It's Not About the Health Insurance (or even the stupid symptoms)

There's something about having health insurance in my own name that fills me with pride immeasurable. It marks adulthood and independence, for sure, but it also is somehow defiant. It is fulfilling. It is an affirmation. It is an investment.

My life as it is right in this very fucking moment is something I have worked hard for, and not just through gainful employment, which FUNDS my life. I have crafted this life, constructed it, pared away what no longer serves and filled it with what nourishes. That sentence is all past tense, but it is a continual process.

Earning my own medical insurance-- having it under MY fucking name-- is but a small part of that. I CAN TAKE CARE OF MYSELF. I am deserving of care. I am deserving of THE FUCKING BEST care. I deserve attention. This meatsuit and everything inside of it deserves tender fucking care. 

And who provides that care? ME. I do. And all the medical representatives of (mostly) my choosing.

And while this stupid plastic card allows me to take my aging, beautiful body to a physician and say, "Help me take care of me, help me invest in me," this sense of fulfillment goes beyond getting quality medical attention.

Allow me to explain in one simple sentence: Taking the pill prescribed by my doctor is an affirmation that the symptoms it treats are real. 

Quite honestly, it's not even about the stupid symptoms, it's about trusting my body. It's about learning to trust my body. It's about learning to explore my body's discomforts to discover what's actually going on. It's about UNlearning to dismiss my fears and concerns as foolish or, worse yet, paranoid and weak. It's about learning to believe that I can handle what comes.

When I take the pill, see my therapist, visit a specialist, get the annual testing done, I am thankful that I have great medical insurance and access to great medical care. I am not thankful for a job that affords me that insurance (although, I AM, believe me) so much as I am thankful that I AM FUCKING CAPABLE.

I don't think this blog has much of a point. As I sat in the early morning hours today, sipping my deliciously indulgent-feeling coffee that I made, I just felt so grateful for what I have and what I have accomplished, and I felt so much pride for recognizing it.

My Inheritence

Months ago, a physical therapist at work and I crossed paths once (as we had many times before and many times since). I was yukking it up with some coworkers and having a good time, and as we walked past each other, the physical therapist interjected, "What a great smile." It took me a moment to realize she was talking to ME. I was stunned. She'd said it so casually, so spontaneously, so matter of factly! And it was such a pocket of joy moment for me.

Many months after that, a patient walked into the clinic and I greeted them as I always do. "Hello, <insert person's name here>!" And this person commented on the way in and stopped on the way out to tell me how nice it was to be greeted by my smile. Another pocket of joy moment.

I think about these pockets of joy from time to time-- after all, what good is joy if you can't revisit it? Feel it's glow again?  I revel in these moments. They warm me. They challenge the old ideas of myself that I just LOOOOVE to cling to even as I work to release them.

I matter.

But long before any of these folks said these kind words to me, my late aunty took my face into her hands and told me that she sees my grandma in my smile. I wrote a MySpace blog about it back when it happened because it was such a pivotal moment (no, that link won't take you to MySpace, but to a blogger blog I wrote about the MySpace blog. I really love that awkward sentence).

What's crazy about my aunty commenting about MY smile, is that SHE had the most beautifulest smile that just wrapped you in warmth and love. And THAT'S what adds deeper joy, deeper meaning to these lovely compliments by virtual strangers: it is my heritage. This smile of mine (and I like to think that I'm quick to smile) is my inheritance. This smile connects me to my ancestors. The smile that you see on my face, that has brought joy to others? I've seen it reflected back to me in the faces of my family. My cousins, my dad, my siblings. And it has also brought me joy, warmth, and a sense of belonging.

Dad and Aunty Pearl, 2011

It's madness that I don't see what even strangers see in my face. I don't see my aunty's smile in mine. I know hers was something special while mine feels unique-to-me at best. I feel like my mouth is too small and my face too big, like, how can you see this smile among all this FACE??? My smile feels lacking compared to the warmth I wish to convey.

But I think it's more than just a mouth pulled into a specific shape by the muscles in my face, right? It's more than just teeth, white or not. More than just lips and cheeks. I mean, I couldn't tell you at this exact moment what more it is, but I CAN tell you this: when you see me smiling at you, know that it's like a Care Bear stare that stretches beyond me, that comes from a well that is deeper than just me. 

Not to be dramatic, but omg, WUT?!?!

My greatest fear if I survive the initial attack of the zombie apocalypse is limited or no access to reading glasses. No joke. I've watched the entirety of the Walking Dead. I've seen them scavenge. No one has ever ransacked a pharmacy looking for the right reading glasses prescription. How can I ensure my continued survival if I can't read? Or see what I'm eating? Or, I don't know, thread a stupid needle?

Right now, I'm not very ambulatory. I woke up on Monday morning with a pain in my ankle, and when I woke up on Tuesday, I could barely put weight on it. The urgent care doctor prescribed ibuprofen and NO WORKING OUT FOR AT LEAST A WEEK.

Not to be dramatic, but omg, WUT?!?!

For the record, I don't consider myself an athletic person. Or a particularly busy person. I don't know that I would even say I'm an ACTIVE person. I do things, sure. And I do them regularly. Have BEEN doing them regularly for years now. But that's just not really how I see myself.

Until I can't do them!

Just the thought of not doing any of my weekly activities-- strength training, pole, dance, WALKING even-- is crushing (there's that drama again). All of my nights this week are open. I can't even contemplate whether I'm being lazy or smart for going/not going to an activity because the decision has been taken away from me by my lack of a functioning ankle.

I realize just how much movement is a part of my life.

So, picture me, if you will, writhing on the floor. Whining. Flying fists. One leg, my right, kicking out. That's me pouting because I have to be still. I have to rest. I have to heal. But I don't want to. I'd rather do all those other things I usually do!

But at the gentle reminding of some friends, I remember that movement is not the totality of my identity. That either I can focus on the things I can't do or I can redirect my attention to other things I love, like reading, writing, and watching movies. I can focus my energy into bringing myself comfort. I can work on showing myself tenderness and provide for myself with loving attention.

*insert image of Kanani writhing on the floor*

I can do it! I AM doing it. I submit as evidence the fact that I'm home right now instead of at work. Because I could absolutely hobble around the office on my wonky foot, but that's probably super subpar to another day of healing and rest to my overall well-being. And really, is there an easier action to take than REST that yields such impactful positive consequences?

Sigh. It's still a learning process. I'm working on it. I've always waited for someone else to give me what I needed, and I've figured out recently that I can give those things to myself. I can be the provider of comfort, tenderness, attention, and love. But what's also amazing (and astonishing), is realizing that I'm not alone. My family and friends with their offers of support, and my kids, for looking out for their aging mother 😂. It's not a bad existence I have.