Isn’t that the loveliest fruit basket? Sent to me by a friend, and it didn’t have strawberries, so I was actually able to eat it.
I’m working hard on staying, well, if not positive, at least fatalistic. Yanno: life happens, accidents happen, what can you do, blah blah, blah. And in the scheme of things, I was lucky. I fell forwards instead of backwards, which would have been worse for my back, and most certainly would have cracked my skull, thick as it is. Nerd Child has been home this week (Spring Break), a huge bonus, getting Art Child to and from school, keeping me company, and generally helping out.
Art Child has been feeding the tank, and Husband and Nerd Child even got the water change done yesterday, so the fishes and corals are taken care of. I think Little Incredibly Dumb Dog has given up hope that she’ll ever be taken for a walk again. I’ll just be grateful for pee pads, and she’s learning to enjoy sitting on the terrace.
No, I haven’t written anything, still feeling scattered and shattered. Unless checking my Submittable submissions and lurking on the writing website counts–in which case, I’ve been hugely productive.
I’m impatient, and refuse to believe a multi-fractured pelvis is going to hurt for as long and be as much of a nuisance as predicted. Every night I go to bed thinking, tomorrow I’m going to feel much better. By yesterday I was feeling fairly blue about the whole thing, and then Husband came upstairs with a package that had been left with the doorman for me.
I have the best friends.
Seriously. The best friends ever. This was sent by a friend who is laid up herself, how incredibly generous is this?! Chocolate heals all, doesn’t it? It has calcium, that has to go a long way towards getting my bones back where they belong.
So yeah, my everything still hurts, and the road to recovery is longer than I want to admit, but the support, check-ins, and well wishes (along with the above treats) from friends is greater. Thank you!!
The latest must-have accessory for the woman of 40,000 years.
I tried. Tuesday afternoon I was shaken but feeling positive, “oh, a few days of rest and I’ll be ok.” Tuesday night and Wednesday morning, not so much. I made a bunch of calls on Wednesday morning, trying to find an ortho who could see me that day. No luck–and apparently most of them super specialize, and the offices all insisted I choose if wanted to see someone for my arm or my pelvis. “but they both hurt like hell.” “Well, you have to decide which specialist you want to see.” Screw it. No appointment, the pain seemed like it was easing up, I figured I’d just tough it out.
10:15 Wednesday night, I was lying in bed trying to pretend the pain had not increased by multiples of thousands, and my back doctor returned my call. Bless this woman. I told her what was going on, and she told me to come in first thing the next morning. I did, she checked me out, and sent me off to the imaging place, with more concerns than I thought.
I may not have been able to tough this out, but apparently I’m pretty fucking tough. The next ten hours involved 4 MRIs, 7 X-rays, 1 CT scan, and 3 exams.
At the first MRI stop, after being told it would take 2-3 hours. Umm, do you have a chill pill or something?
Sorry, Mrs F, we’re an outpatient facility, so we don’t offer any medications. We have headphones and music, it’s on classical already.
Find me the classic rock station and we’ll be in business, I can get lost in my youth–where I didn’t humiliate myself by breaking and tearing my body from a simple slip on ice.
Between the music and the two hours of sleep I was running on, I was able to stay very still, no panic in the tube. Could have done without Van Halen’s “Jump,” though.
The doctor was in touch with the imaging center throughout, and it seemed that every test finished sent me to another. Everyone was nice, but suspiciously nicer as time went on, particularly since I had to have been screwing everyone’s schedule, being pushed (figuratively) to the front of the line, staff and techs waiting for me to hobble in at each new stop.
Can I please go get tea before the next one?
I’m sorry Mrs Fringe, they’re waiting for you.
Again and again.
Finally, one woman said I could get tea while they burned the images of all the tests onto cd. Yay! When I limped back in, she told me my doctor was waiting for me to call her. I know, I know, by this time it was clear I’m looking at some serious injury, but by then 7 hours had passed, 8 since my morning coffee–a woman needs a cup of tea–and some of us need several!
Every time I thought I was finished, I was sent to the next test, the next building. I stripped so many damn times by the time I reached the last X-ray tech I expected her to stick dollar bills in my underwear. By then I knew I had 4 fractures, why did I need more X-rays? The day ended at the office of a special trauma orthopedist, his physician’s assistant, his orthotist, his secretary, and the cleaning crew–clearly waiting and wondering when this patient would leave so they could do their jobs.
