Obligatory ‘unedited!’ reminder, just in case nothing makes sense.
I wasn’t sure whether to shriek or cry when the substitute MDS gently closed the door behind herself this afternoon and I caught a glimpse of myself in its full-length mirror under harsh hospital lighting. Sitting on the exam table, waiting for her to return with a tidy row of syringes to plunge into my neck, shoulder, and the back of my head, I barely recognized the reflection as my own. The unreadable expression, the under-eye circles that were 10 times worse than usual (an astonishing feat if you’re familiar with my visage), the mismatched muscles on either side of my neck, and the sloppiness of my attire were highly suggestive of someone who has either given up on life or recently returned from the dead. I don’t have much physical vanity but still possess some pride and, boy, was it wounded today.
There was no time to be pensive on the Lyft ride home. First the driver, a grandmother in her early fifties, and I bonded over shared disbelief that Janet Jackson’s The Velvet Rope — our mutual favorite of her albums — is almost 30 years old. One of its singles was on the radio, reminding me of Jackson’s accidental omission from the recent list of people and things Former Partner greatly resented, and it’s funny now how explicit The Velvet Rope, with its coy songs about BDSM and bisexual threesomes, was once considered; not even 10 years later, Akon’s “I Wanna Love You” topped the charts and nobody seemed to bat an eye.
At the next stoplight, we surveyed nearby property damage from the recent storm and she pulled up photos on her phone. “We took cover in our basement and came out to this,” she said, swiping through images of utter devastation: collapsed brick walls, piles of rubble, a street view of the exposed second floor of her house, including an open closet door revealing shirts still on hangers. She normally drives on the side for extra cash, she said, and works full-time elsewhere. That shop was another of the storm’s casualties and she’s not sure when, or if, it will reopen. We talked about disaster response, local and national politics, about racism and classism and the help her neighbors desperately need and haven’t gotten so far. She repeatedly mentioned Jesus and her faith.
By the time she pulled up to my house, she couldn’t hold back her tears. I told her about some under-publicized local resources, like the food pantry hosted by Crankenstein’s church and a free clinic for kids and teens that’s been facilitating showers and laundry, and she joked “Good thing I can pass for a teenager!” Lyft caps its drivers’ tips, so I was relieved I’d stashed emergency cash in my backpack before leaving; she’d been making daily Costco runs and distributing supplies to her neediest neighbors, mostly the elderly and those with babies and younger children, and I suspected that’s where the tip would go but also hoped she’d get something for herself.
Though the circumstances were much different — her home was hit by a tornado and my apartment was flooded by sprinklers following a neighbor’s fire — I know what it’s like to be suddenly homeless due to something beyond your control, and how hard it is to regain a sense of equilibrium afterward. It only occurred to me while writing this how similar my life is now, emotionally speaking, to the aftermath of the fire. Then and now, I was extraordinarily privileged to have the means to keep going while the broken stuff’s fixed. It was easier then for myriad reasons big and small, but the stakes are higher now and I’ve been failing miserably at repairing the damage.
I never want to see a reflection like that in an exam room mirror again; I’m a property on the brink of being condemned. No one else is coming to the rescue, the rebuilding is up to me, and I’ve spent the past year angry that things keep getting worse but what have I done to change it? My next MDS appointment is August and my job in the interim is to metaphorically patch the roof of this dilapidated building to keep out the rain so renovations can begin in earnest.