4th lockdown and 10....pounds

4th lockdown & 10

My Medical Day from Hell

I always hesitate sharing private things publicly.  Especially health nonsense.  It always appears to be a cry for help or pity.  A selfish and weak insecurity that screams “somebody please care about me.”  Let me assure you that is not what this is.  Whatever my issues, they are being dealt with and I have no doubt I will be fine.  It is an inconvenience, a stressor, and something that may slow me down from time to time.  But it is being handled.

What this is about is, in my mind, a much greater issue.  Something that is often overlooked and is either not taught in medical schools or it is completely ignored.  And that is, the Bedside Manner.  It is treating your patient like a human being.  In my experience, in which I am regrettably well versed, it is nonexistent. Especially in New York City.

This past Tuesday I spent 8 hours at a Mt. Sinai hospital for two appointments that I believed would be minor and easy to get through.  I was severely mistaken. 

So you are not distracted by the “my God, what on earth is she suffering from?” question and completely missing my intent, I will just answer your question.  15 years ago I was diagnosed with a pituitary microadenoma.  A whuh? AKA: a brain tumor.  Cue ominous music.  It was benign, it was treated, and 10 years ago it disappeared and I was given a clean bill of health with the warning that these pesky tumors have the audacity to return often.

Over the past year, I had noticed some rather familiar side effects so this past December I requested that bloodwork be done.  A week later, I received a paper in the mail, poorly copied, with a bunch of medical jargon of complicated chemical levels with numbers next to them.  No explanations.  Just one word scribbled at the bottom in my doctor’s handwriting.  It read “Normal.”

Now, most people would take that as fact, shrug, wonder why they felt crappy still, but say “hey, I’m normal. It’s fine.”  But with my medical history, I knew what some of the levels meant.  The most important one (let’s call it Fuzzywhatsit) was elevated 3x what it should be for a healthy adult woman.  

It took me two weeks and being transferred six times from call center to call center to leave a message for my doctor who eventually called me back. I asked if she was sure about her assessment.  After refreshing her memory as to who I was (I have been a patient of hers for 4 years) I could hear her typing to pull up my medical history; something she should have done when the results had come back initially.  There was silence on the line.  Then she asked me to come in again for more bloodwork to “double check.”  I did.  And the Fuzzywhatsit levels came back even higher.  

She referred me to a Specialist.  One that she “had a great working relationship with and would take excellent care of me.”  I let it go that she was negligent in finding this problem on her own.  I mean, what good would chiding a doctor really do?

I waited to see this Specialist for 4 months.  Because she only worked twice a week.  And she was booked solid. 

When I arrived at my appointment, I found out that I was passed on to a new doctor whose name even the receptionist couldn’t pronounce.  They didn’t tell me, they just pointed to a room and said have a seat.  Luckily he was kind.  And he listened.  Which is a novelty in my many years of sitting in those cold rooms on crappy vinyl seats.  Then again, he was new to NYC. Give him time.

He ordered that I go to Mount Sinai for a Pituitary Vision Field Test and an MRI.  He also wanted more blood work taken.  At this rate, I wondered if it was possible to run out of blood. 

It took me 2 weeks and three calling centers to set up both appointments.  But I managed to set them up on the same day (this past Tuesday).  Now, I know you must be thinking “jeezus, Stacy.  This is dry and boring.  Get to the point.”  And I have.  It gets better. I promise. (Or worse, depending on how you look at it.)

First was the Ophthalmologist for the Vision Field Test.  My appointment was for 1pm.

Now I have always had perfect sight so I haven’t ever really had to go to an eye doctor.  I have no idea what it entails and put my trust in these people completely.  As you do. 

I check in with the receptionist named Sheron (pronounced SHE-ron. I checked).  I hand her my referral.  It is highlighted in bold: PITUITARY VISION FIELD TEST.  She checks me in.  I sign tons of papers.  I have a seat.  A marathon of Law & Order: SVU is playing loudly on the television.  It occurs to me that this probably isn’t the most tactful show to be playing in a hospital waiting room.  The sounds of women being raped and people screaming in court that they aren’t guilty, etc.  But I pull out my newspaper and turn to the crossword.  I have always hated hospitals.  The smell.  The lack of empathy.  The noises.  The chill.  The pain.  So I often have to keep myself calm and distracted. 

I wait for 30 minutes. 

I get called in to see a technician.  I ask her if she needs to see my referral.  She says no.  She says she needs to put three different drops in my eyes to dilate them and I am warned that my vision will be blurry for a few hours.  I think to myself, well, I guess I won’t be going to the movies today like I thought.  I ask her, “Will this affect my MRI that I am getting later?”  She says no.

