Adaptation Etc.

A little over two weeks ago a text conversation with my husband went like this:

Me: I got the heart monitor.

Him: How bad is it?

Me: There's a lot of cords and electrodes and a sensor and there's also a phone you have to wear around.

Him: Will you be ok with all of that?

Me: I am Borg. I will adapt.

So then two weeks went along. And in that two weeks a lot of stuff happened. I expected one very sick grandma to die (she didn't) and didn't even think about the other grandma (who then died) and I had problems with my work and with my art and my allergies wreaked havoc on my sinuses and chest. And my chest wall injury refuses to heal which means I've had to lay off benchpress (my favorite lift and lifting is how I avoid needing therapy/prozac) for three months and I really expected it to get better. And all the while I went around my house and the grocery store and the gym with electrodes attached to my body, cords hanging off, a sensor that beeped for no reason sometimes, a phone that vibrated noisily if I got too far away from it. I didn't like it but, like I said, I would adapt.

Or not.

I have very pale, very thin, very easily damaged skin. The electrodes were itchy and, after a few days, they started to burn. I rotated the patch placement but there's only so far you can move them as they have to be attached in specific places on your body to get an accurate picture of your heart. The skin wasn't healing nearly fast enough.

I finally called the doctor and asked if there was anything that could be done throwing around words like: welts, weeping, and scabs. They hung up and, I suppose, talked amongst themselves then called back after a few minutes and informed me that I could take the whole thing off and send it back--they had enough information. 

I was FREEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!! 

I actually, really did this. I boxed up my monitor and then went out for a run. It was glorious. I mean, the pollen count where I live is about 9000% at the moment so I was hacking and wheezing by the time I got back but, whatever, I was free. 

I didn't realize how much this thing had weighed on me. Maybe if my February hadn't already been so ridiculous. Maybe if I'd been able to go about my regular workout routine. Or maybe if my parents' moms weren't both dying at the same time with my dad's birthday sandwiched in for good measure. Or maybe if I'd managed to be productive in my writing or hadn't had to cancel two commissions. Or maybe if various other things hadn't happened, I wouldn't have felt so encumbered by the wires and the sensor and the stupid phone. As it was I felt like that time The Doctor wrote an autobiographical holonovel and everyone playing his program had to wear a fifty pound backpack to symbolize his connection to his mobile emitter. 

Photons be free! 

I realize, of course, that there are plenty of people who go about their days with assistance devices (and the problems they cause) as their constant companions and I'm bitching about something I only had to do one time for two weeks. But this is my blog and, as I've reiterated over and over again, it's as much (or more) about me as it is about Star Trek so I get to do crap like this. And, I think, part of my issue with all of this is that I couldn't, contrary to what I'd said, adapt. As soon as I had an option out, I took it. And that frustrates me for some reason. Not enough to make me put the monitor back on. I already walked that business down to the post office. But, still. It's bothersome.

Anyway, right this very second I'm continuing my re-watch of TNG and it's goofy as hell. 

They have no idea who they are or what they're doing. They're stuck in the trap of basically just mimicking the Trek that came before. It's all over the place. The Ferengis are ridiculous. The science is subpar. The dialogue is dated and heavy-handed. It goes on and on. Still, there is the seed of something great here. Patrick Stewart is obviously amazing. The rest of the crew has clear potential. It really is a new generation for Star Trek but it's young and awkward. It's like that gawky eighth grade school picture you never want anyone to find. But, of course, if you were never that weird, awkward kid, you'd never be the awesome adult (who complains relentlessly about trivial health issues on the internet) you are now. 

TOS Re-watch: The Man Trap

I finally did it. I watched The Man Trap yesterday after pretty much taking a month off from Star Trek and blogging. And you know what's strange? It didn't occur to me until much later, as I was making dinner, that Leonard Nimoy is dead.

I watched The Cage last month, of course, and didn't even think about it. I watched the whole of The Man Trap, where we get our first real glimpse of what Trek would be, and I thought about Spock's character, I thought about the sets, the costumes, the way it's so rich that Kirk tells McCoy not to be ruled by his "glands." I didn't think about the fact that this is my first re-watch of The Original Series since Nimoy died.

For a moment I felt guilty. I should've spent several seconds in silent solemnity as the credits rolled for the first time and Nimoy's name appeared. But I didn't. I was finishing up a painting and drinking coffee and worried about nine million other things and it didn't even occur to me that I should feel anything other than the same familiar nostalgia I've always felt when watching Trek.

Maybe it's because we lost DeForest Kelley and James Doohan a long time ago. Maybe it's because I already felt Nimoy's death so keenly and let it go. Maybe it's because the actors are never their characters--as much as we might want them to be--and even if Nimoy did die, Spock is still right here on my TV. It's his familiar voice that lets me know everything will probably still be ok. It's his skinny build in his blue velour uniform that makes me smile. It's still his way of infuriating the more outwardly emotional people around him that I identify with.

In January I had my birthday--it was lovely. I saw Star Wars for the 8th and 9th times--and loved it more with each viewing. I kept having weird heart palpitations and (after ten years of not-very-well-explained fainting spells) finally made an appointment with a cardiologist. I painted very little. I wrote even less. I turned down multiple commissions and ended up cancelling one that was going too slowly. I worried about my health and then worried some more. What if there's something very wrong with me? What if I don't wake up one morning? What if I never finish my work? Why do I think my work is so important? I spent some (likely ill-advised) time on Web MD. I played so many hours of Fallout 4. I worked on the query for a book I'm dying to send out but anxious about its prospects. I actually picked up the phone and called my mom because her mom is going into hospice care. I felt annoyed with myself for not being more torn up about it.

Then, yesterday, I watched The Man Trap. And I didn't think about losing Leonard Nimoy. And that's ok. Leonard Nimoy was amazing. He brought life to a character that has been and will continue to be beloved by millions. And that character is still alive and well in marvelous technicolor. He's part of a greater family, a greater story, a greater home. It's a home that I can always go back to, after a month of strange ups and downs, and it won't mind how long I've been away. Like any home, it's flawed. It's getting on a bit. Its ideas, while forward for its time, are more dated now. Its music, clothes, and style are a little old fashioned. But I still love it. I know everything it's done for me over the years. Everything it will continue to do. It's still comforting, still comfortable, still safe to sit with Star Trek and know that, whatever has happened in my day, it's there.