AnnieModify

I am quite content to be alone except on a mild evening at twilight. 

During the quick hours of the day I am busy. Busy with things I enjoy doing, for the most part. Or busy with people I enjoy being around. I count myself among the luckiest alive. 

During the night I am dreaming. Night is dreaming time whether I am asleep or awake. The dreams are all mine. I stretch out in the bed and in my mind. I  never had such space before. Even in my childhood, my dreams were so small, so bordered. Always tied to some other person, some predetermined identity, some set of standards to uphold. Now my dreams and I can wander at will. For this spaciousness, this freedom, I gladly pay the price of whatever loneliness may peek over the headboard or rattle in the closet.

I don’t mean fantasies, here. Though the physical need for another person, another body, is real and present. That’s just a fact of being human, for most of us.  Not loneliness so much as lust. I handle both with the means at hand, and am largely content. 

But twilight comes. 

On a cold winter day, twilight enhances the coziness of my space, my routine, the comforts of my home and children and friends and hobbies. I can make a pot of stew and dance in the kitchen and get lost in a book and there are no emotions to navigate but my own. This is a peace I do not take lightly.

But twilight comes. Twilight comes on a day when the windows are open and the light is mellow. The sunset streaks of gray and orange and blue linger behind a row of trees. I want to turn to someone and say, Look. The music filters through an open door as a bird sings. I want to turn to someone and say, Listen. 

I want to let this awe and gratitude bubble out and be seen for a moment by another person before it lifts up and away and disappears, as all things do. I want to be a point of reflection for someone else’s awe and wonder. Or pain. We all contain multitudes.

Contentment is a spectrum. As is loneliness.

I have been together and I have been alone. Loneliness is part of both experiences but it has different flavors. 

I have been together and I have been alone. Contentment is part of both experiences but it too has different flavors.  

We have to decide, each moment, what problem we are solving. Sometimes we get so busy solving the problem of loneliness, or lust, or ambition, or insecurity, or sadness, or fear, that we don’t see the larger context. Our larger context, our story, in which this one emotion, this one want, is but a single piece. A significant one, perhaps. But not the wholeness of our being. 

I want to fold things in, not push them away. 

And he will never never never never never never never get to meet you
And I got to meet you
Yeah, I got to meet you.

—Mikey Mike

I write in praise of the ones we love: their weaknesses and fears and nobility, their moments of madness, their genius. Sometimes we hold each other and feel stronger, safer, better. Sometimes we stand in opposite corners and hurl things at each other: words, accusations, feelings, disappointments. And worse. 

We can be so cruel.

We get so confused.

But look at this magnificence! Look at it, look at them, look at us! Look in these eyes. Listen to these voices.

Feel what it is to be in the presence of someone you love.

Nothing is like it, nothing is like you, nothing is like me, nothing.

Love is worth the risk.

Here we are, us two, us three, us ten or twenty or hundred, us thousand or million or billion.

In our small way, striving. In our broken way, fucking everything up worse than it was. In our stupid way, feeling guilty for crimes we were never important enough to commit. In our slow way, holding on too long, grasping, clinging, fearing. In our own way, learning.

An organism, a colony, a civilization, a god: we know not what we are. To avoid the embarrassment and pain of not knowing, we define and split each self into its own piece of aloneness: I!

I, human. Individual, separate, distinct. An entity complete. A being apart.

Apart.

A part.

A part of what?

A part of all, a part of the whole, a part of this mad collective of all we have created, the good and bad of it, the big and small of it. There is never a place where you do not belong. Being is being part of all beings.

Most of us think of ourselves as thinking creatures that feel, but we are actually feeling creatures that think.

― Jill Bolte Taylor

If you’re not feeling as good about life as you want to be, that’s okay.

If you feel stressed about a lot of things, that’s okay.

If you get nervous, that’s okay.

If you feel overwhelmed, that’s okay.

If you freak out and yell, that’s okay. If you break down and cry, that’s okay.

If the uncertainty of every little thing is panic-inducing, that’s okay.

If your feelings fling you around, if you bounce between longing for the familiar and longing for the unknown, if you don’t know what you’ll feel any given moment, that’s okay too.

If you feel rushed and boxed in and panicked and unsure and unsettled and overwhelmed and under pressure and inadequate and afraid, that’s okay.

