Is anyone alive out there?
Thoughts, in bullet form
I remembered the difference between feeling “out of breath” and the actuality of shortness of breath – a sensation of having to take deep breaths because you’re not getting enough air. I first learned it back in 2014, when I had pulmonary embolisms in my lungs. One day last week, I noticed I was having trouble breathing, and with a sinking suspicion in my gut, I had myself taken to the emergency room. The blood clots were back, and in the same areas of my lungs as last time. We’re not sure why. I’m back on blood thinners and just might be so for life. No one stab me; you won’t want to deal with the mess.
In the ambulance, after one of the paramedics asked me for my Social Security number, I asked him for his. He paused and looked at me, shock in his eyes, before he laughed. No one had ever asked him that before, he said.
Everyone knows this, but it always amazes me that even though they exist as places in which people are supposed to be treated *well,* hospitals are notoriously difficult places to find any type of wellness, rest or peace. My night in the E.R. consisted of perhaps a few hours’ of sleep. I slept better in my own room, aside from the wake-up call every two hours or so from chipper nurses and techs wanting to do my vitals or see if I needed anything other than the sleep that I was no longer getting.
Next hospital visit, I’m bringing my dog. It’s only fair.
I’m at the point in my unemployment at which I’m wondering if I should go back to school. (I shouldn’t.)
I’m at the point in my therapy at which my therapist wants me to create a list of 10 things I like about myself. She said I can’t list my hair as one of them. :(
As much as I love the color black in fashion, I wish it still had its uses re: mourning. We as a society don’t mourn the way we used to. I wouldn’t mind some of the older traditions returning to those who were so inclined. Even just a black armband. I want a clear way to tell people “I’m not OK.” And yes, that feeling lasts longer than your average company’s standard bereavement leave.
Maybe something like this instead?
An acquaintance of mine always wears black. I once asked him why, and he said he’s worn black since one of his children died of cancer. I didn’t dig into his reasoning, or ask how long he expects to wear only black, etc. It didn’t seem necessary.
Twice now I’ve been told my unemployment benefits had ended, only to be told about two days later that actually no, I still had them – first through federal funding, now through “extended” unemployment. There are more hoops to jump through in this process, and more proof to be submitted that I’m actively looking for and not turning down work, else I lose my benefits. For the safety net that it is, it sure also is one that makes you feel small. One of the customer service representatives I spoke with a few weeks back berated me for not knowing enough about the program itself and for somehow not knowing how the system – as in the computer system Texas Workforce Commission uses – works. (It doesn’t understand that I’m a freelancer and there are some weeks in which I don’t work. It only flags that as a problem. “It’s an old system,” she said. That’s not reassuring!) I had to interrupt her at one point to beg her to be patient with me – to say I was trying to understand, I was trying to do what was needed. She’s the one who told me my benefits were over, but she was wrong. The terror I felt that the net had been pulled out from under me months early – even as it already was made smaller by the governor – was real, however.
Re: states cutting back on federal unemployment benefits, here’s an interesting read on what that looks like for some people. For me, it means my benefits check was cut by 40 percent.
It’s interesting, the way we’ve been conditioned to think about work – how we idolize it, in fact, and look down upon those who don’t work. Never mind the concept of the 40-hour work week, not to mention a workforce that includes all genders and races/ethnicities, is incredibly modern. As in started during my parents’ lifetime. Never mind there just aren’t enough jobs, no matter how many we make up related to social media. Never mind so many people aren’t able to work, for a variety of reasons. (A list of reasons that truly should be expanded, at least in the form of significantly increased leave time if not unemployment or disability.) We’re evolving too quickly, and the bubble will burst.
Related: An interesting thought here, examining the Chinese history of choosing its governing class and how it compares to modern society: America’s Collapsing Meritocracy is a Recipe for Revolt. Although in China, the issue was that so many couldn’t reach the highest levels of the meritocracy. These days, *too many* people in many societies are reaching what has long been considered the highest levels – bachelor’s and master’s degrees, even doctorates – and are still unable to find work in their chosen field, if any. The bubble will burst.
(Of course that article begins with recent journalism grads bemoaning their lack of jobs. Join the line – it goes back a long way. I’m in a Facebook group for journalists looking for advice on their “plan B” career. One member posted a photo of a cardboard box filled with his awards and asked for suggestions on what to do with them now that he’d been let go from his job. (I said hide them around his bosses’ offices.) This person has a *Pulitzer* for his reporting work, which has lasted decades, as well as an Emmy and plenty of other statues and plaques. But to paraphrase The Wire: It’s journalism, gentlemen. The gods will not save you. Nor will the awards.)
Hit it, Ben:
The oppressive heat is keeping more of us indoors it seems, that and the spikes of Covid. But earlier, around mid-May, I found a few weeks of what felt like freedom – standing in front of my house, interacting with neighbors. A direct neighbor of mine stopped to chat as I checked the mail one day, asking how Dad and I were doing. We pondered together about people new to the cul-de-sac, whom we can’t place. (Are they a family? A group of friends? Why do they come and go at such weird hours? Am I this person now?) (Two of them woke me up at 2:30 a.m. one Saturday so now I know I am the person who will walk outside in her pajamas, hands on hips, and yell “Hey!” at what appear to be fighting 20-year-olds until they stop their drunken arguing and go inside.) The neighbor, for her part, keeps to herself. She’s retired and is taking care of her mother, who is in her upper ’80s or early ’90s.
Another day, an older woman was out walking and called to me as I unloaded groceries from the car. She knew my parents from the church they attended before Mom got sick. She wanted to know how Dad was doing. She said he has a nice singing voice. (Mom had a beautiful soprano. Dad used to tell people he married her because she could sing.) We chatted about how nice it was to be out in the then-not-too-hot weather, without a mask. I said something about general losses during Covid, and she replied, “I lost my son in April.” I don’t know if she meant 2020 or ’21. Perhaps the former considering her general ease in stating the fact. This woman has got to be in her mid-to-late 70s, easily, so her son couldn’t have been young. Losing a child is terrible, but losing one when you’re at that age must seem even more absurd. She soon was on her way to continue her exercise.
I thought about the three of us, each dealing with loss or working to prevent it, as caretakers and daughters and mothers. Just three examples of people trying to get by, desperate for some extra room to breathe.
I haven’t seen either of them in about two months. Maybe it’s too hot. Maybe the news is too scary. But for a minute there, it seemed we came out of our homes in search of other survivors – in search of a promise that things might be getting better.
I hope so.