I go back to the waiting room.  More women are screaming on the TV but now it is blended with the sound of a mariachi band playing loudly on a cellphone of a man in the corner, sitting under a sign that reads “Please respect others and keep quiet.”  I try to work on my crossword….with dilated pupils.  I am determined.  But now I see three puzzles instead of one.  I take a breath.

I wait for 15 minutes.

A nurse calls me in.  We sit in a room.  She asks me questions that I’ve already answered on the paperwork previously.  I ask if she needs my referral.  She says no.  She sends me back to the waiting room.  More mariachi and SVU.  I read my newspaper, three inches from my face.  Breathe.

I wait for 15 minutes. 

The doctor calls me in.  She sits me down.  I ask, “Do you need to see my referral?”  She says no.  She has me put my chin on a metal apparatus, flashes two lights in my eyes.  She types something in the computer then turns to me and asks, “Ok.  Your eyes look fine.  Why are you here?”

“….excuse me?  What do you mean?  I need a Pituitary Vision Field Test.”

“Oh. I don’t DO those.”

“What?”

“That’s not what I do.”

“Then what do you do?”

“Eye exams.  The technician who does field tests is on vacation for a month.”

“…so what did you just do to me?”

“An eye exam.”

“So….the whole reason why I am here...why?….you just gave me a procedure for no reason.  You dilated my pupils for no reason.  I am going to be charged for this for no reason?”

“I don’t do scheduling.  You’ll have talk to the receptionist.”

“But. I don’t understand.  How did I just get treated for something I didn’t ask for?  How did I get scheduled for a time when the ONE person in your ENTIRE hospital is unavailable?”

The doctor is irritated with me now, “Like I said, I don’t DO field tests or scheduling.  Talk to the receptionist.”

I stumble my way back to the waiting room.  I walk up to Sheron.  I tell myself to keep it together but I’ve started to get upset.  I tell Sheron that I’m upset.  She says she understands.  

I ask, “How did this happen?  I gave you my referral that says why I am here.”

She says, “Oh.  I don’t read those.  I just scan them.”

I blink.  My eyes won’t focus.  I don’t think they would have even without the drops.  I am at a loss.  I ask to speak to whomever I need to speak to so that I won’t be charged for something I didn’t want.  Sheron says she’ll ask the doctor about it.  Sheron comes back 10 minutes later.  The doctor has told her that she saw me as a new patient and I should be charged as one.

I ask again to see someone from administration.  She pages them.  6 times.  Sheron says if I leave my number I could be called when they are available.  I say, “Not on your life, lady.  I’ll wait.”  

I wait 45 minutes.  

They find the admin on the phone.  Sheron asks the admin if she can pass the phone to me to talk to me.  The admin refuses.  Instead she sends her assistant down to talk to me.  I sit in the waiting room in the vinyl chair, curled up, trying not to make a scene.  I explain to the assistant what has happened. I am angry at the tears that are building in my eyes.  But I keep my voice low.  She is sympathetic.  But she is only an assistant.  She asks Sheron how I could be passed through 4 people and no one looked at the referral.  Sheron stumbles over her words, tries to make excuses, and finally apologizes.  The assistant called her boss to come down.  We wait.  While I wait, I hear Sheron and her coworker talking loudly about how it isn’t their fault.  I hear them trying to blame me.  That I must have told the call center that I needed an eye exam.  

But as many of you know, the call centers are made of people who have nothing to do with the medical field.  They read off a piece paper, talk over you like they know what you are going to say, or that you don’t know your own condition, and then with a few key strokes they sign you up for an appointment you don’t even need.

The boss comes down.  She takes me into a side room for privacy.  But this room has machinery everywhere and syringes laid out on trays.  It is not comforting.  But she listens.  She apologizes.  Many times.  She says she’ll void the visit.  And gives me her direct line.  

I am now a human being.  Three hours later and now, I exist.  Now, I am deemed a person that matters.

They set me for the next available field test. September 11^th.  The technician is overbooked.  But hey, I’ll get seen sometime, eventually, on that day.

I call my mother.  She knows I never have good experiences on either plane flights or hospitals.  I try to twist the story to amuse her.  But she reads between the lines.  She knows I’m upset. 

I now go across the street for my MRI.  I tried to pick up something to eat but didn’t have much time so I only managed a milkshake.  In hindsight, I realize this was not enough.  As you’ll soon see….

