I’m writing this in the afternoon, much earlier than usual, because Crankenstein and I stopped by the drugstore for our flu shots this morning and I got an annual Covid booster while I was at it. (She’ll get hers at work.) Since I’m not sure when, or if, the usual side effects might descend, this is the only way to guarantee a Saturday post.
“Do I really need this if I had Covid not that long ago?” I wanted to ask her about the booster, but kept quiet due to the trouble we just had with my mystery infection. We went to CVS, where they gave us each a free pill organizer — a nice one, big enough to actually be useful — and the customary coupon for $5 off a $20 purchase. When I relayed that to my family in case any of them were interested, Youngest Sister replied “That’s such an old person gift.” Maybe that’s why I liked it: Crankenstein, Muriel and I take more pills than Neely O’Hara.
Next we stopped at an Asian supermarket for produce, noodles and pastes before returning home. If this go-round with the Covid shot is like all the rest, my knees will hurt and I’ll spike a fever later. If I’m lucky, I’ll get it out of the way tonight and won’t lose too much of tomorrow since more errands await.
Because nothing much has happened so far today, I figured I’d talk briefly about therapy; the feelings kind, not the ‘raise your voice and stop falling’ varieties. Following last night’s Hallmark post and the cumulative stress of Parkinson’s developments and Joe’s death, I assume some readers might think “Get thee to therapy, posthaste.” As I’ve mentioned here once or twice in the past, I’ve looked into finding a therapist who specializes in serious — as in life-changing — illness or injury. The results weren’t too impressive.
Mostly I encountered people who overshared in their professional profiles. I’m not adopting a rescue dog or trying to make a new friend; I’m more concerned about a therapist’s education, experience, and judgment than their astrological sign and whether they identify as nonbinary. When they call themselves ‘chronically ill,’ on the other hand, I wish they’d provide some clarification. Illness isn’t a monolith and anyone who has recently self-diagnosed herself with a trivial TikTok syndrome, as many my age have, doesn’t have much in common with someone who has faced something more serious, despite what they may believe.
With my friend’s death, there’s more to mourn now than just the dreams and expectations I had for myself pre-YOPD. But it’s nothing I currently want to sit across from someone (especially someone I’m paying) and open up about. If that changes, and it might, it should be easier to find a grief counselor than it is to find someone knowledgeable about degenerative illness or childhood sickness — and maybe grief counselors are just as good at helping you through a bad diagnosis as they are with other losses, which would be an added benefit.
None of this is entirely foreign to me: I’ve dealt with other big health issues and personal losses and know that most of this will work itself out in time.* As long as I still find therapeutic value in reading and writing and going for walks, there’s no problem in chugging along at my own pace. Watching Eight is Enough and sloppily building scale models might seem too quaint or stupid to be helpful, but those things really do make me feel better.
In addition to all of that, it’s OK to be sad sometimes. It would be odd to not be sad in situations like these. If I eventually need professional help — if, for example, I stop fast-forwarding through Grant Goodeve’s Eight is Enough theme song to luxuriate in his warbling — I’ll seek it.
* This permanent loss is admittedly different in some ways. My grandparents were elderly and had catastrophic physical problems, which is much different than never seeing 50. I could be happy for my grandparents that they were finally free, but I’m not entirely there yet with him.