illness

Stress Pools

~ Carie ~ 4 Comments

I work too hard. You may not believe that statement.

I come from a long, proud tradition of workaholics. We don’t know when to stop. We let work grind us into dust. We are so focused on what has to get done, we forget about the things which need to be done.

My father is a prime example. Aside from the two consecutive weeks each year he took off to drive around the U.S. with the family in tow, I don’t remember a day he didn’t go to work. He was gone before I woke in the morning. He walked in the door as dinner was being set on the table. Even today, he doesn’t stop. He’s retired, yet he’s unable sit down and relax. He has to be doing something. Anything. It’s go, go, go, until he sits down and passes out.

And then there’s his offspring. We’re not the best examples of how to live a full life. We try, but even the bulk of our travel is for work. Over the last year, I transferred to a new position, got a promotion, and dove in to the deep end of my personal pool of stress. It has paid off—in some ways. People love what I do. It’s a blessing, but confounding at the same time. I’m drowning, barely able to dog-paddle anymore, yet people stop me to compliment me. So hard work pays off. Right?

Would it pay as much if I worked a little less? Would people like it if I didn’t give it my all? I don’t know. Thing is, I have no right to complain. Every day on the news after filtering through all the extraneous celebrity hype, I’m reminded of people who have nothing, people who are hungry, people who are ill. I’m allowed to sit here and moan over work and stress.

A dear friend of mine is going through chemo. I can’t imagine that process. My descent at the office is nothing compared to her day-to-day. My closest experience was decades ago, and I was only radioactive. I couldn’t hold my nephew for most of the first year of his life. No skin to skin contact with anyone. No public restrooms. No reusable dishes. I hate to clean the bathroom today because I had to clean and wipe it down with bleach every day. I did do things I shouldn’t have, because I was only radioactive. I didn’t go to the doctor every week to have poison pushed into my body. I recovered and grew stronger. My friend suffers and grows weaker as she fights a cancer. This is supposed to make her stronger. So, my workaholic ways and the resulting stress are poppy-cock. She tells me my overwork and stress are real. I’m comparing apples and oranges. I disagree. They are both fruit.

It filters down to life is short. Our epitaph shouldn’t read, “I worked a lot.” No one would notice if I didn’t work into the middle of the night. Those things I’m killing myself to get done can wait. I need to reset my brain to understand it’s okay. I’m not a superhero. I’m not going to be the one to save the planet, especially as I sit in front of a computer putting together marketing plans and writing corporate blogs. My work is meaningful, but the world will continue to turn whether I’m stressed or not. My friends and family, on the other hand, may be happier if I spent more time with them. Maybe even on one of those two-week road trips.

Why the Summer Cold?

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment

I’m sorry, everyone, for my lack of writing prowess last week. Rain clouds and scattered showers invaded my hot Texas summer and brought with them every last particle of allergy-ridden air. When I was a kid, I didn’t suffer like this. The only thing I was allergic to then was down, which was easy to avoid. The allergy to the fluffy softness did cut out my option to time travel to plush homes in ante-bellum or Victorian era times, but I thought of other things to do. Now I am stuck in buildings all day in which they pump cool recycled air through the vents, and I get sprinkled with all of the dust and germs from the 5,ooo plus occupants.

As an asthmatic, I rush into action to crush the allergy attack. If I let it linger, the allergies turn into a sinus infection, and I turn into a mouth-breather. That leads to all out warfare to stave off Bronchitis. Asthma and Bronchitis are those neighbors that build an eight-foot high fence between each other because someone at some point didn’t RSVP on time to the Fourth of July block party or the kids’ My Little Pony bash or the Next Great Thing MLM. It’s localized chaos—in my lungs.

I tried to write you something pretty and witty, but my synapses weren’t firing correctly due to all of the snot and antihistamines. I did spend time admiring the teal ink color of my newest gel pen as I doodled various things on my white sheet legal pad. My brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen as I hunched over the desk, mouth agape, trying to suck in enough air to think. I felt like a kid trying to catch their breath before they tattled on their brother (which I did, a lot). It was that kind of mouth breathing.

I am not good at being sick. Even in my delirium, I have to be doing something. Do not recommend I sit down and rest. Don’t bring up taking a nap. I have things to get done. Don’t I? Somewhere in the haze of my thoughts is a to-do list that needs doing. I’m sure of it. So I get to work doing things which don’t need to be done.

One time, when I had the flu for a few days and was confined to my house, I taught myself to knit. I made two scarves and a hat for my dad during said illness. My mom hates the hat, but Dad loves it. I don’t care either way. Learning to knit kept me occupied, and I gained a new skill. During yet another illness, I completely repainted the house. I had painted it the month before, but the living rooms walls bothered me as they started to close in on my boredom. Their pale yellow color threatened me with their semi-bright cheeriness, so they had to go.

I don’t understand the people who can lie around, wallowing in used tissues and chicken noodle soup. My soul needs more than mere soup. It needs over-the-counter drug fueled purpose. When I’m fine and dandy again, it’s a bit depressing the purpose couldn’t have been a little more purposeful—and actually on the to-do list.