I took Buzz — my beloved, geriatric, palliative with a DNR, nearly-17-year-old Suzuki SX4 — for a drive today.
Buzz and I became best pals in July of 2013, when I bought him using my insurance settlement after I was struck by a car while crossing a street. He still runs, and is road-safe, but his exhaust system is hanging by a thread and it’s just a matter of time. One bump will spell the end of the line for us.
It’s hard to put into words how much this little (faded) red car means to me. In a purely practical sense, he’s my independence: a mobility aid, freedom to live when my body lets me, and freedom to go when and where I want, if I just need some salt air or to visit the crows at my favourite cemetery.
With Buzz, I don’t have to try to walk down my uneven, slippery driveway with my current balance issues in order to get to the bus stop four houses away, or to be picked up by a kind friend. I don’t have to try and make my (dys)abilities match up with Doug’s schedule, which is not only difficult, but stressful, and literally makes my chronic illnesses worse.
Buzz is my happy place, and he is the one place I have where I can control the space immediately around me, and how much stimuli my brain is taking in. His interior is consistent. Only I change it. The noise level is what I choose, based on how much I can take.
It’s impossible for a writer like me to not see the similarities between Buzz’s decline and my own. His passenger air bag sensor is on permanently, and he has lost his all-wheel drive ability now that the rear drive shaft has gone. His undercarriage was described by a mechanic in Massachusetts as “the rustiest car I’ve ever seen”, and his frame is rotting. God knows I’m crumbling too.
But we have made so many beautiful memories together, and nearly every important person in my life has met him.
Usually, a car is just a car.
But once in a lifetime, it’s Buzz.
Each year, I choose a particular word to solidify a goal, or a theme, for the coming 12 months. Most of the time, it comes from a "should" that has its genesis somewhere external, and —like those resolutions that also come from societal pressures or guilty living — I forget all about it by the time we hit double-digit January.
This time, though, it's very different. One day last week, my Word of the Year hit me like a brisk breeze out of nowhere. I was trying to juggle too many things at once, with my limping brain struggling to keep up.
"I just can't do this," I said aloud.
"STREAMLINE" immediately rose to the surface of my mind. And I knew.
In the past, I've chosen "Simplify," but despite its nod to my beloved Henry David Thoreau, it was a bit too vague, with little direction. "Streamline" is more specific, more evocative. It brings to mind cutting out in order to move better, to be more efficient, and to feel less friction. It's about removing what gets in the way.
For those new to this blog, I have two invisible disabilities: post-concussion syndrome, from a history of serious brain injuries, with the most recent occurring in September 2023; and moderate-to-severe rheumatoid arthritis, which so far affects my hands, feet, and eyes. (Yes, eyes. RA is an autoimmune disease, so it is systemic. The "arthritis" is a bit of a misnomer because the disease can affect more than just the joints.)
The daily impact of two conditions is stressful, and both disabilities worsen with stress. Without careful management of the factors within my control (medication, schedule, and rest, primarily), it's easy to fall into a feedback loop.
When I'm having a "bad brain day", I get stressed and frustrated — often feeling like I'm disappointing my friends and loved ones because I have to cancel plans — which makes the RA worse. The pain and diminished function of the worsening RA interferes with what I'm trying to accomplish, and that clogs up the brain even further. And so it goes, spiralling down until I'm in a pit of non-functioning, self-loathing misery.
Recovering from the latest Big Brain Bang has been slow, and I have to be realistic. If this is what my level of "brain spoons" will be for a while (perhaps even permanently), then all that I currently have going on just isn't sustainable. My life is overstuffed. I'm carrying too much, metaphorically speaking.
I need to decide what's important, what's beneficial, what's a drain, and what is absolutely necessary. And then I need to start removing things. Anything that takes my attention is using brain energy, and I need to accept the fact that it's a limited resource. Even if it's something I want to do, it still drains the cranial battery. And I'm stubborn. I want to do what I want to do.
But it's time to get real.
I need to streamline in order to move forward. Or I'm not going to be able to move at all.
