Ordinary

Ditching the shoulder sling!

A while back, I listened to an episode of the Culture Study podcast, asking: Are millennials the most nostalgic generation?

Of course, the answer is … a resounding yes! because I am a millennial! and I’m the most nostalgic person I know!—bff Lacie concurs—and clearly this question was posed directly at me.

I am happiest living in the past; mainly, in the 90s. Stonewashed jeans, neon colors, pop CDs from 1995-99, old photographs of Christmas, Charles Barkley, nineties country, and recorded VHS tapes!

And in spite of absolutely any sensical reason, actually, quite contrary to it, I’ve become extremely sentimental about the summer of 2018. It almost feels like less nostalgia and more a wish for a time machine, because there’s such a strong pull.

This makes zero sense, I know. The summer of 2018 was the worst of my life. It was dreadful. All of 2018, much of 2019 (and let’s not forget that grand time in 2020…) was HORRID! 

May through August of 2018 was ground zero of the hellscape. Yet here I am, longing to return.

Before anyone tries to recommit me to the ward where I was hallucinating a clock on my patient room wall, please allow my attempt at an explanation.

I believe this sentimentality for that time comes from three things: 1) To quell the trauma, my brain has tricked me into a rose-colored version of those days and convinced me I had a blast!; 2) For the first time in my thirty-four years, life had stopped and took every ounce of Jackie-imposed pressure off me, and 3) Through small, actionable ways, I created teeny pieces of light to pierce the darkness.

For those seated in the back, let’s quick review the station of my life that summer:

My shoulder was freshly broken and dislocated (after a doctor snapped it back into its socket … right around the break) and immobilized;

My back was broken in three places, of which I only learned later;

I was taking handfuls of medication up to four times a day that drove me out of my mind, made my chest feel like it would explode, gave me tremors in my jaws, headaches, and rage, bloated my face, and made me an insomniac;

I could not sleep. I napped maybe thirty minutes each day after lunch, and tried desperately to stay awake until 8:00 p.m., so I could hopefully sleep until 1:00 a.m.;

I could not drive;

My eyes were out of focus;

I had Nemo’s short-term memory;

And oh yes, my brain was also freshly broken, and my heart and spirit shattered.

The misery was overwhelming.

I could not shower unaided; go to work; or leave the house past small walks around our neighborhood. I couldn’t sit directly in the sun because of medication; couldn’t use a screen much; struggled to read for an extended period of time; had nominal use of my dominant hand; and could barely help with menial tasks around the house.

I couldn’t pick up and hold my two small children.

My life boiled down to: Being inside my home; sitting outside in lawn chairs or on our front porch; and light outdoor walking. The woman who had always raced 99 mph, climbed to the top of her profession, made five-figures per month, and owned a law firm was reduced to sitting, praying, reading a bit, and lying on the couch for all hours of the night watching TV. Devastating doesn’t even begin to conjure up that bleak picture.

When you can’t leave the house or do much within it, what do you do?

You find ways to take the slightest form of action, and you dream. That was how I found my way out. And I think that’s what sticks with me.

Back to the question about millennial nostalgia. What I really took away from that conversation was that nostalgia in its most basic form is a longing for the past (well, duh) but it’s also conditioned upon your unhappiness in the present. This explains why in 2018, I (re)turned to things made popular in the 90s and early aughts.

It definitely sparked something deep inside of me, because now, each summer, I long to go back to: Harry Potter, The West Wing, and the Boston Red Sox.

Harry Potter series has its own shelf.

In the gap between my awakening in early-June 2018 and leaving for Mayo on June 18, I decided if I wanted to try reading, I needed to start small. So when I ventured to Target (before I realized it was much too taxing for me) I purchased the first Harry Potter book.

I had read the entire series beginning in high school and ending with the release of the final book my last year of law school, and I loved them all. I also knew they were easy reads. But I didn’t know whether I still had them all at my parents’, so I purchased the first one to see how it’d go.

I began The Sorcerer’s Stone before we left for Rochester and finished it the morning of my final meeting with Dr. Z. Right prior to that appointment, I began book two, The Chamber of Secrets, that someone had picked up for me. I can see myself shuffling one for the other, in and out of my pink sackpack, the only bag I was comfortable carrying while walking (that also fit on my wheelchair).

Harry Potter quickly became a simple and fun escape from my new normal—the dreary mundane. It was castles, knights, interactive mirrors, friendship, funny insults like “git,” ghosts, dragons, heroes, persistence, and large spiders. No pun intended, it was magical. Once I finally got going and my reading ability improved, I began plowing through them. Each time I finished, I’d send a family member to Target and couldn’t wait to get my hands on the new paperback. And I finished the seven-book series, all 4,000 pages, by Aug 21, 2018.

