Gray's Annatomy: Also, I'm Dying

I don't mean to brag or anything, but I was born to not be a doctor.  It's almost like God specifically crafted me to be the perfect non-physician.  And it's not just that I'm a squeamish hypochondriac who giggles whenever she hears the word "sphincter," I'm also kind of an insensitive jerk.

A few years back, I accidentally stepped on my sister's toe AND BROKE IT.  "It hurts so bad," she whimpered quietly, hobbling to the freezer to get some frozen peas.  "Are you calling me fat?" I replied.

The moment I truly realized that I had no bedside manner, however, was during my freshman year of college.  It was the dead of night, and my darling roommate, Carrie, was having some kind of violent cough attack.  I didn't wake up--so to be honest, I don't actually remember this happening--but apparently I thrashed about beneath my blankets and bellowed, "SHUT THE F*** UP!"  Two minutes later, I actually woke up.  "Are you okay, Carrie?" I asked, my voice full of concern.  "Can I get you anything?"  She looked at me with fear in her eyes.  "I don't trust you at all," she replied.

I don't remember much about the rest of that night, because I, being the sweet, loving person that I am, went immediately back to sleep.  This was rather particularly horrible of me, because Carrie ended up being taken to the hospital that night.  I must have opened my eyes briefly during the wee hours, because I remember noticing that she--and my blanket--were gone.  "That bitch took my blanket," I murmured dreamily, drifting back to undeserved sleep.

The good news is, Carrie was fine, she just had Swine Flu or something, and she, for whatever reason, actually still chooses to be my friend today.  But the point is, when confronted with other people's sicknesses, I am emotionally unmoved.  Which just means that, if there is any sort of poetic justice to this world, I deserve to be the MOST SICK person of ALL.  Which is great, because I am also, as previously stated, a semi-hypochondriac.

This is a completely undoctored photo of that time I was on Grey's Anatomy.

I have been waiting my entire life to be told that I'm dying.  First, there was the weird lump behind my ear, which they told me was probably nothing, but I still think contains a piece of my unborn twin.  Then, I started randomly collapsing--which, it turns out, is fairly common for people like me who "don't like the taste of water."  But they still had to run a bunch of tests on my heart, which turned out to be healthy despite having an irregular beat.  "Your heart is weird," my doctor told me, "but it won't kill you."  Funny, people have said the same thing about me.

Recently, however, my only health concern has been this horrible asthmatic sea lion cough.  I've had it on and off for 22 years, but only now have my doctors decided to figure out why.  Naturally, I'm assuming the worst.  If having a PhD from WebMD has taught me anything, it's that if you think you have a paper cut, a cold, or a sore muscle, what you probably actually have is cancer.  It doesn't matter if my cough is just a temporary thing that happens when I'm around dust and smoke.  It's probably still Bubonic Plague.

Which brings me to where I am now, coughing spastically and convinced that bad karma has doomed me to a short and germy life.  A coworker just stopped by my desk to ask if the doctor has determined what's wrong yet.  "Nope," I told him before also blurting, in my paranoia, "it's probably a terminal disease!!"  The coworker nodded distractedly, drifting away toward the kitchen.  "At least you're not contagious, then, right?"



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Post Grad Purgatory

I remember being in third grade, and my teacher giving me the multiplication problem 12 x 4.  “You can’t just keep adding four over and over again,” she told me, “you have to actually learn how to multiply.  My job is to prepare you for fourth grade!”  

New teachers said the same sort of thing every year.  Middle school was about preparing us for high school.  High school was about prepping for college.  And by the end of college, they told us we would be ready for “the real world.”  

But, they skipped a step.  No one prepared us for—or even told us about—Post Grad Purgatory. 

“The real world,” or so I’ve been told, is a place where people have careers and apartments and can pay for insurance with their own moneys.  Once upon a time, I believed that right after graduation, I would move there.

But finding a job was really difficult.  I majored in English Literature and Theatre Arts.  If that doesn’t scream, “I have 1 million marketable skills,” I don’t know what does.  Everyone assumed I’d be analyzing sonnets for the CIA within weeks after graduation, but as it turned out, it wasn’t that easy.  

I started applying for jobs in January, and by “applying for jobs,” I mean that I emailed a bunch of people who never emailed me back.  As graduation grew closer, I became sad and desperate, which mostly just means that I ate a lot of ice cream sandwiches and listened to a lot of Taylor Swift.  Her song “22” began to feel terribly distant from my own reality.  “I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU!  BUT I’M FEELING 22!  NOTHING EVER TURNS OUT RIGHT!  THIS APARTMENT SMELLS LIKE POO,” I’d sing to my empty living room.

It was around this time that I finally applied for a job as a dog walker, despite having no particular passion for walking or dogs.  The qualifications didn’t include a college degree, but that didn’t matter—I just wanted something to put on my LinkedIn profile.  Unfortunately, I never heard back.  “THAT’S IT.”  I told myself.  “Prostitution it is!”  But for some reason, my parents thought it was a better idea for me to just move back in with them.  

It’s not a bad deal, moving back home: you get free housing, access to a fully stocked pantry, and occasionally, when your mother is feeling particularly generous, laundry services.  Regrettably, you also have to sleep in a bedroom that looks like a shrine to your 15-year-old self, and… you’re living with your parents.

When I first moved back home, what with not having a job or many friends in the area, I suddenly had an outrageous amount of free time on my hands.  I thought it would be a great time to take up new hobbies, like sleeping and playing Candy Crush Saga on my phone.  But when I rediscovered Netflix, I started wondering why I had ever bothered with friends or hobbies at all.  I started partying all night with my new best buds: Walter White, Lucille Bluthe, and the entire cast of ‘Lost.’

Henry and I break bad together on a crazy Friday night.

By week three of summer, my life revolved around two main goals:  Getting a job, and never having to change out of my pajamas.  Because despite my surplus of free time, I didn’t dare leave the house—it was dangerous!  Just going to the market was like attending a hometown reunion.  “Nope, I still don’t have a job!” I’d awkwardly confess to various old acquaintances while purchasing several bottles of wine.  “Why yes, I am still living with my folks!  Be sure and tell that law school son of yours I say ‘hello!’”

The good news is that I actually ended up getting a job, and not as a dog walker—I’m exactly where I want to be at this point in life.  I have a desk and a file cabinet and a phone, so even though I’m pretty sure my office has asbestos, I get to spend every day pretending to be a real grown-up human being.  And at the end of the day I get to walk through my door, throw down my bag, and exclaim, “Another day, another dollar!”

Because literally.  Starting salaries are $1 per day.  Farewell, post grad purgatory, and welcome to… what?

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