Tag Archives: coping

I had a dream

This ongoing pandemic and the dumpster fire that is 2020 have really stirred the pot for me emotionally. For the first time in my life, I feel ‘triggered’ on a fairly regular basis. Interesting that, but also an indicator that I had some serious undone shit to deal with.

After years of regular appointments with the same therapist, I decided to mix things up a bit and I started seeing a counselor who specializes in trauma.

That’s a difficult thing to own, that one has been traumatized. But there it is. A childhood rife with abuse and two marriages that, each in their own way, continued the pattern. And, not to be discounted, life with a terminal illness. The common thread–me.

EMDR is the modality being employed. My initial response was skepticism. And then, almost magically, it clicked. I had one of those aha moments very similar to when you find the missing piece of the puzzle that is key.

I now look forward to these sessions, simply because I know that as difficult as they can be they are helping me to get stronger. Like the 94 steps up to my studio.

Every couple of months I check in with the psychiatrist who referred me. We had a zoom meeting this morning and I assured her that all was going well. I specifically referenced the fact that my depression had lifted to the degree that I was no longer sleeping during the day; a go-to form of escape.

Hilariously (to me, at least) as soon as our meeting concluded, I was overcome with a desire to take a nap. Hoodie up, heating pad plugged in, I snuggled in for a cozy snooze. My dreams took me back to my childhood home, in a way that was both intriguing and comforting. And this was no brief rest–I dozed for a solid three and 1/2 hours.

I awakened feeling refreshed in the way that only a kick-ass nap can do.

Moral of the story, sometimes a girl just has to sleep it off. And tomorrow, I’ll be climbing those stairs.

xo

One big party

Oh, how I have enjoyed this break from treatment. In fact, my entire family has benefitted: for the first time since he could likely recall, Peter’s had a mother who felt great and was possessed of sufficient energy to do all sorts of mom things. Staying up late, and watching movies. Cooking and cleaning. Going on walks and having long conversations. Acting as de facto driving and swim instructor. Shopping for school clothes (button down shirts and pastel colored pants—our own little preppy). And, first thing every morning, sneaking in a little snuggle. It’s been grand.

Although not nearly as important as being able to be present for Peter, I’ve taken a lot of pleasure in some of the other perks of non-treatment. Mental clarity but then again, the ability to kick back and de-stress. I’m talking about alcohol. Nothing over the top, but rather the simple, adult pleasure/privilege of an occasional glass of wine or a cocktail. For a year and a half, my liver enzymes made it necessary to completely foresake alcoholic beverages—if I may say so, there is something intrinsically unfair about having cancer and not being able to drink.

I got used to it. Discovered mocktails, and congratulated myself on my ability to abstain. Then, several weeks into this break (having gorged myself on grapefruit, another long term no-no), it occurred to me that I could have a glass of wine. The first sip or two felt a little foreign, but just like riding a bike, you never really forget how. I was, so to speak, back in the saddle.

Again, it’s been fun. On one memorable afternoon, I was shopping at Salvation Army. When I went to pay for my purchases it became apparent that I’d left my wallet at home. I called David and asked if he might consider bringing it to me…and, I added some incentive. I would take him out to dinner. My dime, his choice.

He made it to the store just prior to closing. Treasures in hand, we headed (in our separate vehicles) to Republic, our new favorite hangout. It was a lovely evening and we sat out front on the patio. I ordered a martini and David a margarita. A young man at the table behind us asked about my white circle tattoo. I commented on the shirt the fellow to our right was wearing (adorned with magic 8 balls). The couple to our left soon engaged us in conversation. Before long it was ONE BIG PARTY. I got through two martinis that night, made at least four new best friends and a good time was had by all.

Perhaps a week later, we dropped Peter off at school. David had an appointment in NY the next day and I a CT scan in Boston. After my scan, I should have gone straight home and walked the dog, but I was feeling a little anxious and didn’t really want to be alone. On a whim, I stopped at a local restaurant and sat down at the bar. I ordered a martini, up with an olive and a twist of lemon. After one sip I realized that this was a serious martini, and that I was in over my head. A woman sat down in the empty seat to my left; ordered a glass of wine, an appetizer and began to read from her Kindle. Suddenly she turned to me and asked if I came there often. I confessed that at the age of 53, this was the first time I had ever sat at a bar by myself and ordered a drink.

Well, we got to chatting. Soon she was sharing her appetizer with me and before I knew it, three hours had passed and my new friend and I were convinced we were married to the same person. Thankfully we never got beyond a first name basis.

I followed the yellow line home (I know, I know—I truly just had one drink). Buddy was fed and let out for a quick pee, and I fell straight into bed. I awakened briefly around 11 pm, still under the influence. At 2 am I woke up once again but sober as could be. No hangover, which I attribute to my Swedish heritage but which David says is actually due to the chemical simplicity of vodka (compared to a complex alcohol like wine).

And, I’d had the strangest dream. Anjelina Jolie and a friend of hers were at my house drinking wine. Evidently it wasn’t very good, as they’d mixed themselves another concoction (but thoughtlessly, not one for me). I had to excuse myself to go wait on some tables. Suddenly I was back at Mr. Steak, the restaurant I’d worked in when I was seventeen. I was taking the order for a large family (what we referred to as an ‘eight top’), and they were trying to convince me that they all qualified for a student discount. The mom had a flamboyant scarf on her head, spoke with a german accent, and looked like a drag queen. The children were dressed head to toe in 1970’s style denim. When they asked me to describe an item on the menu I said I’d have to go ask the cook; I’d not worked there in thirty years. The cook was a real old guy—maybe one of my former co-workers was having the same dream.

Anyway, as I lay there thinking, I remembered a review in the NY Times by Dwight Garner concerning Lawrence Osborne’s new book, The Wet and the Dry, as well as a memorable quote from Mr. Osborne:  “Vodka; it’s like an enema for the soul.” Well, I’d certainly just proved that. My mental slate wiped clean, I fell soundly back to sleep.