Lockdown

A few months ago, my daughter’s middle school goes into lockdown when I’m volunteering at their book fair. I am surrounded by many books and a dozen kids. I look around bewildered, unsure of what to do. The kids, on the other hand, know exactly what to do.

“Close the blinds, turn off the lights”, they instruct me.

I dutifully obey. I attempt to keep a composed exterior. I am completely flustered inside. The kids on the other hand are at ease and move about knowing how to proceed. They put their training into practice. They break into groups and squat down behind the bookshelves and tables. I wonder what to do with myself. I creep down under the table – a vantage point from where I can see most kids. I am the only adult in the room. That puts me in charge, I suppose. I hear snippets of their conversation:  

“The announcement didn’t say it was a drill”. “Didn’t it say it was a drill last time?” “You think it’s the real thing?”

My eyes widen in the dark. The door, I think. It doesn’t have a lock. I creep out slowly from my post and block the door with a stack of piled chairs. The chairs are heavy, but what if it is the real thing?

I marvel at the kids. They are composed, nonchalant and matter-of-fact. None of them seems to be particularly anxious. They chat and giggle in whispers. They know the drill. They do what they’re supposed to do. I look at them from under the table. It seems unfair that these sixth graders should be so well-versed in what to do in times like these. And that times like these should be such a normal part of their lives.

I request the kids to not play games on their phones and shush them to be quiet. I hear sounds outside. Sitting in the dark, a zillion thoughts dash through my head. How unfair is it for these kids to have to go through this? Is this just a drill? What is happening out there? Why would anyone want to hurt children in a school? What is wrong with our society? When did all this become routine? Will we always live in a certain state of paranoia? How do we teach our children to be prepared without being excessively anxious?

I huddle beneath the table with my thoughts for what seems like eternity. In reality, it is more like twenty minutes. It turns out the lockdown was activated accidentally. I am relieved that it’s over and that kids know what to do in times as these.

I read the news today. I question the mindlessness of an attack at a concert filled with youngsters.  

The same questions from the time under the table in a dark room, run through my head again.

I remember reading (a few years ago) how in reality, the crime rate in the US has not changed drastically in the past two to three decades, but given the nature of mass attacks, our perception and preparedness of it has dramatically changed. Not sure if it this still holds ground.

But despite the bleak outlook, I find hope in our youth -- the group of sixth graders, who did the needful, but didn’t seem terribly bogged down by it.

Perhaps this is their reality or at least their perception of it. And no matter how unsavory, I can’t but help feel there is hope given their tenacity and their ability to take things in their stride.  

Junk food and TV

Approximately three months ago…

All I am going to do… is eat junk food and watch TV … for the rest of my life.

My husband looks up, raises his brow, and laughs at my proclamation.
I’m serious, I tell him. 
You’ll soon be bored, he speculates.

Well, doing all the “right things” and being proactive, hasn’t helped. So how about I try the other end of the spectrum.

Even if it seems unlikely, it feels oddly liberating. Like a weight off my chest.

I think back of the zillion things I have tried to get healthier, avoid surgery, recover from surgery, recover from complications of surgery, to be well, to function, to simply be able to walk straight… the list seems never-ending.

Not to be ungrateful. I do realize that I am very fortunate to have the time, and resources for all of this – doctors, naturopaths, acupunturists, dieticians, homeopaths, ayurvedic doctors, chiropractors…  

I have met wonderful folks. I am friends with some. They have supported me. For when I see them, I don’t need to keep face, I can tell them how crummy I feel.

I think of the many strange things I have tried… water fasting in a nature cure place, or the rice and moong bean diet from an ayurvedic doctor. Trust me, that doesn’t even scratch the surface of the strangest things I’ve tried. 

Each time, there is hope – in the treatment, in the practitioner’s expertise. 

Each time, I wonder if I’m trusting something external, greater than me, but also giving up a tiny sense of what I would like to do.

Apparently, all I want to do is eat junk food and watch TV and not think about anything.

Last week…

Mom, are you working on the book? My kid eyes a book with post-its hanging out like a dog with multiple tongues, as we bundle ourselves and her gear into the car.

Just research, I suppose. I reply hesitantly, non-committedly
I’m so excited about it, Mom.

I am both delighted and scared by her faith in me. I wonder if it will ever see the light of day. I decide to focus on the infection of her enthusiasm. I decide to work on it a little more that night. Or at least, develop the small part forming in my head.

Till the pain begins. Not again, I grimace. It has been consistent several nights, turning me into a zombie-like creature. I feel only half-human, yet pretend to be full-human, or whatever semblance of it. It has been going on for several months, but the reason why it was happening earlier, no longer presents, so I decide not to bug the doctors.

In my desire to not be consumed by the illness and all that it brings, I choose not to dwell on it, especially when I get the slightest respite.

But today I think of my kid’s enthusiasm and my book. I decide to call the doctor’s office. Even if I shudder at the thought of talking to the triage nurses. I keep my sight on the book and the multitude pink post-its sticking out. 

I tell myself this is really no need to steel myself for this task. Then I remember their practiced and perfected condescension. I remember how I am made to feel like a nuisance or a whiny child. I remember the time I called them after an infectious diseases doctor swabbed my incision wound and it would not stop bleeding.

“Talk to the doctor who took the swab. He caused it, he should take care of it.”   
“But he’s an infectious diseases doctor. He wouldn’t know what to do with a surgery incision. He doesn’t know everything that has happened.” Shouldn’t they know that?

They pass the buck. I call the infectious diseases doctor. His nurse tells me he wouldn’t know what to do and to call the other doctor’s office again. Again, they shake it off as not being their problem.

I hang up the phone in tears from the sheer fatigue and frustration of it all. I give up. I deal with the pain and the fear of it. No one takes a look. It heals on its own.

I realize that this could have ended badly – that there could have been a perforation in a wound already deep. Would it have then have been my fault to have given up from the exhaustion of pleading with an uncooperative and condescending nurse? To have been far too tired and in pain to continue arguing?

This is one of many occasions and it makes me wonder how big a role a patient needs to play in self-advocacy, and this on top of the fear, pain and uncertainty they already face.

On the other hand, I get it. They are all eager to wash their hands off of me. They have other more urgent cases to deal with. Maybe they would prefer if I only ate junk food and watched TV. Maybe the condescension is practiced so I won’t bug them as much.

But no, I cannot simply eat junk food and watch TV (by the way, I hardly did any of either, I simply gave myself the permission to do so, and enjoyed the freedom of that feeling). But being a pushy advocate is neither what I hope to be, nor comes naturally to me. And to top it, I must now somehow believe I am not really a hypochondriac nuisance even when I’m shooed away like a pesky, annoying child.

Yes, I have a book to write. And whether or not I actually write it, I don’t want illness to be an excuse (Ahem.. I already have a zillion other). I have a life to live. I have a child to raise.

So no, eating junk food and watching TV is not going to work. And even if it seems a sheer waste of my energy and even if I wonder if it comes in the way of my healing, I will somehow have to find a way to develop a thicker skin, be my own advocate, and at least feel that I have done everything in my capacity.

Sorry TV and junk food. Alas...It could have been a beautiful friendship...sigh...