Like Jack Nicholson, if I don't
A MUSIC FESTIVAL AND MORE THAN 5 SECOND OFF. warning: side effects include giddiness, sore dancing muscles, San Francisco fog fright, grass stains on your favorite jeans, and fainting when Jack White goes on stage.
The magnitude of suffering I've witnessed in the past 20 days of work is, well, big. Big enough for me to realize how stupid it is to feel sorry for myself that I am exhausted to the bone and that I have not had a chance to run more than once or twice in all of those days. Running is a good way to prepare for suffering but ironically, without it, my own suffering increases.
My fatigue is so deep in the bones that my youngest kid has reversed our roles: each night she has arrived at my bedside to give me a hug goodnight and tuck me in, as I am already half asleep under the covers well before her summer self would consider such a destination. I feel almost sick, and have started worrying maybe I am. This too is a danger in my profession. You can take a bruise and make it leukemia, or a tummy ache and make it carcinomatosis. But I think I have my diagnosis, and did I mention also a cure?
My Mom died 16 years ago this week. I have told several people they have a potentially terminal illness in the past 2 weeks. I touched someone's pulsating brain. I have taken the wrath of stressed out colleagues and the sadness of families bent over in grief. I miss a friend and mentor who recently died suddenly. I resigned one of my jobs, as 3 seemed too many, but I liked it and it was my only source of health insurance. I miss my children and husband. I have eaten way too much doctor's lounge "food".
I could use a run.