It’s not fun. It’s probably not how you want to feel.

But here we are. You, me, the feelings. 

All the feelings are part of this experience. Right now. Take a deep breath. Oh, hello. I am also here, on part of this planet, breathing. Take another deep breath. I’ll do the same. 

Okay. That’s not much better but it’s a little better. 

Sometimes we don’t get to good. Good is a privilege. A gift. A delight, when it happens, when we’re in it. But we don’t always get to be in it. And that’s okay. 

It helps to remember that good still exists, is still real, even when you’re not in it. The possibility of good is always present. The more you reach for it the more possible it becomes. 

Meanwhile, survival. Keeping on. Treading water. Breathing.  

If you cover up your feelings with a veneer of calm, that’s okay.

If you avoid the unpleasant and the negative, if you run from the deep discomfort of feelings you have not yet named, that’s okay.

If you turn sadness into anger because it’s easier, that’s okay.

If you choose frustration over vulnerability, that’s okay.

If you don’t want to face the guilt or shame rustling beneath the surface, that’s okay.

If the fear pushes its way up your throat until you have to scream or cry, that’s okay. 

All we are is children and sometimes we are afraid of the dark.

It’s okay to be there, wherever you are with it. It’s okay to let it be. It’s okay to let yourself be.

If the dark feelings come, you can let them be, too. They will seem like heavy burdens, like stones, like looming mountains, like terror or death. But they pass like clouds. They are not something you have to climb or conquer, just something you have to endure.

Don’t spend your energy fighting the feelings. We have other work to do. 

And we cannot do the work we are able to do if we are too busy hiding from the feelings. 

So let them be. Let them wash over you, through you. In and out like waves. It may feel like you will drown. Keep breathing through the waves. Cry or scream or run or hug or whatever helps you keep breathing. 

Darkness cannot drive out light. The clouds come and pass. The waves rise and recede. 

The world remains and here we are, in it. 

What can we do to make it better? 

Here are some ideas. 

For the new year, a resolution

How small that is, with which we wrestle,
what wrestles with us, how immense;
were we to let ourselves, the way things do,
be conquered thus by the great storm,—
we would become far-reaching and nameless.

What we triumph over is the Small,
and the success itself makes us petty.
The Eternal and Unexampled
will not be bent by us.

…growth is: to be the deeply defeated
by ever greater things.

from The Man Watching by Rainer Maria Rilke

Today has felt like a deep, deep exhalation, an enormous, slow, long sigh of relief and releasing. Fitting, perhaps, that it is winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. I don’t have any rituals to mark it except for this one, what I’m doing right now: sitting on the couch with a cat curled by my legs, sipping whiskey, tapping these small words into a space that isn’t real (digital? website? internet? can’t possibly be real) but will somehow, perhaps, be read by actual real people in actual real places. Hello, friends. How are you? 

How are you, what are you, where are you, why are you, what’s happening with you, what are you thinking about, what’s humming in the back corners of your brain, what does your heart know right now, what makes your breath come faster or slower, how do you feel about this moment, what do you hope for, what do you fear, what would you ask for, what wishes do you hold tender and close, what desires do you lean away from, what rooms are laid bare, which doors are closed and which ones opened, what candles are you lighting and watching on this the longest night?

I have a few candles lit. I know what I would ask for and what I do ask for. Tonight is the time to look at the space between those points. To consider. To sigh a deep sigh of releasing. What could be different if we did not drag the past with us into the future?  

Let us lay aside every weight that hinders us 

and the errors that so easily entangle us

so we can move forward (with patience — gently, child, gently) 

on the road we walk, the reality of this moment 

which is all that we ever have 

I find this sort of thing fascinating. I looked for detailed info before my own surgery because I like to know what I’m getting into. If you’re grossed out by surgical/medical descriptions or photos, skip this one. 

So I had this spot — like a pimple or small wart — appear under my right eye years ago. 2017, 2018? Sometime in there. It was very small, directly under/partially on the lash line near the inside corner of my right eye. Not really noticeable, didn’t hurt or itch or grow or change so I didn’t worry about it¹.

