Vol. 3, Post #96 Alone (and afraid)

I got bitch-slapped last week. Here ya go. Sex tips for girls* (*or maybe folks who are holding on to mid-life by a thread). A dating odyssey for Young Olds (people with readers).

Last week, I mentioned at the end of my post that I was going live one day later than usual because I was in the hospital. I had this strange tingling on one side of my face and that sort of thing could — could — mean a neurological event, so I had to go to the ER to be sure I didn’t have a stroke.

A STROKE. I mean, that’s Old People Stuff, right? Apparently, not. And also, I’m old. Here’s what happened next and don’t worry, there will be some mention of pussy in the telling.

I think there are two kinds of people. There is the kind who like someone else to come along on doctor’s appointments, who don’t enjoy eating dinner solo in a restaurant, et al. Nothing wrong with those people. And then there are the people who don’t want anyone at the scan, the test, the exam, and who love to eat dinner alone at the bar, with or without a good book. Nothing wrong with those people.

I am firmly in the latter camp. Over the years, when I’ve been in between partners. and I’ve had health scares, court dates, even airport runs, I’ve gone it alone. I prefer to be alone when I’m stressed. I hate making chit chat with other people just to fill the silence and most of the time, I like the freedom to either brood or talk to myself in my car, or cry, or sing loudly and out of tune. I find my own company to be very soothing and I’m sure this is a leftover modality from my childhood when no one was very avail to be my wingman when I was emotionally needy.

OK, so here we go with my doctor telling me I had to go to the hospital STAT and to his credit (I LOVE my doctor!), he was correct in that I walked into the ER and they took me back to do bloods and labs immediately. I guess when they hear “stroke,” no one fucks around.

I was waiting for the CT scan, hooked up to machines, when I realized that I should tell some people where I was. I texted/called my inner group and then, since a few people were then talking to other friends in my circle, trying to get information, I made a post on social media — sometimes, social media actually works to our advantage. I was able to let anyone who cares know what was up with me and I posted a few more updates as the afternoon went on. Once I knew I was basically in the clear after my CT scan, I also called my son.*

*Hilariously/not hilariously, HE was in the ER the day before. I shit you not. He had an infection from a cut on his finger that he got when he was in South America just prior and he went to the ER to make sure he hadn’t caught some weird bug/virus as he had been in a pretty remote area. His girlfriend remarked, “Leave it to both of you to end up in the ER a day apart…like mother, like son.”

While waiting to see what was up, because we knew I didn’t have a stroke, but we still didn’t know what was actually happening, I started to think about all of the people who asked me via phone or text, “Do you want me to come to the hospital? Drive you home? Come over to your house later?”

There were many lovely lovely lovely offers like that, and I turned all of them down. Again, not to be such a tough guy but because I really was OK with just doing this by myself. However…

However………..

As I sat there in my ER hospital bed, I started to think, “What if something is in fact wrong with me? What if I CAN’T drive myself home and what if I need some care once I get home? I’m sure any number of people will be around, but…it sure would be nice to have a partner in this instance. It sure would be nice to not go through a medical crisis alone.”

I marinated on this thought for a few hours. The ER was bustling and the attending physician wanted to be sure that all of the bloods and labs were in before letting me leave. So there I was, in no pain but in fact, in some wincing realization that if this turned into something, well, there was no romantic Beloved to get me through it. That kind of ouched.

Let’s keep going, because after I left the hospital, for the remainder of the week and into earlier this week, I was still having this tingling on and around my face and it was finally decided that I needed a brain MRI.

I was kind of freaking out. First, I was in distress because the tingling got worse at one point and now was also in my mouth. I started down the road of “What if the tingling makes it hard for me to breathe? What if I can’t breathe and then I can’t call 911? What if I pass out and the dog is the only one here? He can’t call 911 either. WHY THE HELL DON’T I HAVE A BOYFRIEND OR HUSBAND OR LOVER OR WIFE OR PARAMOUR TO TAKE CARE OF ME?!?!”

This of course reminded me of the Six Feet Under episode called “The Invisible Woman” in which an older woman chokes to death in her apartment, alone, and is found a week later. Ruth, the matriarch of the Fischer family, feels very misunderstood when no one can comprehend her distress at Emily Previn’s death but of course, we the audience understands it and I sure as hell understood it in last week’s tale — she died alone and no one cared, nor did anyone even discover her for….days….she had no one. She didn’t count.

Emily Previn, below, in a still from the scene from the episode where she starts to choke and can’t perform the Heimlich on herself. Looks like a nice ordinary Young Old, doesn’t she?

The week seemed endless. At one point, I had dinner with a friend — a woman who I’ve known for years, during which time she’s been partnered and single (currently in the process of a separation) — and as we were saying goodnight in the restaurant parking lot, she, knowing my fears, said she was adding my number to the “ring through my phone even if it’s on silent/no matter what” category. She got it. She knew and felt what Ruth Fischer knew and felt.

OK, so lemme get to the point because I know you’re on the edge of your laptops, wondering what the MRI showed. It showed that I am PERFECTLY FINE and that there is NO evidence of anything happening in my brain, short of my own weirdo thoughts. I am indeed Abbe Normal.

