Scientifics

image “Merit chemistry set” by jovike under Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.0 Generic license via Flickr.

I do worry about aspects of having Cystic Fibrosis. But I can see it from the outside too. In a way, it feels like I am the narrator looking down on my own story. The story may finish, but the narrator lives on. I could enthral myself in the fact that it is scientifically documented that I would be lucky to live and see the wonderful milestone of my thirty-eighth birthday.

This kind of thinking, where I would concentrate too much on thirty-seven as a definite number, would be harmful. I choose to live outside it. If I were inside the house of my thoughts I would generate too much self-torment and suffering. I just am. I accept this. I am not defined by numbers in the garden.

I am happy without the shelter of my thoughts. I do not want their hospitality. I can see down the chimney from above, and prefer it outside. It doesn’t matter that I cannot speak how I feel about that number. I can feel the wintry breeze piercing my cheeks and I just feel alive.

just phrase

just as well a good or fortunate thing : it was just as well I didn’t know at the time.

Thinking about thinking

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just phrase

just a minute, moment, second etc. used to ask someone to wait or pause for a short time.

I’m new to this kind of thinking. Thinking about myself, that is. I don’t know whether what I’m writing is really what I think or what I mean. This is probably because:

a.) I don’t know (and never will know) what I really think or mean
b.) I don’t really think anything

I’m tossing up the differences, and I’m locking in B. I really don’t think.

Actually, I think that I do think. But not properly. At least not about having CF. If you’re willing to let me use a rather large word now, I will.

I think it’s called Abgesheidenheit. I still don’t really know exactly what it means. But it doesn’t matter. It isn’t meant to be described. But I like my idea of it. It’s a kind of detached observation. In a way, I suppose I detach myself from Cystic Fibrosis. It’s not that I completely separate it from myself. I still have my antibiotics, do my physio and talk to others about having it; I can just take a step away from it.

I didn’t know how to actually exactly spell C.Y.S.T.I.C SPACE F.I.B.R.O.S.I.S until I had to write a project about it for school. ‘S E S’ or ‘S I S’? Who could be bothered looking it up?

Ignorance? Or detachment? I think the difference is that I don’t mind having Cystic Fibrosis and I treat it properly, so it can’t be ignorance.

Abgesheidenheit it is. But I guess I’m not completely detached.

Writing down my worries

image “Grosse Sorgen” by debagel under Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.0 Generic license via Flickr.

just adverb

1 exactly: that’s just what I need | you’re a human being just like everyone else | conditions were not just as bad | you can have it, but not just yet.

I’m struggling to write this because I’m trying to capture down the floating whispers in my mind. Things I’ve seen briefly, but never caught hold of and looked at properly. They aren’t even feelings yet. They haven’t formed. They’re raw.

I don’t even know what they are. I don’t know what I think. Is this bad? Should I be worried?

I get worried about little things. And bigger things. Things like the mice in the cupboard. And people who look lonely. I worry that my friends aren’t happy and that I forgot to take my library books back. I’m never without worry. But I worry for things that I understand. Things that are tangible, that I could reach out and touch. I don’t worry about just thirty-seven.

Team stripes

image “Chearleader Jim” by mahalie under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license via Flickr.

just adjective

Based on or behaving according to what is morally right and fair : a just and democratic society | fighting for a just cause.

I have a number etched onto me. Thirty-seven. Is that fair? My friends don’t have numbers sewn into their bodies. Well, at least not numbers as small as a three and a seven. But I don’t think of it as being unfair. I don’t think I deserve it. But it’s just the way it is.

I do not wear the number 37 on my back like a football player. I don’t wear it with pride or glory. My team stripes aren’t my favourite colour combination. Seeing yellow and red together makes me feel physically ill. Red and yellow sounds like a spruiker shouting rug and furniture bargains into your ear. But I got over that a long time ago. The jumper is itching at my skin. I’m too hot. It’s prickling all over my arms and up to my cheeks. I dig my nails into the worn and fuzzy jumper, but it doesn’t budge. I can’t take it off.

I don’t exactly know why I’m not worried about thirty-seven. I don’t know why I can picture myself as an old lady so vividly.

I just do not understand myself.

Body/mind divide

image “Spare Body Parts” by helgasms! under Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 2.0 Generic license via Flickr.

What I was saying before about being a grandma got me thinking… I am young. But I do defy my body, just like an elderly person. It’s not out of heroics. It’s not out of embarrassment. I just don’t want my body to stop me. My body may tire, but my mind won’t.

But of course, nothing is ever this simple. Body and mind are not completely separate. I remember learning about this in philosophy classes. The body might have a casual influence upon the mind. And the mind has a spontaneous influence upon the body.

In my case, I’d rather my body didn’t reach out too much to my mind. Maybe not my whole body, but certainly my lungs and stomach. Perhaps a restraining order is in order. Imagine if my lungs got hold of my mind. I would constantly be wading in the shallows, never to wander through dreams or get past the first page of a book.

But what about the other way around? What if my thoughts could influence my body? I could think myself past just thirty-seven?

Behind our heart-shaped fridge magnet

image “Family Shop” by R_rose used under Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 Generic license via Flickr.

Our fridge is an abandoned back yard strewn with once-important appointment reminders, forgotten shopping lists and proud examples of 88% competency in algebra and box plots. There is also a neatly cut out newspaper article. I cut it out. It relates to me.

I’m thirsty.

I’m facing the fridge. Thirty-seven. I think I feel like juice. Thirty-seven. Mum must have just been shopping. Thirty-seven. Annie always drinks all the freaking juice. Life expectancy: just thirty-seven.

just adverb.

4 simply; only; no more than : they were just interested in making money.

It’s a funny thing to think about. I don’t know how to think about it.

I’m trying to think about it now. But all I can see is a big number three and a big number seven. They’re just numbers. I can’t imagine myself as a thirty-seven year old. What do they do? What do they look like? Would I be sick if I was thirty-seven? No, when I try and see myself as a thirty-seven year old, I see nothing. Not because I think I’ll be dead, but because I can’t.

I can imagine myself as a grandma. Perhaps around sixty years old. I’d make pavlova and feed birds. I’d read my grandkids the The Very Hungry Caterpillar. We’d eat through ice cream, watermelon and swiss cheese together. We’d become butterflies and fly high above the houses so that we can see their rooves lined up in rows and pick out the different colour patterns they make.

I can’t wait to be a grandma. I can’t wait to be old. There’s a certain beauty I’ve noticed in people at they age.

I see it in their shaky hands when they struggle to unzip their purse and choose the right coins at the supermarket.

I see it in their apricot eye shadow that perfectly compliments their peachy handbag.

I see it in the way they make their dog warm weetbix with milk every morning, because he just won’t eat anything else.

I see it in myself.

It’s their motivation to just be. As they always have. To defy their tiring bodies and follow their motivations. To think themselves young.