So. Despite that first X-ray done at the urgent care place, my arm is fractured, and now encased in a super duper molded to my arm but removable for showering cast. The rest of it….As I understand it, there are three types of bones that make up the triangular shape of the pelvis. I have fractures in all three, including one that extends to the hip socket. I would make a joke about not doing things half-assed, but I’m pretty sure this yields the very definition of half-assed.
Dogwalking is out of the question for the time being. I didn’t actually ask about typing, I figure I’ll just go slower and less verbose than usual, stop when it hurts.
On the positive side, even though I feel like I’m completely out of shape, all the past yoga left me in good enough shape that I don’t need total bed rest, can hobble with the cane when I need to, yanno, live. And I think this gives me the perfect opportunity to catch up on my reading.
Yesterday I woke up and smiled. 43°F felt like spring compared to the single digits I’ve been waking up to. I was exfoliating my pits trying to scrape the last bits of deodorant on, when I remembered I had a brand new stick in the closet. The sun made an appearance and stayed out all day. I walked a dog through Central Park, and enough ice had melted so the paths were wet but relatively clear. We learned that Art Child was accepted to a high school she feels good about, as do we.
This morning when I woke, it didn’t feel as warm. Sunrise came and left behind a gray sky. Disappointing, but still not bad. The mounds of snow at curbs and corners are disgustingly black and slick, but they’re melting. I took Art Child to school, and I slipped. Luckily, I broke the fall with my face.
Oh yes. I went down hard and fast, didn’t have a chance to try to break the fall with my hands. See the black chunks that look like slabs of asphalt? That’s snow in Manhattan after a couple of weeks, and I slipped on a very similar looking mound. My entire left side was covered in black muck and who knows what else. I could just cry thinking about how I’m going to get this crap out of my beautiful sheepskin fingerless gloves. I opted to go home and shower before heading to the urgent care place for X-rays. A good thing, because it also gave me a chance to stop shaking.
My face is bruised and hurts, but not broken. My arm is sore and swollen, but probably not broken. The urgent care didn’t have the right machine (?) to X-ray my pelvis, if my lower half gets significantly worse I’m supposed to head to the ER for more X-rays.
After loading up on ibuprofen and acetaminophen, I figured I’d blog about my little adventure. Turns out I’ve used up all the storage available with a free domain. Upgrade time, we’re now at mrsfringe.com instead of mrsfringe.wordpress.com–this should also mean if you saw ads before, you won’t now, and you should automatically be redirected if you’re visiting from a link or bookmark.
Change the he to she and yup, that’s Mrs Fringe. Proof that Nerd Child was able to predict the future.
This move has not gone smoothly. In fact, I can say without hesitation this has been the most disorganized, chaotic, and s-l-o-w move I’ve ever made–and I’ve made many.
First there was the realization I was living in a clown car. Seriously, we had ten times the amount of shit we should have been able to fit in the last apartment. Then there was the fact that every time I lifted a hefty bag or moved a box, my back would cry. And then the kicker, an early flu/virus season. Art Child got sick, and then I caught it. The first day I was sick, I happened to have a meeting with Art Child’s teachers. “Sick while moving? Oh no.” “No worries, I have a strong immune system, never more than a nuisance head cold.” Mmm hmm. What’s that about famous last words? By the following night, I had 102° fever. I’m still not completely recovered, but no one else has gotten sick, so I’m not contagious, and I am improving. What I don’t have is stamina. Yanno, that trait needed to pack, move, and unpack.
We have been staying in the new apartment for the last six nights, but still have some miscellaneous crud to move up here, and then turn in the keys to the old apartment. Every morning I think, we should be able to knock this out by the end of the day, and every afternoon, round about noon, I think, oh-my-gawd-I’m-dying-I-can’t-do-one-more-thing. A model of efficiency, I tell ya.
The most welcome sight in the world.
Above, the saving grace. Big boy sneakers. My godson has come the last couple of weekends, to help with heavy lifting, shlepping, and bringing bags o’ crud to the basement. Man Child, bless his Herculean heart, also came last week. He took two days off from school to help sort and pack, and then did the majority of the heavy furniture lifting and moving. Mr and Mrs Smitholini also pitched in, putting up curtains and ceiling fans, general assistance and wondering what the fuck happened to me.
We did get some new pieces of furniture. I have a desk! A real desk! And it’s all mine, bwahahaha! And a new kitchen table, because mine didn’t fit in our new, smaller dining space. Luckily, Husband is in the furniture business, so when we realized the new table wobbles, he was able to fix it in no time.
