[Two important notes: each of the links below are referring back to one blog post or another related to the subject. And Spoiler Alert: if you have not seen/read Steel Magnolias there will be some discussion of the plot below]
I had the pleasure of a mini-date with one of my favorite people recently--Mamma P and I went out to dinner to talk about things, life, and all else in between before going to see Tristan in Steel Magnolias that evening. I had not (and still currently have not, as of writing this) seen the movie version. In fact, I didn't know what the story was about except it was in the Fried Green Tomatoes camp that would at least focus on female bonding through adversity of some kind.
And then, if the first act, Shelby has a diabetic emergency. Immediately, my stomach fell and I thought "Oh, shit, she's going to die." Not that the phrase "diabetic emergency" normally triggers that in my mind, but how it was introduced on her wedding day, well, that seemed significant. Andy gets annoyed with me when I do that while watching a new movie or tv show with him, when I break down some important elements of the plot in the beginning--there are troupes that one can pick up on over time, if you have some idea of what you're looking for. This is not to say that I'm always right with some of these guesses, and knowing how some elements are likely to play out doesn't ruin it for me, meaning that I can pay attention to how the hints are interspersed otherwise. However, with this one, I focused my energy to mentally prepare myself in a different way. There are two points that I want to address with this.
1. Shelby is determined not to let her physical ailments slow her down, to live her life on her own terms. I know Shelby in that moment. I have every reason to treat myself as though I were made of glass, except that I could never stand it. There's a point where a character tells Shelby something to the effect of "I wouldn't have known you were sick a day in your life." Shelby takes this as high praise. I have so much cognitive dissonance over that line that I'm struggling with where to start.
I would be pleased to be told that, too. But I would also be exasperated. But I would also be proud. And I would also be angry. And I would also have a very particular half-smile and say thanks.
I've talked about this obliquely in some other ways before. The character of Shelby has clearly had all kinds of discussions with her family and husband about her condition and particularly when it worsens. She wants to choose on her own terms how to take care of herself and even control who knows about her condition. I choose to be very open about my disease and that means that I'm also very open about some of the parts of it that are hard to talk about (from farting to sex to depression and anxiety and all the baggage that implies). But at the same time, I like to have some control of how visible I am or am not; it's an interesting balance.
I think what Truvy was trying to tell Shelby as part of that line was that she felt she was strong. I've had a few musings about what it means to be strong, but I don't think that the absence of "appearing" frail has anything specifically to do with it, more about how Shelby wanted to think of herself and how she chose to cope with her reality. I know that in order to receive the compassion needed, sometimes, one has to be visible or directly ask for it, as much as I would wish people could just somehow know before even I do that I need it.
I don't expect to be treated as though the disease wasn't there, wasn't a part of me--because regrettably it is a very significant part of my life--but I also don't want it to be my defining characteristic, to not be seen as a sick person. It's a tricky balance, to ask for compassion and acknowledgement and otherwise reach out for the help I need to without feeling like I'm smothered or coddled in a way that's debilitating.
I feel that we're supposed to keep Shelby mostly as a "but she died so young!" kind of tragic figure, identifying with her courage and her resilience to a point, but then the focus seems to shift more so to the resilience of those that survive her and their relationship with each other. Shelby's health drives the majority of the tension for the play. I identify with Shelby too much to assign her in my brain just as the main plot device. Shelby is more than her disease and her crumbling body.
She is me.
2. This next thought pulls into that conversation about baggage, combined now with that same idea from above: "Shelby's health drives the majority of the tension for the play." Even when Shelby does die, we're left with her friends and family trying to sort out what to do now. One of my brothers mentioned once how "inconvenient" it was when I was sick. Another family member mentioned once how we would be further along on our financial goals if I hadn't gotten sick. Neither of them meant to be hurtful, stating a particular truth of the situation, but it still stung a bit.
I think about the kind of baggage I inflict on those that love me a great deal.
Worrying about how much you worry someone almost seems silly, but here it is, all the same. I don't exist in a vacuum, meaning that what happens to me effectively happens to those around me, too, to some degree. My health has had a similar gravitational pull--a swirling vortex of medical terminology, juggling pills, a half-dozen specialists, cancelled plans, arguments about insurance, and the general frustration of it all--on my friends and family that rocked Shelby's family. Objectively, I know it's not my fault, that I'm not to blame for where my body has failed, but I also feel some of that guilt anyway. I know that people worry about me.
I can think of at least eight people who would take my place if they could. Of those, five have told me outright, and I believe them. I also know that I wouldn't let them because of that same love; that, and I wouldn't wish this reality on anyone.
I know it's not logical to feel guilty, but that doesn't stop the feeling. I spoke with my therapist about it one day, and we had an important discussion on the difference between being "sorry" and being "regretful." Telling a friend or family member that I was sorry for this burden that they carry because of me rests at least some of the culpability on me, takes some measure of fault. Saying that I regret the burden placed on them because of the situation takes it a little more out of me, that I recognize more so that this is not something that is anyone's particular doing but that I am sad to see it there all the same.
I deeply regret the pain and worry that my disease has inflicted on a great many people. I haven't figured out the best way to carry that particular piece of baggage yet. But I appreciate you, that you care enough to worry; I don't take that for granted. And there are moments when I feel you, and there are moments when I feel alone anyway. That isn't anyone's fault either, when I feel that particular kind of alone, and it is the hardest point, I find, to figure out how and where help is needed. At least, I cannot seem to articulate well what I need in those moments, meaning that I end up with a good, long cry instead, until words start happening again.
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Long story short (too late), I knew that the play was going to be emotional, but I had not anticipated that it would hit in that kind of way, play off of guilt and fears that I had thought I was dealing with well, thank you very much. And art truly does hit you in a different way, as you bring yourself into it. I expect that at another point in my life, I might identify more with someone else, when I'm no longer the same person through the natural progression of life. Still, I honor and appreciate where I am today. There is depression. There is pain. There is worry. There is fear. There is hope. And there is also me.
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