Death and Absurdity: A Valentine

February 10th marks a milestone memory in my loss of innocence calendar. Before that day in my 8th-grade year, I had been introduced to the death of old and distant relatives. I understood grieving for the expected loss of someone who has had a good chance at living, and I'd picked up a few healthy grieving habits; but not enough to prepare for the sort of resilience I was going to need.

I was thirteen, gangly and awkward in the eighth grade, but a seventh-grader named Nicole Caviness thought I was heroically cool. She mimicked my volleyball serve, my three-point jump shot, the way I tilted my batting helmet, my affinity for reading books in the bleachers, and my crushes on outsider boys. She found me after basketball practice one day when I was feeling as dejected and worthless as my cheap generic tennis shoes, plugging balls at the basket in an empty gym. I was too young and self-centered to know what she wanted and so I didn’t invite her to shoot too. I quit to give her the gym and as I picked up my ball and smiled on my way out, she waved and shouted, “Hey, you know you’re my hero?” Like anyone without self-confidence, I shrugged off her praise with a self-disparaging retort.

On February 10th, Nicole and two of my other friends went to a high school basketball game. I’d planned to ride with them, but I was running a fever after school and feeling crummy so I opted out. I spent the evening curled up in a blanket in a lawn chair on the deck, drifting in and out of sleep. The next morning, our softball coach called to say our Saturday practice was canceled. The car my friends rode home from the game had been hit from behind by a drunk driver at a stoplight. Nicole died at 13 years old. The drunk diver, previously arrested and convicted for DWIs, was driving without a license. After years of prosecution, the driver was convicted of manslaughter and served a one-year sentence, but even without that knowledge, I was still mired in a great sense of existential injustice for the first time.

Adults tried to console me with platitudes about how the good sometimes do die young, there are no guarantees on how long we get so we have to make the most of it, and our memories of those we love do live on. The sentiments were well-meant, but for the first time in my young life, they sounded hollow and absurd. Unfair and absurd things that had always been happening became even more apparent to me from that point on. Why did family members beat innocent newborns to death? Why did strangers drag James Byrd Jr. three miles behind their truck until he died because he was black? Why did LAPD officers beat Rodney King to death? Why did people use that as an excuse to hurt more people in a riot? Why was Matthew Shepard crucified on a fence post in the freezing cold? 

My father is a veterinarian, so I was also very familiar with the death of pets, even before Nicole died; but that summer added an extra level of absurdity. Texas law (at the time) required veterinarians to put down pets as directed by the owner. After a client died, his son inherited his 5-year old Golden Retriever. I loved that dog. He was sweet, obedient, beautiful, and loving...even through his annual vaccine shots. His son, in his grief for his father, requested that we put his dog to sleep. We offered to adopt the dog, but the son insisted the dog should join his father. The son could not stay to hold the dog though. I held him, I petted him and told him how wonderful he was, and how we all knew he was a good dog and would miss him. I kept my voice calm and loving. I thought of Nicole. I didn't know if she had been scared if she'd had time to recognize she would die. I didn't know for sure if that wonderful dog knew what was happening or why. I couldn't do anything to be sure he understood, but I did learn that I could hold him. I could just be there, looking into his eyes with love, as the light faded into whatever is next. 

While I have a great life, I have lived through many injustices and absurd losses since then, and I think it would be hard to continue to cultivate my compassion and happiness without the hard lessons I learned about death and absurdity, and resilience that year. Sometimes the only thing you can do in the face of such horrific absurdity is just stand there, admit the absurdity, and hold yourself with love anyway. That love is the lifeline I use to pull myself from the gaping maw of absurdity. Life is unreasonable, even the existence of life on a rock hurtling around a sun in a galaxy spinning out on itself orbiting through a universe that's defies all conceptions of time...only allowing space...seems absurd from human eyes. 

Resilience is the ability to recover from difficulties. All this absurdity is a difficulty that never goes away. I can only recover from the fright of seeing such overwhelming absurdity, from the shock of the brutal reminders that death brings, by accepting absurdity. It will always be, as long as I live, a fact of my life; but it only wins if I ignore it and let it cripple or disarm my compassion. I see you, Death and Absurdity, you are the bitter sweetheart companions I will never shed no matter how clearly I express my desire to break-up with you both. You are grim dates, but you do remind me to love with abandon and resilience. I can be absurd too. I can make art, investigate, write, educate, hug, laugh, cry, dance. I don't need a reason either.

