My Grandmother Munchy wanted to be a
doctor, but during a cadaver dissection in anatomy class, fluid splurted onto
her face. She had entered medical school
in the wake of losing both her parents to The Spanish Flu epidemic. She left school
to become a wife and mother—safer and more acceptable for a woman in Hungary,
in 1922.
When I was four, my immigrant father
and mother divorced in New Jersey, and Munchy became my primary caregiver—feeding
me raw eggs for breakfast, teaching me my piano scales, walking me to St. Nick’s
grammar school, sleeping next to me in the big bed we shared. And I became her medical subject and experiment—for
new vitamins, for Vick’s VapoRub, for candlings of my belly. She hovered over me—saved and terrified me. If
not suffering from a full-blown case of it, she was certainly (and it’s nominally
ironic), someone on the verge of Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy—garnering attention
for her codependent martyrdom to other’s illnesses. The two lessons I learned
were these: (1) I can’t take care of
myself; (2) Love = Doctoring.
I
imprinted on my beloved Munchy, and keep her close by having epic episodes of
hypochondria. My most frequent nightmare
is that I’m doomed because I didn’t take some medicine, and I can’t remember
what is was. Yes, I am more proactive about taking care of myself—but my medical
files at the offices I frequent are entirely too bulky for a healthy person.
The COVID-19 crisis promised me a full
efflorescence of my fear of illness. But
this time, I was more terrified of leaving the house for a doctor’s office, so I
didn’t do my usual Stations of Running to the Doctors. I recovered some of my own power for
self-healing.
My turning point was a severe upper
right toothache. It’s one thing to go to
a doctor for a tetanus shot administered in the parking lot by a nurse in a hazmat
suit, quite another to have someone digging in my mouth. I was NOT going to the dentist. I unearthed our ancient Waterpik Waterflosser
and Sonicare Toothbrush and put them into service. I tested the tooth for heat and
cold sensitivity. Nothing. I researched and discovered the link to my
concurrent sinus discomfort. Within four
days the toothache and sinus discomfort both disappeared so completely that I
was crunching almonds on those molars.
And then there’s the hip injury I
incurred using a one-legged scooter after a bunion surgery eight years ago. Did I follow the physical therapist’s
protocol since then? No. It was better to “be taken care of” at the
office. This time, I was NOT going to the physical therapist to risk COVID
infection. I dusted off Bob’s faded recommendation sheets. And worked his program by myself. Hm. Feeling better? Of course.
In both these cases, I went to my
room and mothered myself. Yes, I have
made a first-appointment-of-the-day date for my yearly mammo, although three
months later than usual, as breast cancer runs in the family. And I do get panic attacks about small aches,
three too many sneezes. But I’m my first
aide. I have my thermometer, oximeter,
my waterpik, the internet. As I reflect
on the idea of Nature telling us to “Go to Your Room,” I realize how much our medical/pill-popping/insurance-glutted/advertising
capitalism wants us to rack up appointments to support the economy. Our
courageous health care workers are out there saving lives that are in real
danger. I’m doing my part by taking care
of my own daily needs.
I chose an old photograph of a
windswept tulip for this post, because in one Gestalt, it reminds me of a hitch-hiker,
waiting for someone to pick her up.
Looked at in other ways, it’s a red bird winging (it).
