Another Maudlin Post

Thanks to everyone who commented or emailed me about my "illness." I can't tell you what every single comment or email meant to me. In the words of my Irish mother: "You warmed the cockles of me soul!"

Quick medical update. Blood tests were normal, with the exception of protein levels, which were elevated. According to doctor, this probably indicates a viral infection, news which would calm the normal person, but not me (cause I'm not normal). I mean, it calmed me initially, but when the symptoms intensified on Sunday, I threw myself into a panic and spent the afternoon making soup, googling symptoms, and ranting to the family (i.e. As each finger pecked at the keyboard of my laptop, I screeched at my husband, "Did you see that? Did you see that tremor? Look at how my fingers shake when I purposefully move them! Did you see that?" To which he dryly responded: "Perhaps it was the four cups of coffee that you drank in an hour.").

Later that evening, however, as the "symptoms" subsided, I thought about what was really bothering me and I figured it out. I don't think it's so much the fear of getting seriously sick and dying, which, in and of itself, is terrifying. It's the idea of having been given this life and fucking it up. Not using it the right way. Spending years at "happy hours" when I could've been reading or writing. Always saying that I'll start exercising tomorrow. Worrying about whether or not the files at the schools where I worked were in perfect order and if my co-workers respected me. Not flying to Ireland to see my family because the plane might go down.

So much wasted opportunity.

It's about feeling like I've messed up the life I've been given. Feeling like I didn't require enough of myself. Feeling like I fixated (who me?) on silly things and missed out on the important stuff.

As I crawled into bed, I decided that I would make this a learning experience. Not a "why me" but a "why not me" kind of deal. I've realized that it really isn't about how long you're here. It's not about what kind of house you live in or the car you drive or the restaurants where you eat or what you've accomplished. It's about the books that you've read, the hands that you've held, the rules that you've broken, and the jokes you've loved. It's about the friend that you've been, to others, but also, to yourself.

It's about appreciating warm blankets, each spoonful of soup, every breath, the burn in your muscles when you dance really hard, the shadows contracting and expanding on the living room wall. It's about noticing the world outside of your own body.

It's about delighting in each moment. Delighting in this moment.

In the end, that's all you're really promised.

It's about no second chances or guarantees. It's about allowing yourself mistakes and figuring out the right way--your own, personal way--to measure success.

Today, I'm going to figure out, as I "ready" the house for Christmas, how I would like to measure my success. And I'm going to make a list of the books that I'm planning to read this year (thanks, Liz, aka Busy91!). And I'm going to figure out how to post pictures on this blog (so I can slap one up whenever I feel maudlin and save you all, my five friends, from these overly sentimental, melancholy posts).