I'd been drinking hot chocolate and reading. It came time to leave so I began to pack up. As I wound my scarf around my neck, my hat fell off. When I bent to pick up my hat, my gloves slipped out of my coat pocket. I couldn't fit all my stuff into my pack. And so on.
Around me the coffee house was closing up. As people left, they kept dropping things too. I started trying to collect the other lost belongings in the hopes of returning them. The barista was pushing the tables to the back and stacking them so she could mop the floor. My table disappeared, and most of my stuff with it. I kept running around desperately trying to retrieve everything. I only succeeded in dropping more and more of what was in my arms, most of it not even mine.
It doesn't take a psychology degree to work out the meaning of that. No more than most of my dreams. And this has been my week. If there is no significant crisis or disaster in my life today, it will be the first day since last Sunday for which that has been true. I have rushed from one problem to the next, solving few of them, and seeing most of them generate more problems like a runaway software process spawning malign threads.
Such is my life these days. This week has been an unusually pointed example. But in all seriousness, Lisa Costello estimated recently that based on the experience of the past few months, even on my best weeks I cannot get any three days in a row without something overwhelming happening.
This distraction factor spills over into everything. Ever since the cancelled trip to Europe, I have been unable to schedule social time with friends. The big stuff is more obvious — because my medical schedule keeps shifting so randomly, I cannot make commitments to out-of-town friends who need lead time to arrange work vacation days and procure plane tickets. Less stringently, I can't even commit to Seattle friends who can be more flexible because they're driving or taking the train or the Bolt Bus.
But even the local stuff gets killed. I'm going to Maryland at the end of the month to see about two different clinical trials at the National Institutes of Health. That means I won't be here for my December 31st appointment with my palliative care doctor. They're impossible to see on short notice, so I had to take a reschedule for Monday, December 16th. Exactly when I had a midday date with Jersey Girl in Portland. Her daily/weekly schedule and mine are so misaligned even normally that when I have to cancel with her, it can take us weeks to reschedule.
I can't keep up with anything anymore, not with the absolute priority of maintaining what's left of my life and health, and the resultant very erratic and frequent scheduling demands of that process. So my out of town friends slowly stop offering to come see me because I can never commit to a time. Most days I'm too rushed and fuddled to even be smart about keeping up emails or texts or phone calls whatever, so it's harder and harder to maintain my relationships even remotely. My local friends get used to me cancelling and being unable to reschedule easily. My life narrows a bit more week by week, as it does in so many other ways.
My attention span degrades, my social availability degrades, and instead I am trapped in a whirling morass of urgency. I hate this.
Welcome to late stage cancer, Jay.