It’s Wednesday night , so the story continues. Picking up from last week -
I really hope this is somewhat interesting to you, ’cause after glancing over part 9 to remember where I was in the story, I’m finding myself a little more grating than interesting!
Hopefully today’s post will be more fun, ’cause I’m gonna talk a little about my best flaw – my stubborn craziness.
In these posts about the story of the time I had all my heart troubles, I’ve tried to keep it at least somewhat light. I’ve had some time to step away from the situation, so it’s easier to talk about it as though it didn’t drive me bonkers every moment of every day. It’s easier now to act as though, “oh it was all fun and games. No one was that mad that I missed work. I wasn’t mad about it at all either. I just rolled with the punches.” But that was not quite the case.
I’ve been a little hesitant to talk about exactly how much it bothered me to miss work, because people act as though you’re crazy, or like you really can’t care that much about some job while in a somewhat life-threatening situation. I did.
Whenever someone would check in on me and how I was feeling, the first thing I talked about was how angry I was about missing work – angry with myself, angry with my body, with the timing of everything. Just generally angry. I know there’s no use in stewing over bad situations. I tried to joke a lot with the nurses, and keep it light even back then. But I still had anger and sadness and frustrations going on.
One of my professors thought it was ridiculous to care so much about work, because you know, I was in the hospital.
(Another professor (the amazing Stephen) totally sympathized with me. He was one of the very few people who knew how to deal with me when I was sick. I was hard to deal with. Yet somehow, he knew how to handle my craziness.)
Here’s the thing about life. A lot of people say things along the lines of “Who cares if you miss out on this show? At least you have your health.”
Life is not about just getting up everyday and breathing. Life is about experiencing things, doing what you love, fighting for your dreams. I know that one show, one job, one race, whatever, doesn’t always make or break you. And I know that you have to fix heart problems. And missing a year of work is better than missing decades of work ’cause you’re dead or something. But knowing in your brain that you have to miss work now so as not to miss it in the future doesn’t make it any less painful. It doesn’t make my stomach turn any less about calling out for the first time ever.
Even thinking about it now, I’m getting a little sick about it. I thought that I would never call out of a show in my life. Ever. I thought that nothing would keep me from a theater. To know that I was wrong about that so early in my career sucks.
And you know how you always hear about the stories of those people who are like, “I fell off a cliff, broke a bone in three places, and decided to keep climbing up Mt. Everest anyway.” Maybe I’m exaggerating a bit. And maybe that stuff mainly only happens in movies. But you know those kind of inspiring stories I’m talking about – the ones where people do things that truly seem super human.
I liked to think that I was one of those super human people. Oh yeah, put me in a tough spot and I’ll just become a superhero. No big deal. But nope. I was just a boring girl who let everything happen to her.
I mean, I may have been sick but I still have free will, right? Conceivably, I could’ve just ripped off my heart monitor and said, “peace out, suckas! I don’t have to stay here.” Sometimes looking back on it from the future, I do think, “Why didn’t I just say, ‘I’m leaving?’”
Next week, I’ll pick up on this very subject, and explore why I wasn’t stubborn enough to leave.