So it is official. I have man flu. I have man flu worse than any man has ever had it. The doctor says it is the Adenovirus, but this diagnosis is clearly wrong, as it ignored my main symptoms, which are patheticness, gross impatience and extremely embarrassing self-pity. How my family has put up with me, I do not know. I am an awful, awful patient. I mope around in pink pyjamas, sighing like a disgruntled millennial who is not a millionaire after working for two days, and then at my worst moment, I cried when my husband did not run my bath to the perfect temperature. Do you even want to keep reading? Add some cortisone to this already hot-mess of emotions and you get a murderous tornado leaving a trail of snotty tissues and broken relationships in her wake.
The good thing is, that I’m getting better and making amends with those who still want to talk to me. It does not really matter to what extent a virus turns you into an egomaniac. Reality simply has to creep in at some point and luckily, I am sobering up fast now.
The advantage (and very much disadvantage) of the work we do, is that you are constantly challenged with reality. It does not matter if I spend the whole day looking at people’s insta-perfect lives on social media. Real life happens here in our rooms. We know that the daughter who is so distraught on Facebook about her mother’s death and posting a deluge of happy family pics, is the very same person who either spent her time fighting with her mom during her last days or sat outside chain-smoking. The businessman who always has a new girlfriend with him on an expensive holiday on Tiktok came to us after a routine procedure because he had no one to care for him at home. That tiny little waist and perky boobs on the profile pic? We had to clean up the drains and phone the doctors at midnight because of uncontrollable pain after exceptionally brutal liposuctions and abdominoplasties.
Nora McInerny is one of my favourite authors. She has a fabulous talk show, named after the answer she gave when people asked her how she was after her husband died. The show is called; “Terrible, thanks for asking.” I love her honesty, and therefore I never want to glibly tell another person that I am fine. The only person I actually tell “I’m fine” is my husband, and then he knows, without any doubt, that I am not… nor will the next conversation be. I think it is a much better idea to actually tell people the truth. The only reason we tell people we are “fine” is because we think that’s what they want to hear. Being “fine” means you have it all together and you don’t need anyone. You don’t wake up in a sweat at night fearing tomorrow, you are brave, you are coping and totally on top of things. You are not a problem, and you do not need to be fixed.
McInerney also says “We humans are experts at hiding our broken parts.” I should not even begin to pull at this thread. Imagine how much quicker we would have our cancers diagnosed if we acted the first time we felt that lump or saw that discharge? Imagine how many hours we would save if we could admit we were hurt and broken and vulnerable. Just imagine if you phoned and asked how I am and I could be honest and say, “I’m scared today?”, or “I actually did not have the strength to get up?”, or “I cannot do this grief thing alone?”, or “This motherhood thing, is really not so easy”, or “I need to care for my mom, but I simply haven’t got the energy?”
My husband was hijacked a few days ago. (Yes, yes, we have a lot to be grateful for: he is fine, wasn’t hurt, it was all earthly things… blah blah). The truth is that it is horrible. He could have died for the sake of a stupid smartphone. I want to tell people that I am so angry that I feel like taking a knife and storming to the intersection in Sandton and stabling every hawker who was in on the crime. I want to admit that I have such rage that I suspect it will give me unimaginable joy to drive over these people repeatedly until they are squishy bloody messes on the tar. I am furious that there is no justice, that no one is going to do anything about the crime, that the very next day one of the doctors I work with was also hijacked: same MO, different intersection. If I am completely honest, I am angry because I am one of the good guys. I stayed in SA even though we could have left. I serve at feeding schemes and raise funds and uplift and educate. Should that not kind of guarantee my husband’s safety? But I don’t share my true feelings because it sounds self-righteous. So instead I say to people, “Ag it’s fine, just the price we pay to live here”.
It’s not fine.
I’m not fine.
What was wonderful to see is how friends, manly burly men, embraced Jeff (the hijacked husband) and told him they are glad he was okay. They said strange things like, “Well done for not fighting off a man with a gun” and “Well done on staying calm.” One friend even said, “Well done for being vulnerable, it saved your life.” They said things like, “I’m glad you are okay. I’m sorry this happened to you.” In this strange space where each Joburger has been, and will probably be again, we were able to feel deeply, acknowledge our love for each other, admit our fears, and embarrassingly let the ugly wish for vengeance surface. It is these honest, brutal moments that shake us and remind us how fragile we all are.. how wonderfully blessed and cursed we are in every moment.
There is this app called Bereal. It goes off randomly every day and at that moment you take a double photo: a selfie and something you see. I have almost no friends on this app. In fact, there are only four people that sees my Bereal… because, let’s face it, it is hard core honesty. Two are family – my daughters – one a goddaughter – and then a BFF. We’ve known each other for 20 years. We’ve always been close, but it’s only in the last few years that our friendship deepened. I wonder if it is because we are allowing each other to see the real us, not the slightly photo-shopped versions on Facebook of us looking glamorous, popular, achieving, laughing, winning at life? We see the naked truths of each others’ lives, and yet we choose to stay and be part of a life and a person who does not always have it together, and there’s something beautiful about that.