Suzy Says

I’m beginning to think that the whole point of this year has been to cure me of my fear of boredom (which is Number Two on my personal fear hit parade, right after death, the eternal Number One). Or at least to wear me down to the point where I handle it better.

Those of you who have been fortunate enough not to have experienced the long illness of a loved one, with or without an emphasis on terminal, will think that what I’m about to say is heartless and callous (though really, you shouldn’t be surprised by that by now), but it’s one of those little-known grown-up secrets you only learn through experience: it can be really boring. There are crises, and you deal with them, but a lot of it is sitting around and waiting, kind of like air travel. Waiting for doctors to talk to you (not that they ever know anything; or if they do, they sure as hell ain’t telling). Waiting for test results. Sitting with the sick person. Waiting for sick person to wake up. Various grossnesses. Lather, rinse, repeat.

The month I spent helping to take care of my mother this summer was probably the most boring of my life. I only left the house twice that I remember (other than running in the mornings): once to go to the store (where I caught up on my Giants’ scores on the radio) and once to go with my sister to the lighthouse where she maintains the aquarium. That was it. The rest of it was mostly taking care of Mom & household chores. It was really weird to be somewhere that’s usually a haven of fun and happiness and have it be a nightmare of boredom or ickiness (much like it was to be at Dad’s house right after he died).

Then there’s the hell job, where there seems to be very little to do, though the people I work with flit around the office telling everyone how busy they are and how they came in over the weekend and so on. After three weeks of this, I seem to be much better at handling the boredom. At least, I have stopped contemplating going to the top of the Pyramid and flinging myself off, and reading a recent “New Yorker” article about suicides off the Golden Gate Bridge didn’t give me any ideas. My attitude has shifted gradually from “How am I going to get through another day of this?” to “If they want to pay me that much for sitting around, fine.”

Arriving at the DMV one Saturday, armed with reading materials and the expectation of sitting around for possibly hours, I looked at the line stretching around the building 5 minutes after opening time with equanimity. After all, I had things to read, and I’d finally have time to write to my stepmother. My virtual virtue was rewarded by the discovery that the line to replace title and registration, which was what I needed to do, was a separate and positively petite one, and I was out of there in 20 minutes.

At this rate, I may be able to go to Thailand after all. I had a postcard yesterday from the lovely Claudia, who accompanied my niece Cat and me to Amsterdam last year. Last heard of working in Indonesia (she has a penchant for the third world), according to the postcard, she is currently sitting on a beach in Thailand, drinking Bacardi. She says the postcard, which is gorgeous, doesn’t do it justice. My friend Alice has been trying to get me to go with her for years, but I always balked at the 21+ hours required to get there. Now I’m thinking, “That doesn’t sound so bad. I can do that.”

Boredom might drop off the charts yet.