TheBanyanTree: Giving Up: an Exercise in Futility

[Lalinda]

In a conversation with my aunt, she in the hospital awaiting surgery for 
a broken ankle and myself on our sofa with scars from my own broken 
ankle last July, same leg, I might add, arose the topic of reactions to 
her situation. I dare not write "/plight/," or else I’ll hear about it 
later. Aunt Marion’s health is pretty frail, considering that she has 
recently recovered from a hip replacement /on top /of her litany of 
other issues, which she *sailed though with tremendous grace and ease*, 
just in case someone with the initial M decides to hop out of her 
hospital bed, hail a taxi to the nearest Internet Cafe and read this, 
which is not beyond the realm of possibility. The woman has an iron 
will. It would be just my luck, too, despite the fact that she’s banned 
computers from the house, several years ago, in fact, and won't allow 
any others. I’m unclear on the reason behind this and have meant to ask, 
however, our visits are so dynamic that the thought always gets pushed 
out of the queue. I’ll send her an email, oh wait. I can’t.

In addition to the aforementioned challenges, Aunt Marion also cares for 
my uncle, her disabled husband. Suffice to say that Mim has a lot on her 
agenda. She has so much on her agenda, in fact, that she is like a 
fragile, wobbly card at the bottom of a house of cards and when anything 
threatens her balance, everyone around her who is already hanging ten on 
the edge of the vortex of intense anticipation gets…cards on their 
heads, for starters.

Some of my cousins and one of my sisters reacted with dismay and 
agitation. "Almost angry," said another. "Well, that's fear,” I said, 
not to mention the frustration of not being there to catch her ala 
Superman and Lois Lane when she did fall so it didn't happen at all.

My aunt is concerned about her children and their being distressed. A 
close family, we tend to dread the thought of anything happening to 
them, the problem currently being that now in their 70's a lot happens 
to them. Not that they were unscathed beforehand, but it has been my 
observation and experience that getting older brings with it a pattern. 
The pattern seems to be not to have just one mishap or illness or ______ 
(fill in the blank) at a time, but to have them piled up on top of each 
other kicking you when you're down. They at least ought to have the 
courtesy to take a number and wait their turn, but illnesses and mishaps 
tend to be impatient and without consideration, if you ask me. God knows 
/they/ never do.

So, Aunt Marion, in a hospital bed with her leg up, not to mention lung 
cancer, Polymyalgia Rhuematica, stomach issues, thyroid issues, 
arthritis, the impending other hip replacement surgery, and these are 
just the ones I remember---yes, my aunt, the Land of a Thousand Dances 
for the world of disorders, relays to me the pep talk she gave to one of 
her children, the one where things aren't so bad and she is going to be 
okay. Probably, we should take into account that she is on morphine and 
with all of her ailments, I conclude that she hasn't felt this great in 
years, thus the high level of cheerfulness. Not that Mim is generally 
un-cheerful, it's just that she is extraordinarily so for lying in bed 
with an unfixed broken ankle. My own experience was quite different as 
the time passed slowly before my surgery. To add insult to injury, the 
doctors, who finally got to me at midnight as opposed to the original 
2:30 in the afternoon, were not very entertaining. So I am spoiled by 
medical shows, it seems and the doctors and nurses do not, in fact, 
discuss juicy elements of their lives in the OR, neither is there any 
drama. What do my doctors choose to discuss? Business. Practices. The 
business practices of their practices and………excuse me, it’s not polite 
to doze off when writing, but you feel free to go ahead and do that. I 
will /understand./ The frat boys, I mean the doctors told me not to 
worry about anything; I’d be falling asleep after they gave me, what I 
believe the technical term is, sleepy juice. Enough about me, more later.

My aunt continues with her philosophy, in a nutshell, about not giving 
up. "Well," I hear myself say, "It doesn't do any good to give up. I’ve 
tried it.”

I have awakened in the morning to discover that I have lived through the 
night only to think, “Another day in the torture chamber.” This last 
time, it was with a trimalleolar fracture of the ankle, an injured 
rotator cuff (a very special kind of pain) and sick with something else. 
I found myself thinking, loud enough for God to hear and by the way, 
yes, addressed to him,

"If you are trying to kill me, I get it, so just go ahead, do your thing 
and let's get it over with. I surrender. Uncle. I give up. Enough 
already” whereupon I remained on my back in bed waiting for the light to 
come and beckon me to my reward, and let’s just say right now there had 
best better be one after all I've gone through, anyone listening? I 
expect a /parade./

Then what? Then, nothing. Absolutely nothing. I see that God is in a 
withholding mood today, I remember thinking. Does he come and pick me 
up? No. He leaves me there on my bed in my jammies like a noncommittal 
boyfriend who just got a call from the old flame he really loves and 
forgets he has a date with me. Even though it was my idea, but that's 
not the point. The point is...well, what is the point? The point is that 
I surrendered to what I thought was his agenda only to find out that his 
agenda was, uh…worse? Letting me live with the misery. Yeah, that's 
good, that builds trust, God.

Eventually, one must arise to bathe or eat. I lie there until I can't 
deal with feeling like a victim any longer and get moving, even if it is 
in a wheelchair.

My aunt thinks this train of thought is hilarious, but she gets me and 
we agree. Giving up is an exercise in futility. True, as hitting bottom 
goes, our bottoms may be different than other people's bottoms. I 
sometimes wonder if our Irish blood compels us to embrace misery with 
dark joy. Although some far surpass comprehension in what they are 
willing to put themselves through when they give up: alcohol, drugs, 
whatever their choice of alteration of the state of their consciousness? 
It doesn’t work, at least not for long. It doesn’t end the pain or the 
suffering; it just extends its circle of influence like dark ripples. 
So, giving up? To an altered state? Apparently, my drug of choice 
is…grooming.

To each their own.