Let me just get this off my chest--one of the biggest problems with so-called reality television is the phenom of the whiney little bitch.
You will encounter said creature on shows ranging from The Real World to House Hunters. For what I watch, House Hunters, the WLB walks through three properties with a 100K budget and says: The rooms are too small! I wanted granite! I wanted stainless steel appliances!
On shows about Kar-trashians, the WLB is whoever is first to, in that stupid baby voice, complain about their overwrought schedule--at least for what I've seen as I speed past with the remote.
Yet, the WLB lives in us all, and I'm no exception--in fact, lately, I've been seriously indulging my WLB side and frankly, I am tired of it. My nature isn't really accommodating to the WLB attitude. I was raised by no-nonsense people in a no-nonsense manner. My parents were both beset by a number of medical problems--heart, diabetes, cancer, lower lung disease (my genetics are truly not exceptional), and I never heard them bitch about any of it. They didn't like it, I was certianly aware of that, but they treated facts as facts and not as advice given to people who like to suffer.
I'm only half as good as they were about my own cancerous situation--somedays, the WLB takes me over and I channel so much self pity that in retrospect I'm sickened by it. I admit, I'm due some private pity--but private is the operative word. That's the Hoosier in me; the Northeastern small farm town stoic Hoosier thing is not conducive to WLB behavior. In fact, it loathes nothing more than the sign of weakenss in the self and is sympathetic to nothing more than the revealed sign of weakness in others--as long as it's quickly covered up again.
In the let-it-all-hang world, that virtue is no longer widely currency in virtueville. We're all supposed to honestly share our feelings about the conditions we experience and those of the world around us. We've set up an entire electronic system where posting those feelings is both expected and welcomed--likeable, thumbs-upped. Comments of support crowd postings of WLBness, my own included.
I am, though, thoroughly ashamed when I realize that though I can't eat or speak well, I am alive. I live very decently. I'm surrounded by love. I can walk. I can have a healthy crap. My brain is sharp, my humor is still with me. I read great books that I can buy from Amazon at a moment's notice. My credit rating is excellent.
Some people believe, much to their credit, that there is no hierarchy to disability--perhaps to my discredit, I believe there is--and my problems come far down the list from those who have lost major systems in their bodies and are tubed, who can't eat, speak, walk, or whose thoughts find no way out of their heads.
This weekend, we went out of San Francisco to a cabin in Guerneville on the Russian River with our friend Margie, visiting from Chicago. The cabin was surrounded by huge redwoods, Guerneville is charming, we all had a great time.
Yet, even in that beautiful setting I still had twinges of WLB--when Margie had this wonderful pork for dinner, when we stopped at an organic bakery in Freestone and I realized that there was no way that sticky bun would ever fit in a feeding tube.
I don't know if it will ever stop. Funny though--Scott hates to cook and I enjoy cooking--so I make as many of his dinners as I have strength and opportunity to make, and I enjoy doing it. If you like to cook, the look of satisfaction on the face of people who eat what you make is priceless. It's better than thank you.
I made dinner last night after we got home for Margie and Scott and our friend Terry--to whom I owe many dinners. A curried, coriandered chicken breast over risotto with roasted asparagus--and everyone loved it. The only downer was the smell of sticky buns, left over, from the bag on the counter.
Maybe certain smells or memories or textures are triggers for WLB syndrome--I don't know. All I know is that to defeat a powerful enemy like the seductive nature of self pity, one has to be vigilant. In the midst of beauty, happiness, accomplishment, there it was--as unwelcome as a fart in an elevator.
Yes, my name is Mark and I have cancer. It's aggressive and doesn't want to go away. I have to have more than the normal cycle of treatment. I hate it.
But I do not want to feel sorry for myself. I don't want to talk about how small those rooms are, or how much better I'd feel if that refrigerator were shiny, silvery and contemporary. I want to talk about what I'm going to eat when I get to Quebec next August and watch Scott in the Ironman competition--so far, poutine is on the menu. What else should I hope to have?
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