I nearly get lost finding the MRI check in.  It is in a tiny messy room in the depths of Mount Sinai.  I have calmed down but I am exhausted.  I had worked 6 days in a row and the commute to get to the hospital took 90 minutes.  So I was already looking forward to going home and crawling into bed.  But I sat down and signed tons more paperwork.  The receptionist assures me that they will get me out by 6p and I was all set. 

I wait.  An hour.  

At one point I could hear two technician in the hallway, loudly talking about their lives and dates and texts.  Then they leave without acknowledging me.  The receptionist knows they are not busy. She calls them 4 times before one of them comes to get me. 

He doesn’t look at me much.  He just escorts me into an anteroom where I relinquish my belongings and any metal on my body.  It’s freezing in the room as I take off my rings and put them in a locker.  The technician has a full conversation with a random doctor as I shiver in the hall.  Then he sits me in a chair to put a “line” (a sort of IV needle) in my arm for the contrast solution.  **For those of you that are squeamish, this is the point when you should stop reading.

He wraps the rubber hose tightly around my arm.  Its painful but I know he’s going to need it tight to find my veins.  He asks, “So you got good veins?” 
I say, “No.  People often have a hard time finding them.”
He scoffs and like the cocky bastard he is, puffs up his chest and I can see the disbelief in his eyes.  Another technician comes in and together they chat about nothing.  All while my arm is throbbing from the lack of circulation.  I think back to the last time a cocky phlebotomist acted like that.  That dumbass blew my vein out and while I was in the midst of passing out, had the gall to hit on me.  So I have had very little faith in these people.
Finally, this Mr. Dumbass comes back to me and inserts the needle.  I immediately know something was wrong.  It is a special kind of pain that sadly I know how to recognize as it has happened multiple times.  

Shit. He nicked it.  He sees my face.  I say it doesn’t feel right.  There’s a deep sting.  But maybe he didn’t blow it.  I start to feel nauseous.  I ask for water.  I think, maybe it’s just that I’m tired and I didn’t eat.  Maybe I’m the dumbass.  He gets water and then says he’ll be back in 5 minutes to take me in.

I sit there.  By myself. The  cold sweats start.  Oh no.  I know this.  Next my hearing goes.  I immediately know I am going under.  I lay my head down on the armrest.  Trying to breathe and not knock the dangling IV in my arm around.  I am soaking wet.  And I fight not to either throw up or pass out.  I want my mother.  I want my best friend.  I want to go to sleep.  I feel lonely. 

I look to my left.  A biohazard bin is popped open.  Dried spatters of blood are all over it.  And some on the walls. 

Nope.  Not a good idea.  I shut my eyes.  The dizziness sets in.  Breathe, Stacy Lynn.  Don’t freak out.  You know this.  It passes.  Breathe.

A patient on a gurney was being wheeled out of the MRI room.  I couldn’t tell if they were female or male.  They were old and skeletal and barely moving.  The thin blankets and hospital gown weren’t much covering but they were so frail that they sunk into it.  There was nothing behind their eyes.  The technician who wheeled them passed me said, “hey.” And kept moving. 

I waited for ten minutes.  I had started to recover.  My body dried.  My hearing came back.  

Mr Dumbass came through the door carrying food and a coffee. He. Went. To. Lunch.  I was there, shaking and fighting for consciousness…and that fucker went to lunch.  Right.  Ok. 

If I had been at my best, he would have been castrated right then and there.  But I wasn’t.  And when I am feeling beaten, like only a hospital can make me feel, I become almost zombie like.  I just get through it. 

They walked me to the MRI machine and I laid down.  One technician put earphones over my ears which played classic Rock.  I fucking hate classic rock. 
She started talking to me.  I said, “I can’t hear you. There’s music playing.”  She keeps talking.  I repeat.  Finally she takes off the headphones, instructs me on the panic button, then puts the headphones back on before putting on the face cage.  The cage smells like death and bad breath.  I realize they didn’t wipe this one off from the last patient.  Just get through it, Stacy.

I don’t know if you all have had the pleasure of an MRI before.  But it is the noisiest 30 minutes of your life. One would think that with all the technological advances in the world, they’d find a way to make a silent MRI.  But no, it’s like a jackhammer meets a video game in surround sound.  Regardless of the headphones.

The first 15 minutes or so is without contrast.  They slide you in and the cacophony begins.  The song, by the way, playing in my ears was Guns N Roses “Knocking on Heaven’s Door”.  Again, highly inappropriate for someone in a health crisis.  But the irony and humor was not lost on me.

They then pull me out of the tunnel to insert the contrast liquid into my arm through the “line.”
.....And an immediate burning spreads through my arm. 

“Fuck!”

