return of the ape

I am sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at my newly-framed, 2015 diploma.  It was a gift from Momma and Poppa Ape, getting it mounted; they kept meaning to get it back to me but we always forgot when I was over.  Poppa Ape finally remembered yesterday, and I brought it home to my apartment last night.  I still don’t know where to hang it, so I put it somewhere relatively safe from feline interference, which happens to be directly across from the bed, leaning against the wall on a long, low, cherry bureau that probably used to be a coffee table, now repurposed as a supplemental linen closet.

I didn’t realize how unlikely my accomplishments were last May, when I walked across the makeshift stage centered in the basketball court of the campus colosseum, my long list of scholarships and awards trailing the billowing of my flimsy robe. Knowing what I know now, I am still in a bit of awe at what I went through to secure the framed document in front of me. I’m grateful I couldn’t see what was waiting for me when I started out. If I had, I’m sure I would have balked at the oppressive workload, the extended timetable, the debilitating bouts of fatigue, the pain and resulting disability, the Asperger’s discovery.

Instead, I overlaid the obscurity with all of the wonderful things that were going to come out of this second degree, the opportunities, the accolades, the successes, the multitudes of high-paying career options.  We apes are an optimistic bunch when it comes to our own capabilities; I personally seem to have a special propensity for inflating my prospects to epic proportions.

For many, this sort of fantasizing helps keep them moving along when things get rocky. But for me, it’s best not to get too invested, if I can manage it. This past May I walked off that stage thinking I was on the fast track to a career in research.  I thought I could do anything I set my mind to, no matter what had happened to my body. I thought I would be an outstanding graduate student.

Silly T.G. Ape.  Will I never learn?  Why didn’t I remember what happens when I try to take control of my own fate?  Better to try to herd cats.  Big cats, like mountain cats.  From inside the pen.  Where I’m the only food-sized mammal and they haven’t eaten in a few days.  None of us has any business going up against fate’s capriciousness, any more than the twig against the proverbial flood. (No-one ever talks about what became of the twig, you may notice.) Thick or thin, green or brittle, rooted or drifting, it makes no difference.  There’s no avoiding the rocks.  Least of all for this great ape.

It was one week ago that I received the official diagnoses. One week from today, I will have a second surgery to try to prevent what happened to my right shoulder from happening to my left. And this afternoon, I will submit my notice of intent to withdraw from graduate school, with absolutely no idea what it is I am going to do next.

and so begins Book Two.

About SeeMorrigan

I'm a woman in her early forties who was beset in October of 2013 with a nerve entrapment due to an abnormal conformation of my shoulder blades. I was in constant, unrelieved pain for fifteen months, until, after countless misdiagnoses and mistreatments, a surgeon correctly diagnosed the issue and performed two surgeries to remove pieces of my shoulder blades. Along the way, I also discovered I am high-functioning autistic. I started this blog in March of 2014 as a way to try to process what was happening to me. It is my hope that by sharing it with you, we can both gain something, or at least learn something, from my experience.
This entry was posted in Aspect IV and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to return of the ape

  1. christellsit says:

    Book II is looking to be even better than Book I, though I thought that was not possible. Keep on.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s