There are amusing DIY ways to stop an attack if you feel one coming on, like massaging your carotid artery (eeew), holding your breath and pressing down with the pooping muscles (sounds dangerous), or plunging your face into a bowl of ice water (not too practical to carry around with you).
So far this heart stupidity has been limited to once every few months, so when the doctor suggested that I wear a monitor I refused, because that’s just cumbersome and a waste of resources and what would we learn? Anyway, if you see me all pale and sweaty out and about don’t freak, I’ll most likely be okay, and if you have a basin of ice water handy please share.
I must add that although I am not worried about the heart weirdness in the slightest, I do feel slightly picked on by the universe. MAYBE, just MAYBE, we could give the person with an anxiety disorder, the person who likes everything to be predictable and super-controlled, a break? And not afflict her with random sudden-onset paroxysmal health events, such as mystery bowel blockages and electrical heart anomalies? Maybe?
MATH FATIGUE
I do not recall where I heard or read this, and I’m not in a position to Google it at the moment, but in my head is a memory of a dude asking another dude if he would suck a thousand dicks for a billion dollars. I love this question, because any answer other than yes reveals some serious math ignorance. A BILLION dollars? Do people understand how much money that is? Even a slacker could suck a dick a day and be done in about three years, and a high achiever could be done much sooner, and you and your children’s children could be set for life with a whole lot of do-good-in-the-world money besides. I’m sure no one is offering this kind of money for that kind of work, but if it ever happens now you know what to say.
BUTTER AND SUGAR FATIGUE
The other night LT took Nora to hockey practice and I was left on my own with lots of “Netflix and chill” (but literally chill and not sex or making out, unless you count Rocko’s desperate cuddling). I was craving cookies but we had nothing sweet in the house beyond Nora’s beloved collection of sour candies, which are not fit for adult consumption. Like a sucker I went on the internet and searched for “single-serving desserts,” which brought up all those crazy health bloggers who are always making microwave mug cakes with protein powder and yadda yadda. I am here to tell you to not fall for the mug-cake-Pinterest-cutesy-crap hype, because nobody should be assembling butter and sugar and baking powder and chocolate chips and an egg and flour just to make a coffee cup full of grainy wet sadness. If you’re are going to get all that fucking crap out you might as well make a full fucking batch of some fucking cookies. Thank you and goodnight.
PARENTING FATIGUE (BUT ALSO CONVICTION)
In my sadly sporadic future updates, you will probably hear a lot less about my kid, because she’s nearly a teenager now and her story belongs to me a little bit less than it used to. We are experiencing some growing pains, some of which are garden-variety and some of which are as unique as Nora, and I won’t be talking about those publicly either—although I admit that I desperately want to, as that’s how I process shit. If you and I know each other and I trust you, I’m sure you can pour a bottle or so of a cheap New-World red into me and I will spill, at least a little.
I do have this to say about these struggles, though: I have a very deep sense that Everything Will Be Okay. This either means I am in a delusional state of denial and not worrying enough, or that I have a weird sort of (no doubt cheap and dime-store) wisdom and faith in my child and our relationship. This stage of life is sort of like when a human is neither caterpillar nor butterfly, and we just have to be good stewards of Nora’s nutrient-rich soup until it organizes itself a bit more. Whatever the outcome, I know it’s going to be cool.
—mimi smartypants doesn’t know, but she knows.