And just because this struck me as ironically funny, the Apple Music channel that I selected to listen to during the MRI (“Classic Rock” because I really couldn’t choose and it seemed like a no-brainer, ugh, sorry, that was honestly unintended) played these three songs right out of the gate, bam, bam, bam, as the MRI machine bam, bam, bam’d in my ears:

1. Bad Moon Rising

2. Crazy Train

3. Crazy On You

Even though the procedure wasn’t nearly as bad as I had heard a brain MRI could be (I’m not claustrophobic and I just zoned out with my eyes closed, sure that I’d eventually hear The Eagles on the Classic Rock station — yes, I was correct), I was slightly dazed afterwards, and hungry. As I sat (alone) in a booth at a nearby dinner after the procedure, awaiting results and scarfing down an omelet and disco fries, I just told myself, over and over again, that no matter what was going to happen next, and no matter whether or not I had a partner again (because who wants a partner who was just diagnosed with MS or similar? — I was worst-case scenario-ing it), I was going to get through this the way I get through everything.

But I was also resigning myself to what I just wrote — that if something were truly wrong with me, I could pretty much take dating off the table, not only because I’d have to concentrate on getting well, but, again, I don’t want to date anyone with any number of lesser issues. Not sure who’d want to date me if I had a life-threatening one.

Was that it? Had I had love, or sex, for the last time?

When the good news came in only a few hours later (again, I LOVE MY DOCTOR), I felt reborn. We Young Olds don’t get a ton of OH MY FUCKING CHRIST YES I AM COMING, COME WITH ME moments, but when they hit, they hit hard!!!!!! After alerting the media (telling my posse and posting an update on social media — yup, that’s what it’s good for!), I went home and most certainly cleaned up my act. I had dinner plans that night which were kind of contingent on A) how I was feeling and B) if I had bad news or not. News was BANGIN’, and I was ready to rise to the occasion.

I got dressed. Really dressed. Tight jeans (you know, the ones that cost several hundred dollars from my Spending Big days as opposed to my Madewell schleppers), stacked heels. Jewelry. Lipstick and smokey eyeshadow — pulling out all the stops. Perfume, from my body oil to what I dabbed behind my ears. I did all the things that I like to do when I’m taking extra time and care to shine, not just one or two of those things. It felt amazing.

I pulled this gorgeous handmade plaid blanket coat out of the closet, the one I got at Fred Segal in LA that was way too much fucking money, but I had to have it (see below for photo of Said Coat — and also, fuck, I love those glasses; I have to wear them more often). I moved all the crap out of the totebag I had been hauling around and transferred the vital stuff to a truly beautiful handbag that had been gifted to me by a client.

If this was how redemption felt, in the form of conquering a health scare (already the tingling in my face was starting to simmer down, which added proof positive that what I had seemed to be a virus that had settled in a pocket of facial nerves, as my medical team had begun to hypothesize), I was ready for it. That night every sip of cocktail, every bite of food, every time I dabbed my mouth and reapplied my lipstick, every one of those things was hyper elevated that night at dinner. My friends and I told stories and yucked it up. Power pocket. Big time power pocket.

I’m going to NYC later this week for work and for fun. I’m going to the NYC premiere of a friend’s documentary, and trying a new tucked away hot spot that’s been on my radar for some time. I’m going to Joe’s Pub to see my pal Paul as his alter ego Christeene (evil genius), and I’m going to the newly reopened Frick Museum. Actually, I’m going there on a date. And, actually, I have two dates.

I feel like flirting up a storm. I feel like plugging in a few toys and buzzing my way to a nice respectable orgasm and howling at the moon (note to self: make waxing appt. because your vagina has been closed for business for the better part of the fall and winter — oh, Deeeeeeeebbbbbbiiiiiieeee!) I want a manicure and chocolate croissant — that will be first order of business when I get to the city on Thursday ahead of work thing.

This whole thing scared the shit out of me — the idea of the illness, the idea of being alone through it, and the idea of it sidelining me from love and sex forever.

Dear Readers, it’s been a sobering week or so. Watch out. I’m back. Remember Ann-Margret, in “Kitten With A Whip” circa 1964? There’s some inspiration for these next few pages, or maybe a chapter or two. Lube up and join me!

Housekeeping!

Next week, I’m in Jenny Magazine, on a topic for which I might get some hate mail, but I guess we’ll see, won’t we? Men and money. I have opinions about why they flash it at our age.

Also happening. Oh Dear Readers…I’d like to pretend that I’m mostly in touch with my higher self, but also this week, a friend mentioned something utterly idiotic that an ex-boyfriend said about me and instead of just laughing it off (well, everyone at the table did laugh it off), I actually texted him and called him out on it. For a few hours, I felt like maybe I had sunk to his level in that I should have just kept silent…and then, out of the blue, ANOTHER friend mentioned he had run into Said Ex Boyfriend, heard similar, and remarked to me, “That dude has a boulder on his shoulder with your name carved into it.” Vindicated (even after I just should’ve ignored it) in a “don’t fuck with me, Fellas” kind of way. Another reason my dick is so hard right now. Imma go back to being a Nice Lady because, well, I AM a nice lady, but nothing like a little life or death episode to bring out a well-deserved bitch-slap for someone else and say, “Check your ego and don’t be an asshole.” And I could’ve texted something waaaaaay worse, Little Man. So let’s all count our blessings, shall we?