The technician (yet a different one again because apparently they need 5 of them to run a machine) passively asks what is wrong.

“My arm is burning.  It hurts.”

“Well hold it still.”

I know something isn’t right.  But I’m hoping that at least some of the contrast is going where it needs to go.  Just so I can get out of there.  A part of me still trusts these people.  It’s their job after all.  They would know if something is wrong.  I’ve told them it hurts and it burns.  If they aren’t concerned then I shouldn’t be, right?

They push me back in the machine.  This time without music.  So I hear the banging of the scans rattle in my head.  The burning doesn’t stop.  It’s building.  I’m breathing in short bursts now.  Whimpering like a dog.  Mentally shouting at myself to hold still so I don’t screw up the imaging scan.  I lock my muscles.  Grit my teeth.  Hate my life.  But I hold still.  For five minutes. 

They yank me out of the tunnel.  Two technicians pull the cage off my head.  One asks, “why are you panicking?”

I say, angrily, “I’m not panicking. It. Hurts.”

One technician touches my arm where the line is, “Oh. It’s gone hard.”

The other technician asks me, “Do you have small veins?”

I stare at the ceiling.  An angry tear escapes my left eye.  Don’t you fucking give them the satisfaction of tears, Stacy Lynn.  They don’t deserve them.

“Yes," I say,  "I think he blew out my vein.  It’s happened before.”

One technician takes out the line. He presses on the area to spread the contrast that was building and is stuck in my arm.  My stomach rolls with nausea but I lay still. 

The other technician softens his voice.  He introduces himself.  His name is Tony.  He asks my name.  He asks my weight. He asks three times.  He asks if I have any possibility of being pregnant.  All these things I’ve answered on the paperwork that they did not bother to read.  He asks about my arm tattoo. He asks where I am from.  

Suddenly, again, I am a person.  I exist.  It took pain and mistakes.  But now I exist.

He explains what I already know.  They can try, with my permission, the other arm.  But if they fuck it up again, I will have to reschedule and come back and do it all over again.

I stare at the ceiling.  I nod my head. What else could I do?  What choice did I actually have?

I pray he’s better at stabbing my arm than Mr. Dumbass.

He is.  He gets it right.  I can already tell it’s the accurate kind of hurt.  He inserts the contrast.  No burning.  They put the cage back on.  I listen to the buzz and bang of the MRI for 15 minutes.  And its over. 

They put gauze and tape on both arms after taking the line out.  And then send me away looking like a haggard crazy person with holes in her arms.  I wander outside, looking for a place to buy liquids to hydrate. I call my mother.  Calmly tell her.  Try to spin it to entertain.  She's horrified.  I have to walk an extra 10 blocks because they shut down the closest subway stop for repairs.  I reassure my mother by saying, well, at least its a nice day outside for a walk.

I ride the subway the 90 minutes it takes to get home.  I crawl into bed. It is 9pm.

Two days later my Specialist with the difficult name to pronounce calls.  He says, “Good news.  Your brain tumor’s back.”

I say, “That’s good news?”

He says, “Well if there hadn’t been a growth, I wouldn’t have known what was wrong with you.”

And there you have it.  THAT is how you get treated.  THAT is how you get spoken to. THAT is my norm.  THAT is most new yorkers’ experiences.  Because for every story I have told, another friend has a story just like it.  I have a minimum of a year of checkups and bloodletting to look forward to.  And you know what?  It isn’t the brain tumor that scares me.  I can handle that.  I don’t need to talk about how I feel about that. I got this.

It’s the dehumanization and carelessness of those medical professionals and their receptionists that make me want to fall apart.  Yeah, the side effects of the meds will suck.  But not nearly as much as those waiting rooms. If you are reading this and you know a medical professional, remind them that no amount of need for emotional distance, no amount of education or knowledge, no amount of money or power gives you license to be an ASSHOLE.  

If people are irritable or short with you?  Maybe it’s because they are scared.  If they question you?  Maybe its because you aren’t listening.  It may be an appointment for you.  A blip on your radar.  But its their LIFE.  Their body.  And they know it better than you ever will.

And if nothing else.  Remember these 2 things.  Read the fucking referral.  And never go on a lunch break when your patient is passing out.

END.

Coddiwomple in Paris

Coddiwomple:  to travel in a purposeful manner towards a vague destination.

It's my favorite way to travel.

As a young girl I was obsessed with Paris.  I had even decorated my room in the eiffel tower at one point.  When I was 21 or so, I managed to go and ended up having an absolutely abysmal time.  Since then, I have endeavored to come back and do it up right.  So far, it has been a huge success.

