It was the dining room chairs that finally drove the point home.

Just before Christmas the family announced that they wanted to come to my house.  Unfortunately, my house was far from ready for guests.  I subscribe to the “don’t rush into it” school of decorating which means I have the bare minimum I need to be comfortable (loose translation, a bed, a couch, a television and a computer) and I add the rest as funds and inclination dictate.  In this case that meant I didn’t yet have a dining room table.

It’s absolutely obvious that you don’t have people for Christmas without having a table around which they can sit.  I had to have a table so I gritted my teeth and bought one which, while not the admittedly expensive one I had my eye on, seemed to be one that would do.   It would have done nicely, except for one thing.

Three dreaded words.  Some Assembly Required.

I don’t do some assembly required.  The light on my stovetop has been minus a cover for almost a year now because I took the cover off to change the bulb and couldn’t figure out how to get it back on.  The list of my DIY attempts and failures extends far beyond that.  I’m just not handy, and I’ve made my peace with that.

Still, the table was there and guests were coming, so I ripped open boxes and read instructions and gradually and painfully assembled my new dining room table and six chairs.  It turned out pretty well I thought.  Nothing wobbled, much, and everything seemed fairly sturdy.  The only issue I had was the cushions for the chairs.  They didn’t seem to want to be attached.   There were screws that were supposed to attach them, but I couldn’t figure out how to make them work.  I tried and failed and tried again and finally had a brilliant idea.  I’d do the easiest thing in the world. I’d get some sticky tape and stick the cushions to the chair frame.  That was sure to work!

Except it didn’t work.  My family arrived, one chair was moved and the flaws in the sticky tape were quickly revealed.  After a lot of laughter and incredulous looks from my DIY savvy sister, she marshaled her troops (her daughter and two sons) and set to work putting the screws in the bottom of my chairs.  Like magic, all the cushions were secure.

And, sadly, so was my DDIY crown.

One of the things I’ve never understood is why there are some people who always seem to insist that going through something horrible “makes you stronger”.   I suppose, for a few people, it is just something to say.  For others, maybe it seems like a way to justify the experience.  Perhaps, to those who aren’t experiencing that particular pain, it sounds hopeful.  I suppose anything is possible.

I don’t claim to have cornered the market on pain.  I only have to read what Crystal’s been writing about her past,  or what Elden’s been writing about his wife’s cancer, to know that there are many other’s who have gone through pain I can’t even imagine.   Still, I’ve been through my share of rough times and one thing they taught me is that the idea that the experiences have made me stronger is very cold comfort.

When I was a kid I used to wonder why I had to go through the things I experienced.  I wondered whether I could change things if I was a better kid.  When I was older, especially when I was a teenager and being molested, I wondered if there was a scent I gave off, like a sick animal in a herd, which led predators to me.  In adulthood,  I assumed for a while I was cursed.   Looking back, I can see that most of the year I lost to depression was simply my way of trying to figure things out, and perhaps my way of saying fuck you to the strength I’d supposedly accumulated.  If this was the way to get strong, I’d settle for being weak, thank you.  Weak seemed a heck of a lot easier. 

As much of a hoary chestnut as the saying is, I do have to admit my experiences did make me stronger.  I’m quite confident I can survive almost anything, and that I can survive it alone if I must.  I suppose I should be grateful for that strength, and I suppose in a way I am.  I’m also, however, saddened by that strength.  I wonder sometimes what I might have been had things worked out differently. 

Today, when I commiserate with someone who is going through a tough time, I say “I’m sorry” or “Let me know how I can help”.  I never say “This experience will make you stronger”.  

I’m kind of a coward, you see, and I don’t want to get punched in the mouth.

I’m sorry if this sounds a bit blunt,  but I generally dislike doctors.  At lot of my dislike comes from the fact that doctors and hospitals played a large part in my childhood.  I was born with a heart defect and had open heart surgery at four.  Every year after that, until I reached adolescence, we would make the trek to Ann Arbor to have me poked and prodded by doctors and interns for a day.  Although I was an active child, I wasn’t necessarily a well one.  I had skin problems.  I had migraines.  I had scoliosis.  It seemed sometimes like we were always going to one doctor or another for something.

 When I grew up, I went through a period where I wouldn’t go to the doctor at all.  A lot of the problems I’d had as a kid seemed to settle down when I reached adulthood.  My skin, although still sensitive, stopped breaking out.  My migraines decreased in frequency and intensity.  My heart seemed inclined to work as it should.  I figured no news was good news and avoided doctors like they had, or could give me, the plague.

Then, about six years ago, I got pneumonia.  In the process of fixing that, it was discovered that my blood pressure was wildly out of control.  In the process of investigating the causes of that problem,  doctors determined my mitral valve was compromised and not functioning.   I had another surgery to fix that issue.  Suddenly, I was right back in the thick of the doctor game again. 

I’ve always tried to walk a line when it comes to my health.  On one hand, I don’t want to be the hypochondriac who runs to the doctor for every little thing.  I don’t want to be the bore at every part who has to talk about her latest medical problem in excruciating detail.  At the same time, however, I have to recognize that I have health issues that people who bodies were created without defects don’t have.  Some of those issues require monitoring, which requires doctor visits.  It is really as simple as that.

In the end, I know that part of my settling for more is being as healthy as it is possible for me to be.  The best way to achieve the health that I want is to find a doctor I like, who listens to me, and who will work with me to overcome or manage my particular challenges.  I think I may have finally found that doctor.  The jury is still out, but initial signs look favorable.  I’ll keep you posted on how things go.