Clinical normality & God-stops
My labs came back on Friday. Everything is normal at the moment, which is not to say I am “cured.” I will never be cured of breast cancer until there’s, you know, a cure.
Oh, but reader, to hear the words “normal” from a doctor’s office. To hear a little cheer, a little good will, a little confidence in the voice of the medical professional who called to tell me I was “normal” — “normal” tumor markers, and “normal” thyroid levels (a bit low, but “normal”), and normal hormone levels (low because I take and receive drugs designed to prevent my body from producing estrogen), and so my little body had been scanned and drawn and the conclusion was: “All things considered? Not too shabby.”
So I’m setting down the over-concern about my body for the next 3–6 months. I will continue to take my drugs, get my labs, get my shots, my infusions, and I will try not soak myself too much in “body fear” until my next symptom or scan.
My “day job” is fabulous, reader. This is not to say it is “easy” or “comfortable” because it is neither. My current job is one of the hardest I’ve yet had because I am currently a full-time middle school teacher. Middle school. What we used to call “junior high.” Think ages 11–14.
I know. Yow.
Teaching middle school for one hour two or three times a week is, as it turns out, very different from teaching middle school for eight hours five times a week and then some. My students are wonderful, and they are middle schoolers. They require a lot of work, you know? It’s not like when I used to teach AP Lit to juniors and seniors and could casually turn to my white board and draw a thoughtful literary diagram while they waited patiently, silently . . .
Middle schoolers are loud and impatient by design. There’s nothing that can be done. Even the most well adjusted middle schooler is a massive, complex, critical, holy mess. This stage in human development is just messy. There’s nothing that can be done.
When I was a kid, once a year all my cousins (and I had a lot of cousins) and my uncles and aunts (had a lot of those, too) would gather to go on a camping trip. Part of the camping trip involved wading through a little stretch of mud before we got to the good part: the swimming, the food, the mud fights. The mud was full of leeches. The mud sucked our shoes off. The mud made us question the wisdom of packing that much soda (which we called “pop” because it was midwest America in the 1980s). Then we got through the mud, into the water.
In the course of a human life, adolescence is that stretch of mud.
The past two weeks, my alcohol cravings have been stronger than I thought they would be well into six months of sobriety. They usually come on after work, especially after a particularly arduous day, or take hold on around sunset on a Saturday . . . these are times when I used to enjoy a drink that was never just a “drink.” Instead, my “drink” would quickly become a “thing.” For me, anyway. My “drink” would almost always become “drinks” and involve some inner struggle over how in the world to stop when I knew I needed to stop.
When I partake of a joint, I stop smoking when the joint stops burning. Even if I’ve only had two hits, if the joint stops burning, I deem it a “God-stop.” Meaning, “this is where the universe wishes you to stop.” Meaning, “this is where you are to stop, naturally.” Meaning, “no mas.”
Though “God-stops” can apply to all sorts of things/situations that have nothing to do with medicine or booze — like there will be a “God-stop” to this post, this hour, our lives — there was no “God-stop” when I drank.
While alcoholism may be the Saltine Cracker of addictions, it is still very much an addiction, so there’s no “God-stop.”
Sometimes I heart-poundingly crave alcohol like a lover or at least a crush. Alcohol will literally kill me, and alcohol has proven this point by almost murdering me on a number of occasions. Frankly, abusive relationships and alcoholism seem to have a lot in common.
I know the alcohol tried to kill me, but maybe the alcohol didn’t mean it? Maybe the alcohol is sorry now? Maybe the alcohol has changed?
Contrary to the silly way I sometimes portray myself, my reason is generally very sound and strong, and alcoholism pushes against my reason, sometimes damn near toppling it.
That’s scary. That’s why I keep going to those damn meetings and reading the mediocre literature that, despite being poorly written, has much useful advice to provide someone like me who is simply trying her level best not to drink poison.
Today was one of those days where I hit the ground running (somewhat literal given the amount of physical movement middle school demands) around 7:45 a.m. and was completely spent by about three. The day concluded, however, with a really inspiring, gentle faculty meeting, and I can assure you, reader, I have never met a work-related meeting I liked much less loved, but today I loved a work-related meeting. Good for me.
Now that I don’t drink or stay out late drinking, I really feel the American school day should start at 6 a.m. and end at noon. We can all get up at a quarter-to-five like old school farmers, learn while we’re freshly awake, and then go eat lunch and crash/indulge our hobbies/pray/play/shop — whatever your non-destructive “thing” is. This is probably how the Norwegians do things. Today, my students and I all roundly agreed we should move to Norway. Norway, if you’re reading this, we’re all really nice, fun people. You would love having us as citizens in your nice, neutral, sane country.
And there’s the God-stop.
