I just got a haircut. I usually get a haircut around this time of year. Not to say I don't cut my hair the rest of the year, but every year I tend to cut it very short. Right now. And inevitably, it makes me feel old and fat. And I look in the mirror and go "CRIPES ALIVE! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT THING?" And then I begin a period of self-loathing that includes feeling old, unintelligent, sloppy, washed up, and terribly bitter towards young published authors who did not waste half their lives toiling away writing boring technical manuals about air ionizers (yes) and instead had the fortitude to get up on it and start writing.
So this week's Word Up is going to have to be
fortitude. It means courage; mental and emotional strength in facing difficulty, adversity, danger, or temptation courageously. Sometimes I think it's not so much that I have fortitude, but that there's just no other option that I find acceptable.
When I was eight months preggers with my whippersnapper (who is now three), my husband had a lymph node in his neck that started to swell. It grew quite large and the doctors drew lots of blood and gorged themselves on tests and couldn't figure out what it was, so they put him on massive doses of antibiotics. My belly got bigger; his neck got bigger. Then one day, one of his eyes wouldn't move. Then, his tongue stopped moving. Both eye and tongue were paralyzed, and he lost an obscene amount of weight over the course of a few days.
They admitted him to the hospital and put him on IV. This was in August and it was hot, and I required like thirty pounds of fresh fruit a day. I would visit him in the hospital and then on my way home in the evening I would stop by the natural foods store and buy thirty more pounds of fruit for the next day. Nectarines, especially. Delicious. Meanwhile, the arsehat doctors found NOTHING despite doing every test imaginable.
"How can they not know?" people asked me.
"I don't know!" I said. "I can't believe it either!"
"Well, can't they...." (insert every suggestion known to mankind)
"No," I said, because I was exhausted from staying vigilant at the hospital all day, and it simply wasn't that easy to try some new test. That isn't how doctors work.
Then they inserted a feeding tube into his stomach, which was hideously awful. He came home, and now I was nine months preggers and had to feed the poor guy a can of vanilla flavored meal-in-a-drink several times a day through his tube. And he couldn't even taste the vanilla.
This is where you might think fortitude comes in, but really, I had no choice. Everyone said, "You're so good." And I went, "Why? This what you do." It wasn't like I was going to leave him.
Then, he got a fever. A bad one that gave him the chills all the time. And this fever lasted two weeks. We went back to the doctor and she's like Um, yeah, we're admitting you, Fever Boy. This was my worst fear realized. I was terrified that he would miss the birth. So in the hospital he goes, and the next morning I go into labor. A soft, gentle labor, contractions 20 minutes apart. I told my mother, who lives two hours away, "You might want to come down today, and pack extra clothes." So she did. And I went out and bought a #0 paint brush, because suddenly, I really, really needed it. To finish all that fine-detail paint work that I wasn't doing, obviously.
The contractions increased throughout the day. I was like "This is totally doable." And my doctor said she was on vacation for the next three days, and I said "No probs. I'll wait."
At 9:00 pm that night, right during the Grey's Anatomy season premier, the contractions were kind of painful. I ignored them; I had a Grey's Anatomy season premier to see. Then I went to bed and they became terribly painful and then my water broke. Actually, things took longer -- there was some pacing and showering, and some other stuff I don't remember. I do remember my mother driving us through Berkeley at 3 am and the traffic lights were on red blinky status and I said "JUST RUN THEM" because all the stopping was making me demented.
My poor husband had to listen to the birth over the phone from his hospital (different insurances), and my mother and mother-in-law both went down to the end of the delivery table so they could full view of everything I had on offer. Fortitude.
The whippersnapper was born and all was well, and my husband relaxed from his spa-like bed while I did all the work (fortitude), but he was give a day-release and allowed to come see me, which was very nice. Of course, he was feverish and all he could do was nod and smile.
He slowly got better. They released him from the hospital and pretended to run more tests and send his file to fancy clinics and the like. They removed the tube. He could eat again. His eyesight returned. He had two surgeries to remove the golf ball lymph node. He spent the first two months of the whippersnapper's life at home with me. They never found out what was wrong and concluded "auto-immune disorder."
When I think back on that time, I just feel ragey and roary and full of enough fortitude to share with you, if you need it (here, have some). It's kind of good to remember that fortitudy-time because now, at times like these short haircut ones, I need to remember that I am capable of it, no matter how old I am now or what I'm doing. (At least I'm not writing technical manuals about air ionizers anymore.)
My husband has not gotten sick like that since.