Getting Back to Human

People Stuff. One Essay at a Time.

I had the weirdest experience a couple of weeks ago. Weird to me, at least.

Here’s what happened:

I was forced to do the thing which I am most loathe to do: doctors and bloodwork and all that business. Because all the hormones I was gifted with in youth have snuck off base and gone completely AWOL. They no longer know where they should reside. Totally off the rails. They took my thyroid along for the ride, as well. It’s all a bunch of bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit.

So I am forced to check on the homeless hormones. Because let me tell you - they are necessary. Like really important. Absolutely vital, actually. Come to find out, I quite like having them. Because of my affinity for feeling sane and whole and alive, I was dragged to the diagnostic facility for that which gives me unspeakable anxiety: THE CBC. A complete blood count. Big deal, you say? Well, I don’t want to know everything about me. I really do not. I don’t need to. I’m a stick-my-hand-in-the-sand kinda girl. All those red “out of ranges” that come back on the report card can just go straight to hell. They’re good for nothing except clicks on WebMD.

But alas, here I am. At the place. To do the thing which I hate and fear. Like a fully grown woman. Because that estrogen and progesterone are hot commodities, I tell you. And I love them like men love football. Yay team! Thus began my Friday afternoon at the 21st Century Robot Prison Blood Draw Office.

It looked normal enough from the outside, tucked back in the corner of one of them brown strip centers, adjacent to the McDonald’s - in case anyone wants a large fry after their cholesterol check. I’m not above it whatsoever. But back to the dreaded blood draw. It was the standard setup for labs, as far as I could tell. Until I got inside. That was a completely different story. Not a single living, breathing, feeling human to be seen. Just rows of chairs shoved up against plain white walls. And silence. Which is for church. White walls, chairs, silence. I’ve never been in a prison before, but I felt that life deep in my bones, when I walked into this place. Minus the silence. I assume prisons offer little silence. Other than the quiet, the whole thing felt like the lobby for a jail.

The receptionist came in the form of a kiosk. Where I was asked to scan a blah blah blah barcode and take pictures of my drivers license and e-sign the screen, etc etc. In the lonely wasteland of a humanless lobby. Once I had my little small talk with the kiosk, the screen above it lit up. Like the Wizard of Oz. The all knowing screen above the kiosk was actually a welcome friend, at this point in my trip to the Blood Draw Prison. It was, aside from me, the only life that I could locate inside. My new pal guided me to a chair and advised that there was one other person in front of me. No voice though, only scrolling words to guide me. It was all very computerish. Robotish. A real futuristic prison-hospital mashup kinda deal. Completely devoid of humanity. Any kind at all. Surreal might be appropriate.

The only other humans in the building walked up after about 15 minutes and unlocked the door to the lobby where I was waiting, so that I could take my turn with the 20 vials and the other poor guy could escape the Lab Prison. More robot shit. Now don’t get me wrong: the tech was just as polite as she could be. All business. Short, direct, mannerly responses. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing human. Again, surreal would be appropriate.

This was the turning point for me though. I have been a writer since I was in high school. I’ve got spirals and scraps and notes that are full of ideas and connections and experiences that I’ve jotted down and drawn arrows over and outlined. So many ideas just waiting on my hands to get typing and my confidence to come forth. Stories and anecdotes and observations, all derived from being human, just sitting there waiting patiently for me to get my act together. This is where Back to Human was born.

Full transparency: I have no idea what I’m doing here. Zero. Nada. I don’t even know how to fully use this platform. I know nothing about building an audience or followers or any of that business-end stuff. Marketing? Uninterested. Taking a talent and making a living at it? No clue. The left side of my brain barely works at all. The business end bores me all the way dead. I do know some things though. Things that a kiosk or a computer or a screen or a QR code can’t relate to.

I know grief. And I know loss. And I know what it feels like to walk someone through death.

I know fear and anxiety. I also know how wondrous it feels to have them relieved for just a moment or two.

I can personally vouch for the pure joy that singing along with a gazillion other people to your favorite band can bring. It’s magic.

I know regret and I also know the freeness of letting that shit go.

I know the excitement of the plane about to land in a place I’ve never been before.

I know the feeling of loving the reflection that looks back at me. And also the feeling of not loving it at all.

I know unrequited love. And I know what it feels like to wish it away.

I know the fear of what to build in the now-empty nest and the deep longing for the one that was once full

I know that people will always disappoint me. And still…….

Still I prefer the people. The, disappointing as they may be, people. This I know. I’ll take the humans, thanks. I don’t want kiosks or screens or blank white walls in the brown strip center. Give me the people and all the things that made them who they are. And this is why I write Back to Human. I just think we all need to get back to it, I guess.

As I said, I have no idea what I’m doing here really. But, I’m going to keep on writing - for as long as you’ll have me - or even if you won’t.

Flying by the seat of my pants - one little human essay at a time.

Thank you for joining in.