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zina mercil
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glitter polish and a hospital bed.

3/27/2016

12 Comments

 
Let’s begin with the cast of characters:
A mom in the waiting room.
Watching the clock (tick, tick).
One hour is okay. They said one hour.
2 hours is not okay. 2.5 hours is definitely not okay.
Page the doctor again.
Anxiety. She’s in trouble.
Why can’t it be me instead, this is not the natural order of things.
I’m not okay.
 
A dad at work.
Looking normal on the outside.
Going through the motions with machines and metal and tools and oil.
Shoving down emotions.
This is life.
She’ll survive, she’s tough.
I’m not okay.
 
A Doctor in the surgery room.
I explained the procedure.
I told her she’d be fine. No problem.
This is beyond my expertise.
I think of what I would do if it were my mom, my sister on this table.
She’s had too much sedation, she’s been prodded too much.
And I call it.
This situation is not okay.
 
There’s an RN.
I get to hold this hand like it’s my job.
It is my job, to have compassion, to send love and care through this hand.
To comfort and soothe. To joke. But to know this is serious.
When I tell her she’s okay, I mean it.
I’m here, you’ll be okay.
But am I okay?
 
A group of friends spread throughout the world.
Connected by Facebook.
They don’t know, because it hasn’t been shared with them.
So they go about their day, wanting to send love but not yet asked to.
Tomorrow there will be infinite “likes” and words of encouragement.
Today they post selfies and motivational memes.
Some are okay, some are not, but their pictures smile.
 
And a man in a far off land.
That feels a lifetime away.
Normalized in a world of hospitals and needles.
But it’s different when they belong to her.
My heart aches that I am not there.
I want to wrap her up in my arms.
And make sure she knows I’m not a thousand miles away.
That she can lean on me even though I’m not okay.
 
Freeze.
Camera zooms in on me:
Lying on the hospital bed
It’s cold in my thin open nightgown
They put warm blankets all around me
The RN holds my hand
The Doctor moves into my jugular vein
My mom is in the waiting room with 20 strangers holding her breath
My dad is dissociated with a wrench at work
My friends create their day in the world
And he holds someone else’s hand in a different hospital
And I wonder, is everyone else okay?
 
Fentanyl
The world goes fuzzy black
I feel pressure on my neck
Time looses meaning

 
Who I was: Glitter toenail polish fading from a month ago in Vegas as I relived my showgirl days
Who I am: Humbled on a cold hospital bed
On the outside: Vitality and beauty
On the inside: Twisted uncooperative veins, weak blood damaged by disease
Outside potential: Relationship, speaking, MedX at Stanford
Inside potential: Internal bleeding, possibilities of eventual transplant
So much potential all around that doesn’t matter in this moment
A steady beep, beep, beep is what counts right now

External projection: She has her shit together, I want to be her
Internal projection: She’s a mess, I feel sorry for her
 
And…. Action!
The silent incongruence that lives between glitter toenail polish and a hospital bed
 
Stay tuned for next week, where we lather, rinse, and repeat… all the while hoping for a different outcome.

Any experiences resonate? Comment below! 

12 Comments
wayne
3/27/2016 11:25:43 am

powerful theatrical scenes & characters--w/all the tension fear anxiety and hope. thank you.

Reply
Zina
3/27/2016 05:55:43 pm

Thank you so much for "getting it," in the most embodied and poignant way. XO

Reply
Barb
3/27/2016 12:09:11 pm

Wow, Zina, that pretty much took my breath away and as I sit here thinking about what to say, I find I have no words. I hold you in my thoughts and prayers and send you much light and love. Be well, my friend 💞

Reply
Zina
3/27/2016 05:57:02 pm

Thank you for your non-words, they portray more understanding than any actual words probably could. Feeling you! XO

Reply
Tracey Lamers link
3/27/2016 12:48:11 pm

Once upon a time i did a crazy 1/2 ironman in the pouring rain in Canada. I started entering a fog about 10k into the run. I knew there was something terribly wrong as i felt it challenging to move my limbs. There was a voice inside forcing me to grab a coke at the feed station. My body was in need of nourishment and warmth. My brain kept telling me to plod on to the finish. Long story but my blistered bleeding feet made me head for the medical tent upon finishing. I plopped down on the cold wet lawn chair as the pouring rain blew through the open bottom 2 feet of the tent. Please clean my feet i asked and then i began blacking in an out while shivering uncontrollably. Medics all around me trying to find a pulse. Blood sugar had dipped to 45, body temp at 86. Organ failure can begin at 84. Glucose paste was jammed in my mouth. Suddenly I was being carted off into an ambulance. Voices around me saying we need to rush to get her body warmed up stat!! Hours later i began coming out of the fog of hypothermia. Around me I could hear the chatter of my Canadian friends and how lucky it was that the medical team got me to the hospital on time. Slowly it began to sink in that I was lucky to be here, alive! It gave me a new appreciation for the fragility of life and time. It also made me reconsider my crazy need to push myself at all costs. Granted the fog of hypothermia makes one not quite in control of all faculties, but it was a reminder to me that i am enough without having to prove how fast i can go. This is nothing like your story and ongoing health issues Zina, but it was in, out and through this fog that I could reflect on what it most important and appreciating those who were there for me. Wishing you good health, clearer answers and your continued dynamo spirit through it all! I so appreciate you sharing your vulnerability.
Love
Tracey

Reply
Zina
3/27/2016 06:03:21 pm

Tracey~ Thank you so much for sharing in your own vulnerability here, this scary and understandable story, for me, about how fog clouds us... for you in an intense moment, for me over slow tedious time. And for both of us, it sounds like, how these moments create a catalyst of slowing down, appreciation of community, and reprioritizing our precious time. I am so grateful for those medics, so that you can be here today to share your work, and thank you for your wishes. May we both continue to inspire. XO Z

Reply
Veronique link
3/27/2016 01:35:06 pm

This stuff is so hard. Really. The inside, the outside, the not knowing, the knowing, the waiting, the discovering. Thinking of you, sending you gentle hugs and taking a breath with you, in and out, one moment at a time, one day at time. Sending a present of the present and being with you.

Reply
Zina
3/27/2016 05:58:22 pm

Present of the present accepted. Bright shiny sparkly bow and all the big deep breathes inside. Thank you. XO

Reply
Meredith
3/27/2016 08:22:57 pm

Thanks, Zina. I am holding you in my prayers.

Reply
Zina
3/28/2016 06:07:57 am

Thank you!

Reply
Jennifer
4/24/2016 04:24:31 pm

You inspire me. I love you so much! Thank you for writing your journey down. You have a true gift of the written word. I was on edge reading this.

Reply
Zina
4/24/2016 09:26:43 pm

You are most welcome. It is a complete honor to write my story, and to get the feedback that someone else is moved by it. Thank you for sharing the impact this had for you. XO

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    Author

    Zina is a body-oriented psychotherapist, passionate about using her own experience of life-altering medical setbacks to inspire others to look at the meaning and interpretation of illness, and everyday life.

    ABOUT THIS BLOG

    Here’s the deal: I’m going to share parts of my experience, and you get to ask yourself the question “Does this feel true for me?” If it adds some humor, insight, or inspiration for your life situation, and I truly hope it does, then great! If it doesn’t, that’s okay too- just take what may be meaningful and let go of the rest. We’re both similar in our humanity, and unique in our experiences. There's room for it all. 
     
    (Though I am a LPCC therapist in the State of Colorado, this blog is not to be taken as direct mental health or medical advice. Please consult your mental health and/or medical professionals with any questions pertaining to your specific situation.)

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