Did I tell you about the time I played a Seal CD on the way to the library?
Halfway in, the eighth grade mixed metaphors irritated me so much that I packed the thing up, went into the library, and donated it. ("Oh, that's a good one," said a white-haired librarian with purple glasses.)
And how about another library visit the week of Theo's diagnosis? Have I told you about that?
I'm standing near the public computers with my kids when I see a large, pasty white man viewing pornography. Let's rewind this scene a few seconds back: There's Amy looking utterly wiped out. She can't stand up without nausea. Mostly this is due to the exhaustion of a first week lived with Type 1 diabetes, but Amy is also allergic to the dust at the library. Any visit--diagnosis notwithstanding--brings on a complete lethargy around minute 30.
So there I am, weak as anything, when I catch sight of this guy. A rage starts bubbling somewhere deep within, and I go over and yell at him. Then I report him, and sit back down trembling with plans on what I'm going to do next if he (a) comes near me, or (b) dares to visit that website again in my presence.
And the potatoes. Did I tell you about the potatoes?
I'm buying potatoes at the farmer's market. The farmer tells me why these potatoes here are preferable to those other potatoes over there. It's all I can do to keep myself from weeping at her feet.
A woman whose daughter was diagnosed with diabetes earlier this year told me this is normal.
"That grief is going to keep coming and going," she had said.
Yes, but at the darndest times and in very odd ways. Now, I must admit here I'm a little hot-tempered to begin with, and might just have gotten rid of Seal or attacked that guy in the library whether or not I was in a particular stage of grief. Okay, yes, I would have done those things. Can't blame diabetes for Amy's default anger issues.
But potatoes? Come on.
This rollercoaster of emotions is not entirely new to me, but I'd like to go back to having no good reason to ride it.