Resident Stranger

H.R. Giger

Sometimes I feel like an alien.

A stranger in a strange land but NOT a stranger as written by Robert Heinlein (the Ayn Rand of science fiction – i.e. an emotionally stunted cartoon). Unless the land we're talking about is found within Starship Troopers. In that case, yeah sure, I do kinda feel like a stranger in a starship troopery sort of land.

The point? I have a deep connection to a few people – it’s not a big group. I’m not filling stadiums here. Why not? Amongst the reasons, it’s how some folks interact with me vis-à-vis my little tumor infestation.

Fer instance, intellectually, I can feature that Catroina (who I’ve known longer than forever) honestly cares about me and my struggles. Still, she hasn’t once, in our long-ass lives, wished me luck on an upcoming surgery, sent a get well card OR even asked how I’m doing/recovering. Same with Marco. Both happily, on their own/no prompting adapted to my new socializing dynamics after the old hearing went south though.

BUT, if I so much as allude to a past or upcoming surgery or a nasty outcome (like when I lost the use of my left leg – which is back now, thenx) Marco clams up or changes the subject or has to stop texting immediately. Catroina? There’s no point in texting or emailing her any of my health news – she never responds. Odd, no?

These are just two examples. Two friends, two not terribly evolved adult behaviors.

I do get it – there’s something funky in their social wiring. It ain’t me, babes. Some folks just can’t deal with scary, disabling, life and death health shit. It’s a real mellow-harsher. Life can be like that…ya know?

I can be pretty matter-of-fact about death. I know I’ll get there faster than others (a race I hadn’t originally planned on winning). Talking about basic logistics can be off-putting. (i.e., I’d like to be buried at sea – that is – just toss me over the wall at high tide. Giant statues of Bastet should be placed along the seawall upon my demise. Offerings of kibble should be left at her base daily to feed her priests and priestesses. I’d like a weeping willow planted in my memory somewhere because, unlike Evita, I want someone/thing always melodramatically sobbing for me.) Apparently, having a dark sense of humor also weirds some of my friends and acquaintances out.

I understand. Plus, few are are able to join in with my giddy interests in my new scars (which I’m inevitably thrilled about and eager to show off. Like yeah, I just made it through something big and ultra scary and this is, like, my merit badge. Please, gaze on it and applaud!).

Back to the point though – I don’t expect hospital or home visits with forced jocularity or deep, depressing sympathies. Actually, spare me, PLEASE! Send some funny memes or a good luck text with a pic of your dog/cat/goldfish instead. Cookies are always in good taste too (white chocolate/macadamia nut plz!). Just gimme a simple, basic acknowledgment that I’m going through some heavy shit. Let's not go all dismal and shit – k?

Without necessarily intending to say so (or maybe I’m being too generous and this exactly what they mean), they’re telling me I can only be loved if/when I’m healthy.

What I do as a result of folks like Catroina and Marco’s seeming rejection of me at my weakest, is that I keep more to myself. I assume no one wants to know what’s happening in Donna’s fun, fun Neuro PlayLand. I feel that I need to project a Superwoman, upbeat, pshaw-this-millionth-grapefruit-sized-brain/spine-tumor’s-nothing-serious vibe at all times. Friends will unfriend me if I’m sick or less fun for too long. Or so my subconscious seems to think.

I will have fun with my nasty-ass disease. I’ll also have times when I’m sad as hell, scared shitless, and totally living in Bleak City.

And THIS, mes amis, is why I don’t like carnival rides. Life is enough of one as it is.