Anyway over the last year it got a bit bigger, so I had it checked out. My dermatologist did a biopsy. Result: basal cell carcinoma. So I needed to have the spot removed. Due to its location, it was likely the lid margin² would be affected. So after the removal, I’d need eyelid reconstruction surgery by an ophthalmic surgeon. 

Here’s how they do it: They schedule the Mohs surgeries³ in the morning. They schedule the reconstruction surgeries the same afternoon. 

They do this because Mohs surgeries can take… hours. They don’t know till they’re doing it. The surgeon takes off the cancerous area and a layer of the skin around it, then examines it under a microscope. If they still see carcinoma cells⁴, they take off another layer. Inspect the removed layer. Repeat until there are no carcinoma cells visible in the removed layer. 

The removal is quick. The inspection takes longer. So each “layer” (removal + inspection) can be over an hour. 

Once that’s done, they either sew you up there or send you off for reconstruction surgery. 

I was at the hospital from 7am to 5pm. Most of that time was spent waiting. The Mohs surgery required two layers removed. I was done there around 9:30. They bandaged my eye and sent me off for reconstruction which was scheduled for…. 2:30pm. So, yeah, lots of waiting. 

Mohs surgery

• Local anesthetic (needle in the cheek below the right eyelid).

• They lean you back in a chair and tuck surgical drapes around the area. 

• Assisting docs hold the head still and hold the eyelid open or closed or whatever it needs to be. 

• It’s pretty surreal to see a scalpel coming directly toward your eyeball.

• But the most surreal part was hearing the snip-snip-snip of scissors knowing it’s my skin that’s being snipped off my face. 

• Pain: none. They gave me another shot of anesthetic right before they patched me up which was nice. 

Waiting

• Hungry (no eating allowed before the reconstruction surgery). 

• Did some Christmas shopping. 

• Pirate impressions.

• Thought about food. 

• Went to the bathroom a couple of times to peek under the bandage and make sure my eye was still there. Then the anesthetic wore off so I didn’t need to do that anymore. 

• Contemplated the hierarchy of snacks. 

• Assured 4 different nurses that there is zero possibility of pregnancy, no really, I promise, I do not have a uterus.

• Speaking of the beast (not) in me: Watched a couple of episodes of The Beast In Me.

• Looked at the entire Internet. 

• Thought about food some more. 

• Napped a little. 

Eyelid reconstruction 

• Sedation (via IV) plus local anesthetic. I was very relaxed and full of warm happy thoughts. 

• This part was fascinating: The removal took about half the width of my eyelid rim above the area of removed tissue. They took skin from my left eyelid and grafted it on. To do that, they cut right along the crease of my left eyelid, removed some skin, and sutured the eyelid back together. Then they sewed those two strips of skin (I think it was two, I was a little drowsy) below my right eye, creating a new portion of eyelid rim and filling the hole. Amazing that we can do this stuff. 

• The surgery itself took about an hour. 

• Recovery was quick. I was home eating a giant Chipotle bowl very soon after. It was delicious. 

Recovery

•  Pain: minimal. Took Tylenol that first night and following day, then didn’t need it again. 

• Antiobiotic ointment applied 3x a day. This is annoying as fuck because I have to make sure I get a lot of ointment on that lid margin (very important to keep it moisturized) which means some ointment always gets in my eye so vision is blurred for an hour+ every time I apply. 

• Swelling: yes. 

• Bruising: some. Not as much as I anticipated. 

• Itchy and irritated: YES. OMG.

• I get the dressing & sutures off tomorrow morning and I CANNOT WAIT. 

Here’s how it looks today (six days post-op):

Oh, what’s that? You were hoping for an EYELID SURGERY RECOVERY MONTAGE of POOR QUALITY PHOTOS documenting the healing process from DAY 1 TO DAY 6 POST-OP? I’ve got that right here for you. 

1. Also I did not have health insurance at the time so even if I had been worried about it I probably wouldn’t have done anything. Say you're in the U.S. without saying you’re in the U.S. 

2. The eyelid margin is the “edge” of the eyelid. Also known as the mucocutaneous margin. Eyelashes grow from the margin & there are glands that produce oil to help keep the eye moisturized.

3. Detailed explanation of Mohs Micrographic Surgery.

4. Molecular imaging of different skin cancer cells vs normal skin cells.