Paris' color palette is pastels and creams.  Then suddenly, a vibrant turquoise or red door will pop out at you.  New York is built so high that you feel claustrophobic as people are quite literally on top of you.  Paris is spread out and built low with everything rich and ancient.  I can see why people think it is romantic.  I myself am falling in love. With. My. Self.

Everything is easily walkable.  Especially for a New Yorker.  I haven't taken the Metro once as you really should see this place on foot.  It also justifies all the bread and sugar you will be eating.  I also appreciate that this is a place for taking your time.  To-Go coffee is not really a thing.  Nor should it be.  Sit down, find an outdoor cafe, and have a cafe creme.  Some cafes will put blankets on the chairs to keep warm or heaters overhead.  Bottles of wine are being drunk in multitudes as you smell the mostly pleasant scents of the city.  Fresh bread from the boulangerie on every corner, sweets from the pattiserie, cigarettes from the brooding men and women who look like wealthy hobos.  It is quite frustrating how everyone looks like they aren't trying and yet most look effortlessly fashionable.

Parisiennes are quite kind and have responded to my out of practice french with encouraging smiles.  I especially adore the elderly.  When visiting the Cimitiere Pere lachaise, Katems (my biffle) and I were searching for Oscar Wilde's monument and clearly looked a little lost in the massive fields of gravestones.  An old man, with cap over a mop of dyed hair, had a slim cigar between his teeth.  He shuffled over to us and asked, "Vous cherche qui?"  We told him who we were looking for and with a wisdom and confidence of a man who must come often, he began to give elaborate directions. A gauche here,  a droit there.  around the bend, behind something or other.  Pretty soon he just shook his head and gestured with his lit cigar for us to follow him.  We navigated around sepulchres and tip toed between graves.  He pointed out Sarah Bernhardt's headstone, which we never would have found on our own.  And finally, when we were close enough to Wilde's resting place, the old man gave us a nod and without ceremony wished us a good day.  Kate wished she knew his story.  Why did he know the cemetery so well?  Was he visiting someone?
I find large old cemeteries beautiful and calming for some reason.  In a large city, its also one of the places you can actually find quiet.  I'm always looking for peace and silence.  Its fascinating to see the largesse that the living dedicate to the dead.  Stained glass windows and marble statues, in honor of people who will never see them.  Then again, burial places are often to comfort the living, not the dead.  We saw where Moliere and Jim Morrison ended up and I thought it was interesting that people of such reknown had such subtle tributes as opposed to some others who were not famous yet clearly overcompensating for something. 

Kate and I spent a good deal of our first day walking through Le Marais, one of the oldest neighborhoods in Paris.  I loved it there.  Less touristy and full of character.  Most of the stores were privately owned and not a food chain or Starbucks in sight.  Some streets had easter egg colores facades and everything was clean by city standards.  I found the most wonderful shop dedicated to stationery and calligraphie.  It made me miss writing letters.  The paper is the kind that soaks in the ink just right and they had the most beautiful quills and wax stamp kits.  Knowing myself, I may just have to go back and purchase something as a souvenir.  Perhaps it will inspire me to write again.

We had lunch at Biglove and had scrummy Pizza and blueberry french toast with clotted creams and comfiture while listening to the best 1990s r&b playlist. Then walked it off towards Notre Dame as the bells rang the hour and took a wee look at the bookstore Shakespeare & Co.  We must have done at least 6 miles of walking, mostly along the Seine.  All the while catching up with our lives and projects.  Unconcerned with schedule or exact destination. 

We ended the night with Kate having a chocolate chaud and I a rather nice large glass of red wine.

Today was more of a solo venture.  Body aching from the day before, yet fully committed to seeing more, I walked to Sainte Chapelle and the Conciergerie.  I am sucker for stained glass windows and you will never see better then Sainte Chapelle.  Trust me on this one.  At the Conciergerie I took in some revolutionary history and brushed up on Marie Antoinette as well as looking at some old relics.  Then took to walking through Place de Vosges, Hotel de la ville, and the Louvre courtyard before crossing Pont Neuf and meeting Kate at one of my favorite Museums: the Musee D'orsay.  The building itself used to be a train station and it is laid out in a way that you don't feel overstimulated by too much.  I remembered being overwhelmed at the Louvre and even getting lost a few times.  But at the D'orsay....it's so open.  And they have a wonderful collection of Impressionism, my favorite.  Renoir paints soft lines and light that I find flattering and calming.  And I'm always interested in the facial expressions of the subjects; ranging from confidence to annoyance to apathy.  The women are unapologetically curvy and voluptuous in a way that makes them so beautiful. I like how a lot of these painters see these women.  It isn't objectified yet it's bold.  It's a subtle yet important difference.