Maybe I should have gone with my first instinct, a couple of matchbooks.
It is all getting done though. The first several days were like camping. The stove wasn’t hooked up, the kitchen sink didn’t work, the dishwasher (hooray!) was sitting in the living room, and did I mention that my refrigerator died the night before we moved it? The wireless internet didn’t reach the living room (where my desk is), and then it was spotty. Finally I have a reasonable connection, for the moment I’ll pretend those cables aren’t slithering down the hall floor waiting to trip me.
Sure she looks innocent while she’s sleeping.
Little Incredibly Dumb Dog is very unhappy with the move and attendant chaos, and has been displaying her displeasure by peeing on the floor. Yesterday she decided it was time to meet the new neighbors. While I was cleaning, she snuck under the divider of our shared terrace, and walked into my next door neighbor’s living room. My bell rang, she came running and barking as usual. It was my neighbor, reporting the visit. Are you kidding me?! We had the same set up downstairs, she never did that.
Almost done. That’s what I keep saying. Well, that and knowing I’m getting myself a new tank as soon as possible. Besides, with the new, higher apartment comes a better view. This was our first morning, not a bad way to wake up–and no boxes on the horizon.
While it doesn’t quite feel like anything is happening, I am making headway. The envelopes above. There were over twenty of them on high shelves that lined my halls, plus dozens of loose rolled preschool paintings and 5 boxes of school and kiddo related stuff. And cards. Cards from them to us, us to them, Abuela y Abuelo to them, Grandma and Grandpa to them, even one from my grandmother to Man Child. Cards to me and Art Child from several friends met online. So freaking sweet, I wanted to melt with many of them.
My poor Man Child, we had a couple of years when he was 8,9,10 where it felt like a round robin of funerals and ICU visits. “Dear Dad, Please don’t die.” And Nerd Child, from homework on a page of vocabulary sentences, 1st grade, “My aunt was in a ventilator in the hospital.” There are fun ones, too. From NC’s second grade teacher, a note in response to his first homework of the year, an “about me” letter: “Dear Nerd Child, Wow, I’ve never met a kid who said Pink Floyd was his favorite band before.” A note from Art Child to me, “Dear Momy, Im sory, Im doo it nw. Lov lov lov lov” Whittled down to 5 envelopes, period. The shelves have been taken down.
And the fridge magnets. I don’t have any on my fridge in this apartment, it makes the kitchen feel too cluttered when you’re talking about such a small space. But my last apartment? Like 90% of other moms, the refrigerator was covered. Magnets holding pictures, drawings, receipts, phone numbers, appointment cards, glucose level logs, seizure logs, med titration schedules. Ok, maybe not quite like most other moms, but close enough. Apparently I had put all of those into one box when I was moving in here, it got put on a shelf to be dealt with later. Guess it’s later. In the box was the complete set of these:
Two sets, actually. I don’t know if they still sell them, they’re a little electronic learning game, magnetized so the main component and letters can all be stuck on the fridge, and it says the name and sound of the letter when fit into the main piece. The other set does the same, next step, slots for three letter words. Many, many hours playing with these. I was happy to pass them on to the nursery school.
The painting and the floors are close to finished in the new apartment. If all goes well, we’ll be able to really move within the next week or two, hooray! I spent the day celebrating by cuddling with my sick and sniffling girl, Dr Who on the TV. Ok, maybe I wasn’t hanging onto the Dr’s every word quite the way Art Child would have liked. Maybe I was cyber window shopping for tank equipment. I don’t know why I find shopping for curtains and medicine cabinets tedious, but protein skimmers and RO/DI water systems and salt mixes, oh my! Bestill my shriveled reefing heart.
We saw this sky the other evening, I had to take a photo to share.
Mrs Fringe is 2 years old. I could write a fun post, a retrospective of the highlights, discuss how very much this blog and all of my followers mean to me, but in true fractured Fringeland style, I’m not going to do any of those today. No silliness, no photos. Instead, I’m writing a PSA post, asking you all to please read and remember.
I’ve written epilepsy awareness posts before, I usually post one in November, but I’m writing another one today.
On the train this morning I got a phone call from Man Child telling me he was on his way to the ER, and when I arrived at the beach it was raining. Ok, life.
After the rain stopped and the clouds moved off, someone several towels down had a tonic clonic seizure. Tonic clinics are what used to be called grand mal seizures. I went over, as did several other people. Really nice to see so many willing to get involved and see if they could help, lifeguards were hailed, police were flagged down, 911 was called.
