Inadequate Words
I met one of Mr. Amazing's coworkers this week. She is kind and funny and has an infectious laugh. She is 32 years old.
I remember my early 30's. I'd waited my whole life for these years, anticipating that I'd be wiser, calmer, put together. I remember things were good when I turned 32. Both clones were in elementary school and I spent time in their classrooms, getting to know their peers, their teachers, their school. I loved it there. I had a job at a day care and spent my mornings with my favorite demographic: 2-5 year olds. I had friends and interacted with people. The laundry was always done. The bathrooms were always clean. I played outside with the clones and took them hiking and to hands-on museums. We had play dates and birthday parties. We had fun.
But that was all before. Three months after turning 32, I got sick.
"May I ask what you are sick with?" Coworker said.
I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know. They can't figure it out."
She asked me about my symptoms.
When I say them out loud they sound so stupid to me. I listen to myself talking and think What the hell are you whining about? Anyone else would be able to handle this.
The words themselves sound small and trite.
I say the word "nausea" and think it is far too simple a word to convey how horrible it is. Sure, we all know what nausea feels like. There are few people in the world who have never experienced this feeling. Yet, what most people know is a nausea that ends. But I feel nauseous nearly every day now. Most months, I can count my nausea-free days on one finger. I have to force myself to eat. I don't want to do it; I don't want to eat. Nothing sounds good. I feel like throwing up. Eating doesn't make me feel better. Not eating doesn't make me feel better.
I say the word "dizziness" and think this word means so many different things to so many different people. It means multiple things even just to me. Once every 2-3 months it means "vertigo" to me, that spinning sensation that makes you want to hurl and die. Daily, it means something more like motion sickness to me. A swaying, unstable, unbalanced, drugged, not-quite-right, falling feeling. None of those words conveys how completely horrible it feels to experience it on a nearly daily basis. It may be a "mild" form of dizzy but it doesn't feel "mild" to me...not after 10 days, not after 4 years.
I say the word "twitching" and imagine it sounds more comical than anything. The clones say I will never be an NFL offensive lineman because I would twitch and get called for a false start. I have to admit it makes me smile when they say that. I'm a petite 100 lb female. I was never going to be an NFL lineman, no matter how hard I tried.
The whole twitching thing would actually be comical except that there's this horrible feeling coursing through my body along with the twitching. And when it is really bad and the twitches come one on top of another, when my arm is jerking back and forth and I'm trying so hard to stop it but it won't stop, when my breathing changes and my clones are staring at me and asking with shaky voices whether or not I'm okay, there is absolutely nothing comical about it at all. My insides feel like a horror movie.
I say "fatigue" and think it sounds like I'm tired from a long day. But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking body-aching, this-can't-be-solved-by-a-good-night's-rest kind of fatigue. I just want to sleep for a year. And yet, I lay down in my bed and find only insomnia.
"Just stop thinking," they say. "Clear your mind," they say. "Don't just lay there. Get up and do something until you are tired," they say.
I Am Tired. I just can't sleep. My legs and arms and head and torso are twitching. My body and brain feel like they are being shocked from the inside. My legs hurt. I can't get comfortable. I feel like throwing up. The ringing in my ears feels like it is piercing my brain. The bed feels like it is moving. I can't get rid of the feeling that I need to pee even though I just went.
So there I was giving Mr. Amazing's coworker the short hackneyed list with inadequate words: dizziness, nausea, twitching, nerve pain.
"That sucks," Coworker said.
"It does suck. I don't recommend you try it," I said.
She laughed.
I laughed.
But on the inside I feared that she thought it didn't really sound like a big deal, that these words left her inwardly rolling her eyes. I thought about how people say: your 30's are the best years of your life and I wondered what is the matter with me that I can't just ignore all this and be like I used to be.
I'm afraid that I am weak and pathetic and that anyone else would just manage all this without even batting an eyelash.
I just need to try harder.
I just need to push myself more.
I just need to stop being so dramatic.
Just get it together, Laci. Get. It. Together. You are fine.
But I am not fine no matter how stupid and inconsequential my words sound. This is my life now: sitting in a chair, lying on a couch, staring at a wall, disappointing my clones and exhausting Mr. Amazing, trying not to vomit, not to cry, not to talk about it, feeling pointless and lost and far too critical of something that I cannot control.
