But for me, it requires a feat of Herculean strength to get to her office. This all sounds pretty silly when you explain what makes the damned act of getting there so Sisyphean. (Excuse me y'all,what the fuck is with me tonight? Did someone add something new to medication that makes me even more pretentious than usual? I'm not down with this one bit. It's not fitting for a Queens girl.)
She has moved her office from the Upper West Side to Washington Heights. I actually got to enjoy the hour or so it took to get there. I got a lot of reading done on the A train. All right, I had to accept that a visit up there was a day outing. Worked for me. and it was nice up there, right by Fort Tryon Park.
Then, I became ill. And a year and a half after that, I became significantly worse. (If I lose more lung function, who the hell knows?) You know that's the guarantee I want. I want to be told that I won't die from this. Oh you could all tell me I'm not going to die, but the cat, unfortunately, is already out of this bag. I sure can. Die or perhaps lie to myself, "Oh you silly girl! Everything is going to be fine, just fine. This thing can't kill you!" That would be positively delightful. Oh come on. Pretty please with sugar on top? Doesn't work, does it? So, life's delightful in your dreams, you numnutz.)
Okay, I've got that out of my system for the next ten minutes, so we can talk about getting up to Washington Heights post-illness. Chip, angel that he is, drives up there. (Late afternoon appointments only. I am now constitutionally unable to get out of bed before noon. It is impossible. For real. I also need an hour (or more) nap in the middle of the day, or I crash about mid-evening. So, my waking hours are few. I'm more like a cat, except they don't seem too perturbed by much of anything. All their needs are met. What do they have to fret about? I fret a lot. Too much.
The hour-long drive to Washington Heights isn't too much of a problem. The car seats provide very nice lumbar support. It's what I have to face after the drive that makes me a nervous wreck.
Now let's get this straight. I'd much prefer to use utterly perfect Yiddish words I've heard all my life to describe my inability to cope at that moment in time. Why use the vanilla, unexpressive "nervous wreck" when there's a perfect expression that connotes all my angst and sheer nuttiness in one neat little package?
Because I can't find a goddamned transliteration anywhere on the Web. Dad was the one who grew up speaking Yiddish, my mother grew up speaking Hungarian and her Yiddish is just the every day, run-of-the-mill New York Yiddish (but infinitely better than mine) Hell. Chip's New York Yiddish vocabulary has really become quite good. And you know, I think Roy would think twice now before he tells Chip he looks like a Nazi storm trooper.
No. He wouldn't. But that is neither here or there. I'm very proud of my honey. (And yeah sweetheart, in that raincoat of yours, you really did have that aryan thing going.) So I'll take a crack at it on my own: Physically entering my chiropractor's building and negotiating the ridiculously high steps make me a nervosa hilaria. (Already, I feel better.)
The steps scare the crap out of me, because after I go up these measly few stairs, I can't breathe. I hate it when that happens. (Don't you?) It feels like eons before I can breathe like a regular person. (I'll have to wait eons for me to breathe like a regular person. I settle for my version of normal breath intake. As Chip would say, "Quel drag."
So today, I went to the chiropractor who gives me the heebie jeebies but as my girlfriend, the doctor says, "She's a good practitioner." And she is. she's really good. Better yet, I no longer have searing pain in my back that has put me fairly close to the edge as of late. I think I may have to go on the combo plan and visit the two: my Washington Heights darling for her great work on my pathetic body and just as important, the great work she does for my soul, and the Great Practitioner who really is awfully good at what she does who's right in the neighborhood. What else can this girl do?
P.S. I knew I was crazy wrong. I'm miserable with Yiddish transliterations. The "correct" spelling is "nervouse chahlairya." And I still am one today, by the way. ("Correct" spelling via telephone through mother courtesy of Leah in Florida.) xoxo
No comments:
Post a Comment