Step by Step

I cleared a big hurdle tonight: it was my first night out in a big group setting.   I’d been out in a small group in my home town when my mom died (detailed in I Know Why the Irish Drink), and I’d been out with one or more attorneys when we were at loose ends out of town, but this was the first large group setting--with a mix of friends, colleagues and law students.  For some reason, just the thought of going to a cocktail party filled me with anxiety.   Not my usual pre-cocktail party mindset, for sure.

The worst part about the lead-up was that I didn’t know why I was so anxious.  These were all people I liked, and I’d always had a good time at past events.  I tried to explain it to a friend who called this afternoon but just couldn’t articulate my feelings.  Maybe it’s because I didn’t want to answer any questions, or because I knew I wouldn’t have someone to come home to who’d be full of questions about who I’d seen.   I didn’t know why, but I was a bundle of nerves.

I psyched myself up all day: I’d find a reason not to go, and Margeaux (my alter-ego) would convince me that I NEEDED to go, or it would get easier to blow off the next event and the one after that, and soon I’d be a recluse.  Guilty confession: I tried to go to an event with another group last night, but chickened out.  Margeaux pointed out that I’d missed spending time with a fun group of women and hearing a great speaker (Tampa’s female Chief of Police).  So Margeaux and I squabbled all day, and as I almost changed my mind for the umpteenth time, I finally pushed myself out the door.

Maybe I didn’t want to get The Look again.  The first time it happened was about eight months ago.  I was having dinner with a group of fellow nurse attorneys, and one of them asked how Bunny was doing.  I told them he was Stage IV (the worst you can get).  They all expressed sympathy, but one of them gave me a look that was as clear as if it had been written on her forehead: pity.  Her eyes said “Oh you poor thing, I feel so sorry for you—I pity you.” 

She meant well, of course, but it made me furious.  I didn’t want anyone’s pity!  So many people have been through so much worse in their lives than I have that I’m absolutely blessed in comparison.  Pity is for people who’ve suffered the unendurable, the Job-like trials.  Even though I’ve felt a bit like Job from time to time over the last few years, it’s a feeling that quickly passed.

I got The Look a few times at my mother’s wakes, either directly or vicariously through my sister, Julie.  As I mentioned in a previous post, people often mistake Julie for me and vice versa.  Several times during those two days, someone would approach me and offer condolences on my mother’s passing.

“Are you the one who lives in Africa?” they’d ask.

“No, that’s my sister, Julie.  She lives in South Africa,” I’d reply.  Julie was continually irked that people left the “South” part out.

“Oh.  Poor, thing, she just lost her husband.”  They’d say it somberly, and give me The Look.

“Nnnnoooo…that was me,” I’d say, somewhat amused when their expressions changed from pity to horror and they made hasty retreats.

So, steeling myself against The Look, I made my way into the bar where we were meeting.  I got lots of hugs and expressions of concern, but not The dreaded Look.  I had a good time, and I escaped without even coming close to breaking down.  Margeaux was right—I needed to get out.  Now, the next time I go into a group setting, I’ll know that I can do it, and that the world won’t end, and it will get easier to go out each subsequent time.  Then one day—hopefully soon—I won’t stress at all about getting out.