I remember my early 30's. I'd waited my whole life for these years, anticipating that I'd be wiser, calmer, put together. I remember things were good when I turned 32. Both clones were in elementary school and I spent time in their classrooms, getting to know their peers, their teachers, their school. I loved it there. I had a job at a day care and spent my mornings with my favorite demographic: 2-5 year olds. I had friends and interacted with people. The laundry was always done. The bathrooms were always clean. I played outside with the clones and took them hiking and to hands-on museums. We had play dates and birthday parties. We had fun.
But that was all before. Three months after turning 32, I got sick.
"May I ask what you are sick with?" Coworker said.
I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know. They can't figure it out."
She asked me about my symptoms.
I hate talking about my symptoms.
When I say them out loud they sound so stupid to me. I listen to myself talking and think What the hell are you whining about? Anyone else would be able to handle this.
The words themselves sound small and trite.
- nausea
- dizziness
- myoclonic twitching
- tingling/burning sensations
- nerve pain
- tinnitus
- fatigue
- motion sensitivity
- blurry vision
- neck pain
- leg pain
- joint pain
- ear pain
- brain fog
- insomnia
- diarrhea
- headache
- depression
- anxiety
I say the word "nausea" and think it is far too simple a word to convey how horrible it is. Sure, we all know what nausea feels like. There are few people in the world who have never experienced this feeling. Yet, what most people know is a nausea that ends. But I feel nauseous nearly every day now. Most months, I can count my nausea-free days on one finger. I have to force myself to eat. I don't want to do it; I don't want to eat. Nothing sounds good. I feel like throwing up. Eating doesn't make me feel better. Not eating doesn't make me feel better.
I say the word "dizziness" and think this word means so many different things to so many different people. It means multiple things even just to me. Once every 2-3 months it means "vertigo" to me, that spinning sensation that makes you want to hurl and die. Daily, it means something more like motion sickness to me. A swaying, unstable, unbalanced, drugged, not-quite-right, falling feeling. None of those words conveys how completely horrible it feels to experience it on a nearly daily basis. It may be a "mild" form of dizzy but it doesn't feel "mild" to me...not after 10 days, not after 4 years.
I say the word "twitching" and imagine it sounds more comical than anything. The clones say I will never be an NFL offensive lineman because I would twitch and get called for a false start. I have to admit it makes me smile when they say that. I'm a petite 100 lb female. I was never going to be an NFL lineman, no matter how hard I tried.
The whole twitching thing would actually be comical except that there's this horrible feeling coursing through my body along with the twitching. And when it is really bad and the twitches come one on top of another, when my arm is jerking back and forth and I'm trying so hard to stop it but it won't stop, when my breathing changes and my clones are staring at me and asking with shaky voices whether or not I'm okay, there is absolutely nothing comical about it at all. My insides feel like a horror movie.
I say "fatigue" and think it sounds like I'm tired from a long day. But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking body-aching, this-can't-be-solved-by-a-good-night's-rest kind of fatigue. I just want to sleep for a year. And yet, I lay down in my bed and find only insomnia.
"Just stop thinking," they say. "Clear your mind," they say. "Don't just lay there. Get up and do something until you are tired," they say.
I Am Tired. I just can't sleep. My legs and arms and head and torso are twitching. My body and brain feel like they are being shocked from the inside. My legs hurt. I can't get comfortable. I feel like throwing up. The ringing in my ears feels like it is piercing my brain. The bed feels like it is moving. I can't get rid of the feeling that I need to pee even though I just went.
So there I was giving Mr. Amazing's coworker the short hackneyed list with inadequate words: dizziness, nausea, twitching, nerve pain.
"That sucks," Coworker said.
"It does suck. I don't recommend you try it," I said.
She laughed.
I laughed.
But on the inside I feared that she thought it didn't really sound like a big deal, that these words left her inwardly rolling her eyes. I thought about how people say: your 30's are the best years of your life and I wondered what is the matter with me that I can't just ignore all this and be like I used to be.
I'm afraid that I am weak and pathetic and that anyone else would just manage all this without even batting an eyelash.
I just need to try harder.
I just need to push myself more.
I just need to stop being so dramatic.
Just get it together, Laci. Get. It. Together. You are fine.
But I am not fine no matter how stupid and inconsequential my words sound. This is my life now: sitting in a chair, lying on a couch, staring at a wall, disappointing my clones and exhausting Mr. Amazing, trying not to vomit, not to cry, not to talk about it, feeling pointless and lost and far too critical of something that I cannot control.
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