After that, our brains and bodies were fried and we trekked the long walk home.  We knew a torrential rain was coming and we were doing our best to avoid getting caught in it.  We walk through the Bastille roundabout, down the rue de Rivoli, and were but ten minutes from our flat when the skies opened up.  Armed with two red umbrellas, as skipped over puddles and did our best not to be pushed over by the wind.  My umbrella was turned inside out and I nearly hydroplaned on the cobblestones because, well, I am nothing if not graceful like a mountain goat.  We made it to our studio, peeled out of our wet clothes and threw together a dinner and having a quiet evening in.

Things you must eat while in grand Paris:
1. Beignet Frambroise (raspberry donut) in the morning so it's fresh.
2. Crepes (both savoury and sweet. I recommend nutella for the sweet).
3. Falafel
4. WINE.  all the wine.
5.  Papillon cheese
6. Fresh baked bread and camembert
7. Pain au Chocolat with Cafe Creme
8. Croque Monsieur (or Madame)
9. Raclette
10. Kir Bleu (or Kir des dieux) which is an aperitif cocktail of champagne and blue curacao.

I've missed the language.  I miss how much easier it used to come to me.  But it has been lovely finding my way through it again.  I find I can read it fairly well and after stuttering a bit on the accent, the speaking of it has improved.  Both Kate and I even managed to give directions to people in french which put a little extra hitch in our giddyup.  Understanding it when spoken is still my biggest challenge.  But there have been times, like when I first arrived and the owner of our airbnb flat spoke that it was so fast that I didn't have time to hesitate.  Suddenly I understood her quite well and answered immediately.  So I know its still there somewhere in the back of my brain.  I may take it up again though.  It's soothing when listening to it.

Overall this has been an excellent trip thus far and I believe this is one of the few cities that I could keep coming back to.  Just because I can.

Rubatosis

Rubatosis.

Well that explains it.

That unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat.  Sure, it could occur when you fancy someone; to feel that flutter when their hand runs along your back.  But no.  That's not what I mean.

I am talking about when you have so much anxiety that you feel your heartbeat in your ears.  Behind your eyelids.  Stuck in your throat as you choke on it.  This is pure, untainted, mercury tasting anxiety.  And even the best of us get it.  I get it every time I get on a stage.  Always figured it would fade in time; that I would grow out of it.  20 years, dozens of shows and three diplomas later it is still as fresh as it has always been.  Now I just use certain tactics and tricks to combat it just enough to get through a show without it paralyzing me.  Allow me to use my last show as an example.

I recently played Adriana in The Comedy of Errors in a Shakespeare festival.  This is how a show day goes.

Wake up 7am.  Sick to stomach.  Angry at my body for waking up hours before it has to.  Toss and turn in bed out of defiance but know damn well there will be no more sleep to be had.

10am.  Still haven't eaten anything.  Feel like my stomach will give birth to an alien like that John Hurt scene from Alien.  I steal a can of Sprite from my housing host and fill my waterbottle.  I chug the water throughout the day even though I want to hurl it back up again.  I know it will be 90 degrees out and my costume doesn't breathe and weighs a ton.  If I'm not hydrated, I will most likely keel over from heatstroke.  Can't have that.  I'm a professional.  I'm being paid to do a job.  Stop it, Stacy.  Don't be a pussy.  Drink your juice, Shelby.

1pm.  Force a piece of toast with peanut butter down.  Do ten sun salutations.  Put on a few episodes of Frasier.  Anything to shut off the mind.  Feeling a little better.

5pm.  Walk around with curlers in my hair and the can of Sprite before Fight Call.  If I traded in the Sprite for a PBR and had a cigarette hanging out of my mouth I'd fit right in at the trailer park.
Have begun to have acid reflux from nerves.  Never felt more attractive in my life. I run my lines from the show in its entirety.  Yup.  Still know them.  That's good.
Arrive at fight call.  Sip on my sprite in between throwing tomatoes, plates, and people around.  Feeling better because I am DOING something rather than thinking.  It's hot out.  I hate being hot.  I've gone way passed glistening and on to full sweaty.  Again.  I'm a beauty.

