I just got back from the ENT today (Monday). For the past four months or so, my hearing has become worse and worse. In some ways, it's nice. I feel like I'm in a cocoon when I should feel like I'm in the midst of a din. But that's a really off-kilter glass half full view of life, isn't it?
I have said before that rather have been an adolescent, I'd have preferred to be a pupa. Perhaps these two are related- cocooning literally and figuratively all at once. This is the joyful part of the glass half empty. (Didn't think that the glass half full and the glass half empty would ever be one and the same thing? I can work miracles.)
Here's the lousy part. When I'm not kidding myself, I know full well that human beings can never be pupae and that the species doesn't cocoon, no matter how hard I try to persuade them to do it.
"C'mon people! Just try it. Just this once. It'll be like being wrapped in nice soft blankets. We like blankets, don't we?"
Don't you think the world would appreciate a break from humanity? Okay, if I get real about the cocooning crap, then what about hibernation? At least that's mammalian. No, we don't do that either. What do we do? Nothing much helpful, I suppose. No breaks for me. Or for you (This is the shitty part of the glass half full.)
I don't much like it when I feel a sense is slowly being taken away from me. When I can't hear what people say to me, I get concerned. The less I have, the less I'm able to deal with the outside world. Look, my keyboard has already become a fifth appendage. The fewer senses I have, the more dependent I am on that keyboard. And the goddamned Mailbox.
Just when I think it's safe to go back in the water, I get hit with a nasty wave I never saw coming. I have noticed that I try and often succeed at avoiding stuff that screws my head up. This sounds like a very wise thing to do. It's not. Not when it's done Fran no. 2 style. Most of this screwy shit is completely irrational- like when I become afraid of the shower. I don't mean being afraid I'll slip and fall in the shower. No, no, no. Not as logical as being afraid of the monster under the bed. (Why, oh why, did I have to remind myself of him?) More like being afraid of the comfy chair next to the couch. (Good news! I have not yet sunk so low to be afraid of the comfy chair next to the couch.)
The chiropractor lent me a packet of little rubber balls that make up the M.E.L.T. method of rehydrating connective tissue plus the DVD on how to use them on hands and feet. I have to return these to the wonderful Laurie on Wednesday, so I knew I had to get my ass in gear and check this shit out. (I'll have had it in my possession for two weeks for chrissakes.) This is manageable, right? Lord no. I watched a few minutes of it and went into shutdown mode. Why? I think I can do most of the stuff shown in this DVD. But, our M.E.L.T. founder is standing most (if not all of the time). That, I cannot do. (Franny makes like a frightened armadillo.)
And it kills me. It's like stabbing me through the heart. I can't stand for any length of time without my back becoming arrestingly painful or if I can stand, I can't do it for long because it's too damned difficult for my lungs to do. I cried inside then. I cry inside now.
Now we all know (including me) that I'm positive that Madame M.E.L.T. has a way of doing these exercises sitting down. And they might help make my back feel better. But they'll never allow me to breath better. All I can do is use the oxygen that I'm able to get in used most efficiently. But, guys, we're talking inches here. My lungs are what they are, and there is no treatment for them. Nothing. Nada. Perish the thought. I know perfectly well why I was avoiding that DVD. I knew there'd be some lovely ultra fit lady asking me to do simple things that I can't do. When it's shoved in front of my face A Clockwork Orange-style, I crumble and fall.
(And can you believe it? I get paid for this gig.)