I only broke from the series in August to read Stephen King’s On Writing, which I’d heard was great for anyone considering penning a book. Through those foggy eyes and poor memory, I was already ruminating about someday writing my memoir.

Given my serious limitations, I’m proud of the way my determination to read helped me pick up steam in those early days. For quite some time, those books were all I had to distract and entertain myself from long days and endless nights. Except for TV.

Does it bear repeating that right prior to leaving for Mayo, Sean had to show me how to run our television. It was the year of our Lord 2018, and I had never operated our smart TV, nor had I ever opened Netflix. (I also had never, ever, listened to a podcast, and my only social media was Facebook. Follow me for more tips on how to be “fun.”)

My inability to sit still and watch things began around junior high. Outside of a few shows in primetime and on syndicate (late-night NBC or CBS) on our three network television channels, I never had much time for television. Although I did take to Seinfeld against my parents’ wishes (“too much sex”) and loved watching the new, and old during the summers after I swam laps, Frasier.

During my Professional Responsibility class in 2L, our prof asked us to watch Boston Legal and blog about it for extra points. I had never heard of it. But I was now a big city girl with limited cable in my apartment and always eager for grade bumps, so I tuned in once. It seemed really weird. (Turns out I just didn’t get it. Follow me for more tips on “lagging.”)

But in 2010, while sitting by myself on the couch one Saturday, as a young lawyer who still retained some weekends off, I found it in reruns and watched it all day. The music, the lefty-nature, and the ethical dilemmas. Although the scenes were far-fetched and took issues to the extreme, their overall messages were quite realistic. I was hooked. I then purchased the DVDs to binge before taking another break from life, when I had my first child.

As Sean gave me the television tutorial in June 2018, he found Boston Legal in the basement and fired up the DVD player for me. And I began to alternate my wide-eyed, dark nights between Boston’s legal drama and the world of wizards and muggles.

In and out of so many clinic appointments. This shirt always came along.

Just like it had for me when I was a baby lawyer, Boston Legal ignited something in me. It reminded me of why I became an attorney. The challenges and dilemmas I faced in a law firm, representing clients at their worst. The glory of it all. The unfairness. The ups and downs of justice. On my brown couch, where I had to lie a certain way not to interrupt my broken shoulder, I convinced myself that I could do it again. That I’d never have to disembark from the path I’d forged. That there’d still be room for me at Stebbins Mulloy.

Then I’d take my first round of medication at 5:00 a.m. and wonder if I’d live another day. And the painful reality that I’d lost my career would boil over.

I’d already begun to say aloud I’d never practice again. But those thoughts couldn’t penetrate my heart and wouldn’t for years. In those wee morning hours, Denny, Alan Shore, and Shirley allowed me to vicariously live the life of a big city lawyer. The life I dreamt of and pictured when I was young.

The suits, expensive. The people, beautiful. The law firm, extravagant. The money, impossible to imagine. The unethical situations, hilarious, and sometimes all to true. The writing, exceptional. Alan’s irreverent attitude, something I had gotten behind.

As I fought to leave the house and walk alone for thirty minutes, I dreamed of Sean and I selling it all, packing up the kids, and moving to Boston. After all, I’d loved it there the previous fall on the east coast trip I took with my mother. Even though I wasn’t feeling myself because AE was already in motion, that trip was one for a lifetime. Boston had it all: downtown nightlife, water, rich history, fabulous accents, food, Harvard, culture. Cheers. Everything.

In reality, the walls of Bismarck held me hostage and living felt impossible, so a move was not only impractical, but insanely stupid. Yet, when it was just me in the night with only the TV aglow, and the “Baum baum bah dah dah da dahhhh dah dah,” intro, I kept the dream alive. I was still a lawyer and back in my element. I boldly practiced law in the city of our forefathers. I closed with Alan Shore, made judgment calls in the gray area, and felt empowered.

For the first few months, it was easier to binge-watch television through all hours of the night than try to read. I was exhausted and prayed to sleep. Turning on the tube and falling asleep during an episode was welcomed. Sitting up to read meant that rest was impossible. As I flew through Boston Legal episodes, I worried I’d get to the end too fast, and I knew I didn’t have a backup plan. So at some point, I wisely began scrolling Netflix. And it was there I stumbled onto The West Wing.

I have no idea what I thought right then. Did I recall Dad watching it in its glory? Did I remember Prof. Wood telling me in college, “You should really watch West Wing. You’d enjoy it.” (Did I take note of what a lifetime bore I’d been?) But on July 19, 2018, I wrote in my journal, “Watched a WW today. I think I’ll really like it.”

