Today’s adventure was the hospital. I gave the elderly man at the front desk my information. I could have sworn when he looked at the gal and gentleman next to him he said, “Imogene”.
A grin broke out on my face. Bubbling with enthusiasm, I blurted out, “Imogene! I love that name! That is such a great name, who’s name is Imogene?”
Jase standing next to me, “No Mare, imaging.”
Me, “I know honey, Imogene, isn’t that a great name!”
At this point, I was perplexed why no one behind the counter volunteered themselves as Imogene. Why no one was sharing in my excitement. Why was everyone looking at me like I pooped my pants?
Jase, “I-M-A-G-I-N-G, imaging honey, no one’s name is Imogene.”
If you’re familiar with the book/movie “Fried Green Tomatoes”, the name Imogene holds a special place in your heart. Much more than “imaging” ever will.
I’ll now hand the keyboard over to Jase to regale his take on this mornings exchange:
Jase here. Honestly there’s not much more to say. Mare was out of pocket; a total comic relief this morning. After she heard what she wanted to hear…the name I-M-O-G-E-N-E, she stood around looking like the only kid on the playground who didn’t get the punchline to the joke.
I’m allowed to poke fun of Mare. I tease her and say she’s not really a Ginger or Day Walker (with all of her cute freckles and gorgeous red locks of hair that stretch down to her butt). I say she’s more of a blonde dying her hair red. Or that she lives under the world’s deepest rock. Why? Cause she rips on me too. I’m pretty clueless. I have book smarts like math and physics, but when it comes to practical knowledge, that’s a different story. I have the street smarts of June Cleaver. But together….well we make up one well rounded brain…lemme just add a very good looking brain at that.
Mare here again.
There’s something about genuine laughter that lightens the heaviest of situations.
On our drive to the hospital, we listened to one of my favorite tunes. The lyrics help direct me to a better place. They remind me to honor all emotions and that we’re all in this together. Oooo this song gives me the “goosies” every time.
As I settle into the rigorous self care circus that has become my life, I’m learning to be quiet with in myself.
I have to slow down or I will not repair.
I see startling differences between the two types of survival.
Survival mode #1: The task master pay the bills at any price. Drive your health into the ground. Search, search, search and search some more for ways in which to do this. Work 10 to 12 hour days cleaning homes and working retail. You must survive………but there’s never enough……not enough time…..not enough resources……..YOU ARE NOT ENOUGH
Survival mode #2: You dumb fuck, slow down.
Both sides can be self centered.
As I care for my body the way it’s intended to be cared for, I’m learning to see. I see details in the tiniest things, and it’s no longer the details of cleaning someone’s toilet to perfection with a toothbrush and toothpick in hand.
Awareness is blooming once again.
What truly matters is moving from my head space into my heart space.
Ideas of helping others who feel worse than I do are stirring in my soul. Visions of bringing laughter into places that are not funny.
We are all a little sick in some way, shape or form………..
We met on a dating app. It’s been 3 years. And though we didn’t experience the “honeymoon phase”, EVER, I can’t help but feel a teensy weensy bit bad for Jase.
I could bore you with the backlog of our histories, but who the fuck has time for that? Long story short, when we met I was active and adventurous. We both were.
No one see’s illness coming. It swoops in gradually until one day it’s kicks you in the back of the knees and takes you down.
We had a good laugh together this morning when I pointed out how different our conversations are now compared to when we first met.
Me laying in bed: “Holy hell my armpits stink, time for a new t-shirt tonight before bed, I think I’ve worn this for like 2 weeks.
Him: “Let me smell. Yep, you reek, the right pit is stronger than the left. How weird.”
30 minutes later I filled him in on the 10 inch ripe banana of a turd I had.
In all fairness, last night before bed I read in the Epstein Barr book that you should document all your bowel movements and what constitutes as healthy.
My point, he didn’t sign up for this, but he’s still here and loving me with grace and sensitivity. Stinky armpits, banana bowels and all.
Our relationship looks different on the outside based on our lack of adventure. The inside is different too. It’s richer and deeper. We are evolving along with what we can not control. Together we look for ways to make each other laugh and make light of what is happening.
It’s not uncommon for me to be minding my own business and Jase to walk by with curly lettuce bursting from the fly of his pant’s. “Hey honey, I think I’m due for some man scaping.”