"Raven Perch, on the Battlefield of Death and Absurdity"" by LLS Art

"Ironweed Hope is Resilient" by LLS Art

 

My Silent Disease

 

We have a family tradition. Cold Face is what my father calls it, but the textbook word is stoicism: "the endurance of pain or hardship without the display of feelings and without complaint" (Google). Menstrual periods have hurt my entire life. I passed out in high-school Trigonometry once. A foreign exchange student asked if I was okay when I woke up. Apparently, passing out in Trig is normal to Americans, and I assumed extremely painful periods were normal too. Until about two years ago. Suddenly the pain was all of the time, every day. I went to the OB/ GYN, who fortunately believed me because I have a strong family history of endometriosis. Endometriosis occurs when endometrial-like tissue (similar to the tissue that lines the uterus) is found growing outside the uterus, typically in the pelvic cavity and around the outside of the uterus and ovaries but sometimes around bowels, bladder, kidneys, etc. Unfortunately, my MRI showed nothing. Being the stoic that I am, I assumed that meant I was probably just being a baby about some musculoskeletal pain or something (I did catch fast-pitch softball for over a decade and I have jumped out of a helicopter into the ocean without a parachute...so body pain complaints should be expected?). 

The doctors wanted me to describe my pain on the classic ten-point pain scale (the one with frowny faces). I have never understood the 10-point pain scale. It has no real descriptive anchors. How the hell am I supposed to know if this sword stabbing in and out of my belly for 6 months is a 10? Was it the worst pain in my life? I don't know. Periods were normally a 10 as far as I knew. I've broken my nose twice, but I slept both through the following nights both times. I rarely managed to sleep through the night without medicine once a month anyway thanks to periods for like 30 years. I didn't sleep entire nights for months with this new level of pain, it hurt too much, even though I was utterly exhausted. Still, maybe a 10 is being mauled alive by a bear? This wasn't that bad...but then again, maybe I'm too stoic and introverted to be a reliable witness to my own pain?

I got lucky though, and the surgeon signed me up for a laparoscopic hysterectomy despite my poor ability to articulate my pain levels. Stage IV (out of IV) endometriosis everywhere. One thing you never want to hear your surgeon say? "I had to dissect your rectum...and your bladder." 

The surgery was more traumatic than expected and with that much tissue removal, it was probably inevitable that I developed a post-surgical abscess and infection. Fortunately, I live with an ICU physician, so I did not tough that one out until I became septic...still it tried to kill me. I required five days of IV antibiotics and another surgery to drain the abscess. More risk to my life, more time away from being able to do anything but wait in a hospital bed in pain. Don't ask, I don't know if it was a 10 on the pain scale, but it was definitely a 100 on the pain-in-the-ass scale. I couldn't do anything to help anyone, even myself.

What's my point? (And I do have one...) One in ten women suffers in silence for 7 to 10 years before being diagnosed and treated (https://www.usnews.com/news/health-news/articles/2021-03-18/stop-gaslighting-women-about-endometriosis). I was one of them. While endometriosis itself isn't typically fatal, deeply infiltrating endometriosis leads to serious dysfunction of the organs of the pelvis (bladder, colon, rectum, etc.) as well as obliteration of normal anatomical spaces that can cause "frozen pelvis" (imagine being paralyzed in the hips). The complications (e.g. sepsis) can cause death, and even if they don't, who wants to live bed-ridden with a feeding tube and a drain tube for the rest of their life? I think there are probably many more women toughing it out. Maybe to the brink of disaster. Mothers, executives, public servants, healthcare professionals, etc. all of who have bigger reasons to take care of others first and foremost while they tough it out until it becomes brutally obvious. This is a plea to them, and maybe others who are too stoic for their own good. Don't be too tough, too resilient. You can't help anyone if you don't take good enough care of yourself first. Even if you're not a woman, you probably know a woman who is one of the every ten with this silent disease. I think we can do more to help each other articulate our pain, and listen to each other articulate that pain so that it can be diagnosed and treated. Some pain takes years to describe right. Some diseases take ten or even twenty years to name.

The Don't Fall Apart Workout

My stress is high, my motivation is low, and my chances of a panic attack or serious ergonomic injury and developing a serious spare tire are high if I do nothing. So in the interest of doing something, here is what I am giving a go this month, a workout that any writer (or office worker) for that matter can easily manage to fit in. Many of these brief exercises were suggested by Antartic Winter-Over Expeditioners that I know (they can't go outside and live and work in a confined environment for a year). I hope lots of folks will try it with me, as psychologically, I know other's giving me crap about if I did it today helps me stay social connected (and I mean that in the sweetest tone of supportive sarcasm possible). Seriously though, the research is overwhelmingly convincing. Even pushing ourselves to do a little exercise in very small bursts by our desks boosts our physical and mental fitness in times of extreme stress...like say a Pandemic. It doesn't have to be epic. It just has to be. Done.

Nine times a day, I will take one to five minutes an hour to do these simple things (you heard me say it so you can pester me to it or join in and tell me how much more awesome you are at each): 

A little more detail follows below for anyone who needs or wants it.

