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It's everything I want to tell people when they make small talk and profound talk, but I often can't. Sickness, sex, and the process of dealing with aging parents feel unspeakable and sometimes unreachable, but they sure aren't here.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Domestic Labor

The routine BS of life is still present in mine, even with all this hoopla over illnesses and drugs and barfing, oh yes, much barfing. Laundry is my big chore. I produce quantities of it that overfloweth the bag, quantities that are sweaty, smelly, and craving "fresh scent." I take hormones and steroids that generate spontaneous climatic changes in my body; my skin can feel like it's crawling, or it starts sweating like Nixon's forehead. Either way, it means clothes going off my body and yet another change in a day. That is a lot of panties in a week, lemme tell ya. This does not go over well in an office, yet another reason to find my life in working from home and other environments I can control. I made choices about my three degrees knowing full well that I was sick and that I would need independence and creativity in ways that healthy people never have to face. I can't quite convey to others the quirks of taking daily cocktails of various drugs for systemic diseases that are not in remission. Even skin and sweat pose obstacle courses that require management, accommodations, and energy in a day that healthy bodies never endure. This is me trying to translate to you the realities of a different universe with signals and meanings that might escape you otherwise. Maybe they wouldn't escape you. Maybe you're different. Maybe you're a sickie, too.

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