I was umm, happy? I don’t think happy is the right word, to see the person was on their side, and they were on a towel on the sand, away from the water, nothing to be injured on. This is probably the safest scenario for a seizure when someone is alone and outside.
But I was quickly upset, and I’m still upset now.
The problem. One woman pushed through, trying to turn the person onto their back, saying they needed to be held down. NO. There is no reason to restrain someone having a seizure, and doing so risks injuring them. No less than two people stepped forward ready to grab the jaw and force the mouth open, yelling that they were going to choke on their tongue. NO. NEVER, EVER PUT ANYTHING IN THE MOUTH OF SOMEONE HAVING A SEIZURE. It is physically impossible for someone to choke on their tongue. It is, however, possible for the tongue to block the airway, which is why lying on their side is the safest position for someone having a seizure. One woman tried to hold their head, saying she was going to put her finger in their mouth to swipe away the saliva. NO. Nothing in the mouth includes fingers, it’s a good way to a) have your finger injured, possibly bitten off, b) break the jaw of the person having the seizure, c) trying to force anything into the mouth when someone is seizing can result in chipping their teeth.
Yes, I spoke up.
But, why, oh why, is there not more seizure awareness? Seizures aren’t rare. 1 in 100 people can expect to have a seizure in their lifetime. Anyone can have a seizure. Epilepsy is generally defined as 2 or more unprovoked seizures. Epilepsy can develop in any person at any time. It is the fourth most common neurological disorder.
So how come, as the person was coming out of the seizure, the only question asked was if they had taken anything or been drinking? These are valid, important, sensible questions. But they weren’t asked if they had epilepsy.
Most seizures are self limiting, — end on their own. Without anything else going on (injury, illness) they are usually not considered medical emergencies. But they can be. People can and do die– from SUDEP (Sudden Unexplained Death in Epilepsy), status epilepticus (prolonged seizures), and injuries sustained during seizures (head injury, drowning, etc). These events are not common, but they can and do happen.
Please. Know what to do in case someone around you has a seizure (and tonic clinics are just one of many types).
It’s been a little bit since I last posted. You know what they say, if you don’t have anything nice to say, then shut the fuck up. Really it’s just been hectic. Nerd Child is home for the summer, which is wonderful, and Mother in Law is in the hospital, not wonderful. On the bright side, she’s recuperating, getting stronger each day. Art Child is not finished with school yet, the NYC public schools are in session until the end of June every year. Just making sure that even with a late start to summer weather, the kids and teachers have plenty of sweltering days in the classrooms.
This has, of course, all involved a lot of back and forth and running around. Yesterday, Mother in Law told me I need roller skates. I agree, and would like the ones I had in middle school/high school, with the emerald green wheels and matching green sparkle laces and furry green pom poms. Yes indeed, I was stylin’ those Friday Nights at the Roller Palace. For some reason, my clearest memories involve the inevitable point in the night when someone’s wheel would bust off, and there would suddenly be a thousand little ball bearings rolling across the floor.
Alas, my wheels are long misplaced, and I suspect if I tried, I’d be skating backwards when I tried to go forward.
Yesterday Man Child called me to touch base, and maybe, just maybe, give me a little nudge along the lines of, “Hey Ma, wtf?! You haven’t blogged.” So I brought my camera earlier today, to catch a few pics of St John The Divine, and the assault construction taking place on its grounds right now. In my opinion, this cathedral (Episcopal) is one of the most beautiful, if not the most beautiful, in the city. Interesting, too. Construction began in 1892, and has yet to be completed. The campus involves something like 11 acres, and they offer a lot of free or inexpensive programs and classes for the public. They also house one of the fancy private schools of NY. Somehow, they’ve found themselves running with a deficit. There was a huge fire over ten years ago, and if I had to guess, I’d say they’re still trying to make up for the cost of restoration and clean up. Several years ago they leased a corner of the property, and allowed an apartment building to be put up. Now comes another one, this one much closer to the church itself. As I walked around with my camera, able to see in through the back along Morningside Ave, it broke my heart a little. They don’t have official landmark status, and I’m not familiar with the politics of this type of thing to know why, but somehow, seeing the excavation for the foundation up against the gorgeous granite and carvings, it feels wrong.
That’s in the hallway outside my apartment. It’s been chirp-shrieking for three days now. Why, oh why, doesn’t someone with a ladder come and change the battery?