6pm.  I get in to hair and makeup.  I am still burping.  Everyone is doing their preshow prep.  Some listen quietly to music, others tell jokes and watch youtube videos.  Some are stretching and humming on the floor.  I fluctuate from show to show.  My prep always depends on where I am at emotionally that day.  Today I stay to myself, no music.  Stretch in the splits and half pigeon.  I tape my mic on to my face.  I check three times to make sure it is on.  It may seem excessive but as it will be under layers of fabric, there would be no reaching it once the costume is on.  My hands have gone cold and tingling.  I start to count my breaths.  In for 10.  Out for 10.  I think of the first line of each scene.  Stacy Lynn, I say to myself, you choose to do this to yourself.  Your anxiety is not real.  Stop it.

6:45pm  In costume, I walk to the stage outside.  The heat is stifling.  15 minutes to places.  I spray bugspray all over and then pace back and forth.

6:55pm  I look at each of my castmates.  I say, "Take care of them, Stacy.  Listen to them.  Respond.  It isn't about you and your problems.  It's about them.  Make it about them.  And trust you know what you are doing.  Never. Let. Them. See. You. Sweat.  Metaphorically, that is.  Because, well, it's fucking hot out here."

7pm.  Show starts.  Stomach feels like it is rotting from the inside out.  Slow your breathing, Stacy.  You are on.

7:20pm First scene went well.  That's good.  But right now you are being too aware of yourself, Stacy.  Look at your scene partner.  Listen.  Respond.  It's hot.  Stop it, Stacy.  Listen. Respond.

7:35pm  Oh dear.  It's the kissing scene.  I see the sweat pouring off my scene partners face.  A drop hangs from the tip of his nose.  If only people knew how unsexy we both feel.  And also, how I sprayed myself in the face with bugspray and the deet has caused my lips to tingle and go numb.  Oh dear.  Now we are kissing and the cue for me to stop kissing him is still ten lines away but my face is sliding off his and as I have him in a dip, he is really heavy.  Four lines left till cue.  Wait.  Was that my cue?  Shit.  Nope, it wasn't.  3. 2. 1.  Drop him and say your line.  Boom.  I got this.  I feel better.

8pm  Half way through.  This scene is going well.  I know what to say next.  Timing is good.  Wait.  What?  My scene partner skipped forward a few lines.  What do I say?  I can't improv Shakespeare.  What line should I say?  Will it make sense?  Where am I?  Who am I?  Oh God, I see the panic in her face.  Don't curse, Stacy.  Your mic is on.  Ok.  Shhhh. Stop it, Stacy.  Listen.  Respond.  What did she say to you?  Right.  Ok.  So you should say.... "I cannot, nor I will not hold me still..."  Ok. Ok.  It's ok.  My scene partner has started breathing again.  We've moved on.  We're ok.  It was only a ten second lag.  No problem.  No worries.  Ugh. I hate my life.  Keep going.  It's okay.

8:40pm  Last scene.  This is the one where I am stuck on stage till the end of the play.  It's so hot and there's no breeze.  And as the sun sets, the mosquitos have come out.  I can see one sucking the neck of one of the cast mates.  I can't do anything about it.  I just have to watch.  Listen.  Respond.  Nearly there.  This is fun.  You've a good cast.  The audience likes it.  They laugh.  I slyly wipe my face with my sleeve.

9:15 End of play.  Bow.  Get out of the fucking heat.  Feel a state of euphoria.  It's done. I got through it.  I did well.  I need a beer.  I feel a sense of accomplishment and pride for overcoming such overwhelming Rubatosis.  Huzzah.

11:30pm  Drop dead into sleep.

7am next morning...pop awake.  Sick to my stomach.  Here we go again.

---

Why, you might ask, do I do this to myself?

Because I like the work.  I like the rehearsal.  I like creating something that didn't exist before.  I like becoming someone I wasn't for just a moment.  I like to challenge myself.  I like to remind myself that i'm not a coward and that I can and will overcome these mental issues that want to cripple me.  I like to think that when I have these moments of success, it is yet another step towards becoming everything I've always wanted to be, what I have always been: Unstoppable. Lovable.  Powerful.

The success is not in exterminating the fear.  It is doing the damn thing in spite of it.