Understatement of a lifetime. Even saying its name aloud makes my heart swell.

This is genuinely one of my all-time favorite shirts.

The patriotic trumpets and waving flag had me at hello. I quickly became a West Wing junkie and couldn’t believe I had previously lived a day on earth without it. The writing. My God, the dialogue. It was the smartest show I’d ever seen. And it led me to believe all my days in Democratic politics were for the good of America. That I should return to my early dreams of becoming a bright and sassy D.C. lawyer. Maybe even fulfill the prophesy of North Dakota’s first female governor.

I dreamed of working in the West Wing with Josh, Toby, CJ, and Sam. I wanted to whip votes, call on Congressional leaders, and be a big shot. I was obsessed with the Oval Office, writing Presidential speeches, and the glory of the 90s. Turtleneck tanks under blazers. Phones with cords. Kids’ handprinted flags. I even began online shopping for a grandfather clock.

It was hard to scroll, so I usually abstained, but one morning, while President Bartlet commanded his staff and troops, I searched on my phone for a towering clock that I couldn’t possibly afford while home on leave. I wanted one like he had the Oval and like my grandparents had in my childhood.

I didn’t buy a clock, but I did purchase a “Bartlet for President ’98” shirt that became one of my favorites.

Just like Boston Legal, that show sparked something inside of me. And gave me doses of energy that my body so desperately lacked. It convinced me I was still someone. My law degree and self-earned Democratic pedigree weren’t for naught. I could still get to D.C. like I’d dreamed of in college.

In what was completely outlandish, but wildly entertaining, I spent my time trying to decide to where in the east coast we’d relocate our family. I was torn between a battle of the cities—the allure of D.C. politics or practicing law in Boston—and the t-shirts. I’d ordered the Bartlet shirt, but I’d also ordered two others: Boston Red Sox tees.

In one episode, Denny and Alan go camping. And when Denny awakes with a start, he finds Alan in his bed. In the hilarious scene, Alan hops out of bed with a coonskin hat and a classic Red Sox shirt. And in that moment, I had to have one.

I have a few distinct memories of going from the TV screen to my phone to shop. Looking at Grandfather clocks and West Wing memorabilia is one, and using my $100 Aflac rebate from the many cancer screenings I’d undergone to purchase two Red Sox tees (and a pair of Duke shorts for good measure), is another. If we were going to move to Boston, surely I’d need the proper clothing to go to Fenway Park with Sean.

In my sad little life, I mostly wore leisure clothes. But I proudly clung to those new shirts. There was just something about that red sock. And how it represented my dreams. Jed Bartlet’s America was aspirational (recall that reality was America in 2018 … and the White House occupied by …). Life offered me little hope, comfort, or peace, but those tees were tangible, soft pieces of happiness.

It'll probably never make sense to anyone but me. Yet thank God, I found a way to make it all make sense. Taken together, those books, television dramas, and shirts were simple yet important ways I took action against an unwillable situation.

There were a few other offramps to 90s-town, including obsessing over having my dad’s maroon and white Bulldogs letterman jacket (that got wet in our storage shed and tossed after years of me looking at it as a kid, but not saving it). A few old friends came to my rescue. And I daydreamed about Lacie and I putting on the vintage jackets and driving around, just like the old days.

Obtained the vintage goods. Senior style pose.

I haven’t rewatched Boston Legal, outside of a few episodes. But I’d love to. Sean joined me to (re)watch the West Wing a few years ago, and this summer, we picked it up again, binging it late into the night when the kids went to bed.

The patriotic intro and black and white photos of the cast will forever be the time machine that takes me somewhere in summer, in 2018. Alan Shore will always be my legal hero. Wearing my Red Sox shirts still makes me happy. I’ll never forget those days, mostly by myself, in the wee hours of the dark and quiet living room.

That summer was the worst of my life.

I wish we still had that brown couch.

Go ahead and revisit your past every once and awhile. Even when the Better Days Ahead are now.

Luv,

jackie

You're takin' me out of the ordinary

I want you layin' me down 'til we're dead and buried

On the edge of your knife, stayin' drunk on your vine

The angels up in the clouds are jealous knowin' we found

Somethin' so out of the ordinary

You got me kissin' the ground of your sanctuary

Shatter me with your touch, oh, Lord, return me to dust

The angels up in the clouds are jealous knowin' we found ~ Ordinary by Alex Warren

__________

/ / The JM Stebbins blog is an autoimmune encephalitis blog from former lawyer and autoimmune encephalitis survivor, Jackie M. Stebbins.

Jackie M. Stebbins is also the author of Unwillable: A Journey to Reclaim my Brain, a book about autoimmune encephalitis, resilience, hope, and survival. //

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