Little Incredibly Dumb Dog is afraid of the sound. She spent all of Saturday quaking. She barks and jumps like a wee mop lunatic for me to pick her up every time we’re in the hall waiting for the elevator to go down for a walk. By yesterday, she realized it can’t actually harm her through the door when she’s in the apartment, so she spent last night demonstrating her valor by growling and barking at the doorknob. All. Night. Long.
I considered (for about the 29th day in a row) working on the short story I’ve been building in my mind. Nope, not yet.
Big Senile Dog is only bothered by the little one’s shenanigans. I think his hearing is going, in addition to his kidneys. Why yes, I did have to take him back to the vet for more testing, and spoke with her a while ago. Renal failure. We’re going to try to keep him as comfortable as possible for as long as possible. The thing is, when you live in this world of medical mayhem I’ve been party to in the last ten years or so, part of your brain starts sifting through and throwing up memories of every one of these moments when you hear test results. Fucked up as this sounds, I’ve dealt with much worse. Sorry. I love my beasts, but watching Husband turn blue? Worse. Art Child turn blue? No contest.
Big Senile Dog was a gift from my brother. What an awesome gift, right? None of us dreamed of the extent of it until he became an unofficial but invaluable service dog for my daughter. In the dog/people world, Big Senile Dog’s breed hasn’t been “just” a pet for very long. They’re working dogs. Bless his tired, scrawny body, he’s worked for us. Gift isn’t the word, I don’t think there is one.
I didn’t cry when the vet told me, just asked questions about how best to keep him comfortable, and stressed that I don’t want him to suffer. We should still have at least a couple of months with him. I’ve been on the receiving end of bad news for people and critters I hold near and dear many times, and many lessons learned. Among them, falling apart doesn’t mean you care more, not falling apart doesn’t mean you care less. I will say, though, falling apart while speaking with a doctor makes it much harder to take in the necessary information, understand what they’re saying, and then move forward with what needs to be done. This doesn’t mean I don’t feel, I’ve just become, I don’t know…judicious? in the when and where. Try to be, anyway.
I’d like to say I’ve learned all these marvelous spiritual lessons, but in all honesty I can’t. What I’ve learned is that all I don’t know, can’t control or predict, is vast– and there are no safe assumptions. Not assuming medical science can treat all or even identify all. Not assuming good writing trumps all. Not assuming what I believe is everyone’s truth–or even my truth a year from now.
Nerd Child was home a couple of weeks ago, and sounded like shit. His asthma and allergies were flaring, and I told him approximately 53,000 times how important it is for him to take care of himself. In completely age appropriate teenaged boy spirit he told me, “Don’t worry, Ma. I’m not dead yet.” Flippant, sure. But a good reminder to keep perspective, too.
So no, I’m not crying, but I need the musical equivalent of comfort food.
Waterfall near Eyvindarmul (Photo credit: martin_vmorris)
Wow. This has been a great stretch for Flower Child, which is awesome. Unfortunately, not a great stretch for me. Truly, if it’s not one thing it’s another.
I was doing well, working that yoga routine every day. But exercise is a funny thing, kind of addictive. The more you do, the more you want to do. So I added some aerobics to the yoga. A little step, a little boxing. I love the boxing, you really feel the work out, and it makes me feel powerful. Just in case you’re starting to be impressed, don’t be. This is all done with the Wii Fit, no real gyms, yogis, or boxing gloves involved.
Boxing gloves Español: Guantes de boxeo Français : Gants de boxe (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
First day, second day, third day, great. Oh, that fourth day, the one where you’re feeling cocky, “I can do this, I will do this, I am what-the-heck-was-that!” Ok, pulled something in my back. Not good, but not terrible, take a couple of days off from the yoga and aerobics, no problem. And it was going that way. By early yesterday I was feeling improvement. But. Then I did something. Like stood up. Or turned. Or breathed.
And triggered an unwanted acquaintance. This isn’t a pulled, sore muscle, this is fire and ice nerve pain that runs from my neck to my foot, it hurts to sit, stand, or lie down. Walking is a lot of fun. Every so often I’ll step down to feel like someone just plugged me into a wet socket. Whee! This morning, I actually called a physiatrist I’ve seen in the past. In keeping with the frozen white waters I’ve been skidding along, she had a personal emergency, no appointments until next Monday.