Hiraeth

I've been thinking a lot about this word this week.  I feel I've finally found a word that encompasses how I live.  The ache that follows me no matter how many countries I visit, places I live, jobs I do, people I meet.  The world is littered with my memories and pieces of my heart that I've lost or given.  I have no regrets for how I live my life.  I've found a peace this past year, an acceptance, that this is who I am and there's nothing wrong with it.  But the ache still shivers through me often when I think of all the people I miss and moments that didn't last long enough.  Moments I wasn't ready to let go of just yet.
Hiraeth.  A homesickness.  I used to dream of a singular home that would hold all my comfort and love.  Inside it would be people who needed me as I needed them.  There was certainty there.  An absolute belief that I belonged and was loved.  It would be this place of safety that I could escape to when the world was all too much (which it so often is).
I never found that place.  I don't know where I got the idea that it existed.  Perhaps from the protective cocoon that my parents created when I was young.  Or perhaps it was a created nostalgia of my own mind about my childhood.  I just remember feeling safe.  And so sure that my future was going to be guaranteed for greatness.
Now I find that my home is not a place.  It is people as well as within myself. This does not, however, make things in any way easier.  People are transient, fickle, or in search of their own destinies and lives.  You can't fault them for it.  They have their own purpose.  They should want and go after what is theirs.  But it is always hard when your direction is not the same. Sometimes they veer off where you can't follow.  Or you pursue something that is not meant for them.

My home is my mother and father.  They are my past and roots.  They are the voices in my head that tell me to be kind and push harder.  But they are across the country and it's hard when I've had a bad day and all I want is to sit next to them and remember that these two people have known me my entire life and have loved me for every single minute of it.  You can't say that about many people, can you?  Christmases are not same now.  Birthdays are often a telephone call and a card in the mail.  I cannot recapture those themed parties and personally decorated cakes of my youth.  Moments that cannot be recreated even with the greatest of effort.  Hiraeth.

My home is my brother and his family.  I call my nephew and niece on the phone.  Tonight, my nephew asks about the Star Wars story I promised him.  He asks when I will come and visit.  My heart hurts because I don't have an answer for him and I can't make a promise I can't keep.  I remember holding him as a baby, the sound of his voice the first time he said my name.  Soon he will be too old and too cool to ask his Aunt Stacy to come visit.  I ache because I have missed so much.  So many moments.  And I know I will miss more.  Hiraeth.

My home is my dear friend Kate in London.  She is both grounded and a dreamer.  She reminds me that I have every right to fight and believe that I can create whatever I want and that what I have to say is worth hearing.  She brings out the silly in me.  I am not silly nearly enough on my own. And I wish, so many times, at the end of a rotten day, that she could meet me at a bar and have a gin and fizzy lemonade while we plot our world domination.  Our times in grad school are precious memories.  Moments that have sealed us as forever friends despite oceans between us.  We joke and fantasize about being roommates as we collect our menagerie of odd pets and become two old biddies together.  Hiraeth.

My home is with D, who unintentionally inspires how I look at the world even though we have broken a few of the strings that tethered us together.  He is a quiet voice of reason and has provided such stability in my nomadic ways.  Though absent, I still find myself spinning events of my life into imaginary letters, missing his good sense and quick wit that always brought me joy.  I sometimes ache for the moments I haven't shared with him.  Or the memories that might have been made.  Hiraeth.

I have so many homes in so many cities.  Yet I find myself always missing someone. Or something.
Hiraeth is living my best life while wishing I could be in all these places at once as well.
And I AM living my best life.  No, I am not kind enough to myself.  My home within me is still dusty with cobwebs and ghosts.  No, I am not where I dream to be. But I am moving forward while being present, and THAT is progress.  I am IN progress.  I am taking the time to savor my solitude.  Even though I don't share my moments with my homes.

I walked home from a mini performance tonight while the sun was setting over the small South Dakotan village. A half moon appeared above me as I meandered over cracks in the pavement. Main Street has but one stop light and all the stores are privately owned.  There are no Starbucks or Walgreens.  The ice cream shop takes cash only and the Shell station is more of a bakery than a mini-mart.  Colonial houses line the street with beautifully landscaped grass, trees, and shrubbery.  There's a gorgeous yellow mansion with columns, balcony, porch with swing, sun windows, and french doors...I think to myself, in another life, that would have been my house.  Though the yellow would have to go.
I turn down my street and hear only birds in the trees and the beginning songs of cicadas.  There are no sirens or people shouting.  Just the susurrus of the wind through trees.  I think, how lucky I am; to see this and yet know NYC.  To come back to my house here where the doors remained unlocked because people here do not worry about crime, and yet still know and understand the hustle of a great City.  How lucky that I know my way around Edinburgh, London, Seattle....that I've seen Australia, France, Italy, Monaco, Canada, Mexico, Ireland, Iceland, all around the US....and yet I have also been able to walk the streets of a tiny town like this one.

Being an actor, being in this business....it's lonely.  I don't mind solitude.  I actually need quite a bit of time to be by myself, to quiet the outside voices and opinions and recognize my own.  But there are moments...like these...that I wish my home, my people, were with me to experience a dusk like this.

Hiraeth.