Wait? What?
I've always been the one to come to with details. But I sometimes need them twice.
Last week, one of my best friends came to visit, up from New Mexico, as part of her van life, month-ish-long expedition to Nor Cal, where she grew up.
We went to Herbert Hoover Middle School together, where, in 8th grade, we began a friendship outside both our social circles.
We’ve been close ever since, having spans where we communicated less, but never a time where our connection and love for each other waned. We just have so much in common on the inside, and we really really love each other.
Paul, too. He’s got a friendship with her, so we’re able to be totally relaxed, at ease, completely ourselves when she’s over.
She’s on the road back home now, and in her latest WhatsApp to me she expressed a concern that I was having some cognitive difficulties. She explained that a couple (or few) times on her visit, it seemed like I needed her to repeat things, that she would say something and a little bit into it, I’d be like, “Wait, so, what?”
It’s true, we don’t spend much face-to-face together. Pretty quickly, I knew she had busted me.
I’m not listening.
I’m wandering around in this skull of mine.
I am interested—I am!
Here’s what the wait what is: I love asking questions, getting others off on a story, but—and this gets worse if we’re in some public space or if there’s food involved—I can totally shut out while that story starts getting into some details. (The food involved thing, that’s so real. I’m focused and very sensory oriented. If you ever eat with me or watch me eating in a social situation, either I’m eating and wait-whating or I’m still eating two hours after everyone else has finished. I can’t multi-task-eat.)
But I care!
So, I miss the answer to my question, the middle of the story, making the punchline meaningless.
Then I realize: I missed the whole thing.
I can’t rewind a real life right here and now (OK, sure, synchronous) conversation.
I do a lot of rewinding with my digital, asynchronous life. A habit I have with audiobooks and podcasts, even student videos and audio-messages.
This kind of listening/hearing has impacted my cognitive processing, but not in a way that I’m declining.
Our environment changes us. Can’t deny it. Look at me. Look at you? From teh moment we come out of Mama, we’re marked.
However, what I hadn’t realized, is that to my gorgeous, giving friend, when I ask: “Wait, what? You guys get that big, is it a beer? And then how much does it all cost?” I come off as possibly losing it.
I know the truth, though: I’m being a bad friend!
We worked through it in our WhatsApp and pretty much laughed about the silliness of it all, her wondering if she should do shorter messages, me replying: “only if I’m going to be quizzed on them.”
I apologized, admitted the whole thing: not listening, but trying to, wanting to know her story.
On her drives, and sometimes on my bike rides, we’ll just word it out, audio-log to one another. I admitted: “On long ones, I do tend to listen on 1.5. I do rewind if I catch something that does seem ‘important, meaningful, and needs a response.”’
I apologized again for not being a better listener. All is forgiven. I assured her: no, I’m sharper than ever, even through the pain, the meds, the tech, the work. (I’ll say it again: the estrogen and progesterone, been like magic for me.)
Thinking about it this morning, still feeling a pang of guilt, I realized, oh yeah, I’m not a terrible friend/listener.
I have tendency, but it’s because I really do care and I really don’t want to center myself: I ask for a repeat.
But I hadn’t thought about that as being rude. It is, though.
Then I realized: oh, this is how I’ve been all my life!
I’m the middle child. And from an early age., I was the child who took on, who you could load up: with layers of chores and responsibilities. Instructions. Directions.
Mom would lay out my day’s tasks, and as I would turn to walk away, nodding my head, mumbling: got it, my mom, She With the Instructions and the Directions, would always follow up: “Come back here. Now, repeat what I just told you.”
I usually had the gist—sort of—but always lacked the details.
“Again, go over it again,” she’d insist. At least twice.
I tell my students: I’m a slow reader, too! I’m a student who needs way more time to process, too! I need to go over stuff many times to fully get it and be able to explain it, too!
A follow-up to last week’s post:
This past Thursday, I had phone appointment with my Pain Management Specialist. I’ve only had one in-person appointment with him, this was over a year ago, when he took on my case. That was the appointment where he assessed my situation and we set up my first Ketamine infusion.
Since then, we’ve had some email exchanges. Our main connection happens when I see him for one day every three months at the pain clinic, where he administers and oversees my infusion.
So, this was the first time since my initial assessment that we had a true appointment, talking through my current state, including the meds.
I learned so much.
I learned that for years, I’ve been suffocating beneath the weight of stigma, self-imposed silence, worries that I’ll be seen as drug-seeking.
I learned that when my PCP and I made a change at the end of the first week of January, I had halved my does of morphine. I had no clue. I don’t think my PCP did, either.
My pain doctor expressed: yes, it’s likely, as you suspected, this is what triggered your intense flare and the withdrawal symptoms.
I learned that, yes, my pain has been under-managed all this time.
I learned that, NO: discussing, prescribing, and using pain meds does not require the context of the opioid epidemic and the “rules” imposed by the healthcare/insurance/pharma bureaucracy.
My doctor was matter-of-fact. He laid out my options, rather than limiting me by implying I may become an addict or that I shouldn’t be taking these types of meds.
It was almost shocking.
Though I mostly knew what to do with that—with a conversation about my pain and medication without any weird withholding being part of that—how to respond like the self-actualized, self-aware woman that I am, I did stumble a little, second guessing myself.
Later that evening, with flaring ensued, self-reflecting on my end of our call, I emailed him, wanting to update him from even earlier that day, as my years of suffering unfolded as the story of my under-managed pain. A new lens on my story, the one I tell myself.
My email was one of those, the kind where I needed to explain more just to be sure we can keep this conversation evolving if my new prescribed dosage isn’t enough. I included pictures, still feeling the need to “prove myself.”
I will continue being somewhat confused. That’s what learning is. My doctor communicated to me that for a lot of this, it’s still on me to take the reins, to determine a pill-taking schedule that works best.
This is what support feels like.
From the day I talked to my PCP early last month, I tried for two weeks taking as prescribed, taking half of what was never enough anyway, one every six hours, every hour closer to madness.
The revelations keep coming. The system doesn’t want to empower us with knowledge and choices. Not surprising, but when it really hits you, damn, you are now opening your own doors, requiring you to work harder, which, as we all know, is the paradox of being an ill or injured American.
P.S. I thought I’d play with em dashes a bit again. Gave them up when AI stole them. But commas can be so halting sometimes; sometimes a girl needs an em dash, damnit!
I will be participating in the event below! Save the date. I don’t get out often, and I would LOVE to see you!
Want more of Eve’s writing and Paul Imagine’s drawings? You can get my book: Body in Script, available at many online retailers.
You can find it at my publisher’s bookstore, or other places, like Amazon. Or, chat with me here. If you’re local, come get one from me personally. I would love it!
Short and sweet, perfect for reading while waiting for my ECHO appointment!