This morning I was limping behind the beasts when a car stopped at a light right next to us. A perfectly respectable looking woman discreetly made up and salon perfect hair dye, I’m guessing in her mid fifties, sitting in her silver Volvo. With Tom Petty blasting through the cracked back passenger window. Yes. A perfect moment, perfect song while I tried to figure out how to balance myself so I didn’t fall over while picking up the poop.
Do you know that voice? I grew up with it. My version of The Mirror in Snow White. First I was scrawny. Then I was scrawny with coke bottle glasses. Then I was scrawny with coke-bottle glasses and boobs before anyone else in my class. Then I stopped growing and everyone else started. I was certain I was hideous.
My mother, like so many of her generation and our neighborhood, was always looking at what came next. When you get contact lenses, you’re going to be so pretty. When your braces come off, you’re going to be so pretty. If you would wear a little make-up, you would look so pretty. If you would gain weight–oh my God, did you see that girl, she’s so fat! did you ever think of trying blonde, you know they have those colored contacts….
The thing is, I grew up. And I educated myself. And I got a wee bit political, aware of the unrealistic pressures put on women to look a certain way, act a certain way, the keep-women-under-your-bootheel history of so many of these expectations. And of course, the magic of make-up, photo processing tricks, and plastic surgery. All that stuff that makes the women on tv, film screens and magazines look like no human being can really look. I was not going to be stomped on by those pressures, the false gods of retail and advertising. But I still thought I was ugly.
A year or two ago I came across a picture of myself in my late teens. You know what’s funny? I wasn’t ugly. In fact, I looked pretty damned good. Like every other girl/young woman in their youth. Firm and smooth, a little overly made-up but ready to go kick some ass.
After a lifetime of being skinny, I’m now not. Still slim, just not skinny. I’m not sure I’m ok with it, but not bothered enough to get back to my yoga routine. I know myself well enough to know there’s a disconnect between what I see when I look down, the voice whispering from the mirror, and what the rest of the world sees. There have been three other times I haven’t been skinny, after the birth of each of my kids. Strangely enough, I never felt more attractive, never felt sexier, than I did during those times. I thought it was the extra weight. It was the fucking hormones. Oh those postpartum, breastfeeding hormones. I swear I might as well have woken up and snorted an eight ball every day. I didn’t have postpartum depression, I had postpartum euphoria. Life is wonderful, my babies are wonderful, your babies are wonderful, I’m beeyootiful! evidenced by my beautiful babies.
Spiegel 1963 maternity bras (Photo credit: genibee)
I was not going to raise my kids with that other bullshit. I was going to let them know how beautiful they were, all the time, no matter what. Lucky for me, that’s been the easy part, they are, in fact, the three most beautiful people in the world. I know, it’s strange, because you’re sitting there thinking your children are the most beautiful people in the world. I was going to point out the politics behind false advertising, what matters and what doesn’t, what’s real and what isn’t. Because the whole concept of ugly is bullshit, dictated by others (except, of course, for me). That was going to take care of that voice.
All of the women like myself were arming themselves with awareness of what to say and not say to their children. But none of us raised our children in caves, and society’s focus on the external gets in. Generation after generation of kids (girls and boys) coming home talking about who called who ugly, who has good hair, who’s too fat, too skinny, too tall, too short, too light, too dark, nose too big, nose too flat, eyes too small, eyes too big. Who am I kidding? It’s already in. In the way I don’t like to look at myself in the mirror, buy jeans that are too large because when I’m looking online I’m certain that I’m two sizes bigger than I used to be, in the way no matter who says it, no matter how many say it, I don’t see a hint of myself in any of my kiddos’ faces.
Several years ago I was sitting in a dr’s office with Flower Child, who was having a particularly rough stretch medically, no answers in sight. Dr Ologist shrugged and said, “But she’s beautiful.”
What? Did I mishear? Did that medical degree come from the Maybelline factory? What a fucking world, where even specialologists see this as something to offer. I was stunned, wanted to scream. Pretty sure I cried on the way home instead. Once again, fucking hormones.
With salt and pepper hair and skin that’s become intimately acquainted with gravity, now I’m more comfortable with who I am and how I look, but it would be nice if that voice wasn’t even a whisper.
It isn’t that I don’t think appearances matter. They do. How you’re dressed, if you’re clean, style…these things tell others about you. How you see yourself, how you’d like to be perceived, what is or isn’t important to you, maybe what type of job you have. But beauty is a whole different thing.
The standards and definition of beauty change. But the message of you aren’t this hasn’t.
mrsfringe 