1. 9AM: Yoga Sun Salutation (one iteration takes about 3 minutes). I like the one demonstrated in the first three minutes of this video: 

https://youtu.be/DVH-l9lAaTI

2. 10 AM: 10 Jumping Jacks 

3. 11AM: 10 Push Ups

4. 12PM: 5 Flights of Stairs or 50 leg raises (25 each side). Standing is usually easiest in an office and helps your tailbone too. This cute Aussie shows you how to do so well in this one minute video.

https://youtu.be/B7Q7gFrqp5w

5. 1PM: Walk around one city block or 500 steps (indoors)

6. 2PM: Dance to 1 song of choice. I am a fan of this Bollywood Basic Steps video as it can be done right in front of your desk if necessary and doesn't take a good dancer to enjoy it. 

https://youtu.be/UWawJcxYY6I

7. 3PM: 10 Squats. I use my right hip anatomy, so I suggest you do too if you want to try this one. Squat University can help you figure that out in this short video.

8. 4PM: 10 in place or reverse Lunges. Again, it pays to do these safely and this video has a great quick explanation of how to learn that.

9. 5PM Five minutes of Tai Chi. I like this easy sequence of Tai Chi: 

https://youtu.be/cEOS2zoyQw4 

A Saveable/ Printable Summary 

Peak of the Plague Playlist

In uncertain order of their ability to help you coaster over the peak with sanity intact here are 12 perky song/ music video nominations from a crazy writer you obviously bother to follow...

WARNING: from multiple genres

Doctor Doctor Help Me Please (but maybe not at the disco just right now) 

Tidal (because Imogene is a musical genius and also "Do it for love, Do it for us, Just do it for goodness sake" and wear the damn mask already, unless you're alone, then, "do it just how you like") 

Bootleg Turn (because we're all in need of a drink with a boogie beat) 

Hard Candy Christmas (if Dolly can't help then you're already dead...besides it is "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas") 

If We Make It Through December (this may be the new national anthem? At any rate, it's fun to sing along in bad accents on Zoom with family you haven't seen in too long) 

St. James Infirmary Blues (because the White Stripes version comes with cartoons!) 

I Don't Care Anymore (deep words of wisdom from the Houston Kid) 

Survivin' (crawling out these sheets to see another day) 

Put Your Head Down (it might keep you alive and AJ and friends in harmony will make you feel fine) 

Add It Up (we know why we can't just one kiss...same song but a whole new conspiracy) 

The Hearse is Backed Up to the Door (take some fun with your comfort)

Hearse (let's just keep the wolves at the door as Ani leaves us with this "dopey love song." Hold someone close because if you can and let it be enough) 

That's twelve days of what I'm listening to...

The Imperative

Flick the brains and dust off your boots and focus your senses on the forest again, the noises in the distance, like the birds singing again. If the birds are singing again, then you are safe to stay in shock for another minute or so. Still, it would be best to get some feeling back in your face and hands. Don’t look at the bodies. You are alive and still standing. Slap your cheeks. Shuffle your feet. Don’t pant. Slow your breath to four seconds of inhaling, holding onto it for four seconds, then let it out for four seconds. You don’t have to succeed one hundred percent every four seconds. Just try. Notice that the sky is still blue. Smell the pine and dirt and blood and cold. Feel how dirty and gritty your hands are from hiding on the ground. Listen to your hungry stomach growl. Hunger is good. It means you are alive. Don’t look down. Look east through the trees. Do you hear gunfire and engines to the east, or only the north and west? If the east sounds silent walk that way. Don’t look down. You are not bleeding. You cannot stop your sister’s bleeding. She is dead. You remember. Walk east through the trees. There is nothing you can do to disguise your genetic heritage. The wrong people will recognize you by sight anyway but stop a second still and swipe up some of that goopy mud. Smear it on your yellow star. Camouflage it. They can’t yell at you for ripping it off that way, but the flash of yellow won’t give you away in the bushes. Walk on. Keep going east. There is a river bed that way, you vaguely remember from that walk with Papa last year, before Jews were shot in the head on the street or put in trains to never return. You know there was a cave. There will not be food, but you will have all the water you can drink and you need to drink. You are still alive. Do not look at your boots. You can wash them in the river later. Look at the ground directly in front of you. Glance up, to the right, to the left. Make sure no one is near. Look for signs of the river and the cave. You were so scared of that cave last year and it’s great dank maw above the burbling water slapping rocks. Anything could be hidden in its thick carpet of decaying twigs and leaves. You could be hidden. You know the cave is an imperative security blanket now. 

Stop!

You’ve stepped on a twig. There is shuffling nearby. Loud. Bigger than a squirrel. Is it to your left? Can you outrun it? Probably not. Climb that tree, the pine with too many limbs. You are small enough to be hidden in it even if you can’t get more than halfway to the top. Yes, the limbs are sticky with sap and wet. Keep going. Quietly. The shuffling is close now. Definitely human. Make your breathing silent, lower than a mouse’s, just as Papa showed you before he put your hand in your sister’s and told you to go hide under the woodpile. In and out, breathe under your hand with your fingers spread so that the puff of air looks no different from the steam of the tree’s great bushy needles tickling all around you. Watch below. There you see, shuffling into sight, a woman with a muddy yellow star. Make a decision, can you afford to ask her for help or offer her your help to find the cave? What is survival worth? It is a difficult question. You are only ten years old, but there is no more time to grow up first. How do you survive? In company or alone? You decide.