Back to the (Barely) Living

As a consequence of recent events, I’ve developed an arm condition. Yes, an arm condition, which is odd in and of itself because the arm is not a body part I typically have issues with. Usually, I try to focus my efforts on more vital areas, like the brain or heart or liver, but nonetheless, desperate times call for desperate measures and I in turn have developed an arm condition. A condition I’ve coined as “Cold Arm;” a derivative of Cold Shoulder.

Now, when I say this condition is a derivative of Cold Shoulder, I do not mean of the phrase, (i.e., I give my mom the cold shoulder because she’s a conniving bitch), no, that’s not what I mean at all, I mean it in the medical sense of the term; “Cold Shoulder” or “Frozen Shoulder,” as it’s sometimes called, (i.e., I can’t move my fucking arm).

I was first exposed to this syndrome a couple years ago on a family cruise through the Bahamas when Rey’s mother became literally paralyzed at the thought of spending ten uninterrupted days with her parents and five sisters. We laughed about it at the time, I mean “Cold Shoulder” really? You’re so stressed you can’t move your shoulder? But as I sit here with my arm glued to my side, I’m suddenly thinking it’s not so damn funny.

Life’s a Bitch

Eight years ago, almost to the day, my brother woke up, stumbled into my mom’s room and peed in her closet while emphatically requesting that someone remove the socks he wasn’t wearing. That day marked the first of an eight year battle; yesterday that battle ended.

Mental Health, meet the garbage disposal…

When I lazily opened my eyes at 8:30 a.m. this morning and rolled out of bed, I had no idea. As I sipped my pumpkin coffee and watched CNN, I had no idea. When I headed out—on what I thought was an ordinary Saturday—for some fall clothes shopping, I—you guessed it—had no idea. I had no fucking idea, as I sat down for my first glass of scotch, that later that day, I’d be writing the following email to my supervisor:

* * *

Natalia:
My brother was just given one week to live. I’m on my way to the bay area now to spend some time with him, I plan to be back to work on Thursday. I’m sorry to communicate this to you via email but I’m too emotional to talk by phone. I’ll be available on my cell, if you or anyone else needs to get in touch. Thanks.

No and No

To answer all of your thoughtful emails—which I was too rude and lazy to respond to—no, I am not cured, and no, I am not dead, although I feel like I might die right now, and it’s not because of the tumor in my neck or the mass that’s smashing my brain against my skull, and it’s not because of my unwanted pregnancy or the rapidly progressing mouth cancer that I’ve developed from excessive margarita intake—and no, it’s not because of this uncontrollably long run-on sentence—it’s because last night, I learned—wait for it—that my little brother has leukemia.

Leu-fucking-kemia. Do I need to say anymore? Do I need to say that this is a huge—and just because I resisted the urge to hit caps lock when I typed “huge” does not mean it’s not an enormously huge “huge”—blow to my mental health?

I will say one thing, if there was ever any chance of me beating hypochondria, it’s not gonna happen now.