I'm not a fan of elevators.
Particularly in the summer time, in the older buildings where the ventilation is questionable and the elevators are small . . . there's a little voice inside my head that starts when the doors close, chanting "just-get-there-just-get-there-just-get-there", and a small but undeniable breath of relief when they open again.
Back in the summer of 2005 I was stuck in an elevator for 24 long minutes . . . and during that time I miraculously only had about 20 seconds of panic, simply because more than that wasn't an option.
It was a tiny elevator. Dave & I were accompanied by a very large middle-aged man, a woman in her late 20s, and a very elderly, frail woman who had only gone downstairs for a moment to pick up her mail. The (extrememly tiny) elevator started up only to stop midway between the second & third floors.
A high pitched
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE alarm started screaming.
It was June. It was hot. There was no ventilation.
We were packed in like little standing sardines, literally about an inch between each of us.
All of our eyes were wide and I could feel blood rush to my head and my inner panic voice start with "Nonononowe-have-to-get-out-of-here".
And then the other man totally. lost. his. mind.
He pushed past everyone to the front of the elevator (which made the elevator shake) and started pounding on the door, which made the elevator shake more (scary). He was screaming (screaming)
"GET US OUT! I CAN'T BE IN HERE! GET ME OUT OF HERE! HEEEELLLPPPP!"
And instantly I took the panic rising in me and put it out, like dunking a match in water, because I had lost the luxury of having a meltdown. I don't think you can have 2 hysterical people in an elevator, and his hysteria clearly trumped mine. So he got to panic and we focused on convincing him that this wasn't a big deal. Eventually the NYPD arrived to set us free. (To this day I ask myself "is this elevator too crowded to spend 20 minutes in" before I make an elevator commitment.)
Anyway, this July is kind of like that elevator.
For the past 3 days, I've been flailing, feeling an anxiety rising up with every appointment that gets added to the calendar. Our therapy schedule has totally flipped, as everyone shifted for the summer days . . . this leaves me standing in front of my giant calendar early each morning, rubbing my eyes and mumbling "Wait, what
day is it? And who
is coming here when
?" Also, since everyone vacations at some point, each therapist has to squeeze in make-up sessions while they're around.
On top of that, we have a crazy number of appointments. This week included the 4 hr audiology eval and a 1.5 hr functional hearing eval. Still to come this month are (chronologically): a physiatry eval/revisit, preschool registration, another hearing eval, an opthamologist eval, another hearing eval. And possibly an ENT follow-up thing. And there are only 15 business days left this month. That's a lot of appointments. (Also, because the team that we are working with is fantastic, there are a lot of emails, surveys and inventories that have to be completed before & after appointments. The fax machine has been buzzing with reports and data from the appointments. Papers are piling up.)
I had to buy a travel calendar to carry in the diaper bag because I can't keep it straight.
For the past 2 days my inner voice has fluctuated between " I hate July I hate July I wish that this was done already"
to "How will we ever make it through July
?" to "One day at a time, one appointment at a time, we will get through this month
". That seemed like progress, but then a flash of realization today . . . am I wishing away a month? A whole month?
My big goal for this month of my life is just survival
That can't be right.
So I'm putting out that match of anxiety again, as I will not allow myself the luxury of struggling and moping through a month. I am consciously choosing to pull out my most zen self.
I will not rush through this month. There will be sprinklers.
There will be ice cream.
(There may also be less lengthy blog ramblings . . . que sera sera.)