Always Look on the Bright Side of Life

After years of therapy, I have finally come to the terms with the fact that I am a fundamentally good-natured person. Even when I am experiencing what most people would consider a major downer, I can always somehow arch my neck over whatever emotional obstacle may lie in front of me to catch a glimpse of that, in my view, ever-present bright side.

Here's a perfect example: after that car hit me in the middle of the summer six years ago, I was lying in the street with a bashed-up knee, multiple bruising and fractures, open wounds and the beginnings of a deep-rooted psycological trauma, and I remember thinking to myself: 'Well, at least it's not raining'.

I have often get the impression that people don't really trust a happy person. Someone who is smiling and positive is generally thought of as someone without conviction, it seems. This is odd to me, that people tend to have more faith in irritable people with little good to say about anything at all than someone with a smile on their face. When I meet someone for the first time, I make it a point to be in good spirits, I'll even beam (if it's appropriate). Maybe I've been reading too many Brontë novels, but I really do think it's important to be amiable and pleasant in any social situation, especially during a first impression. Why should anyone else have to suffer from the fact that I'm having a 'bad hair day'?

Don't get me wrong, I can definitely get pissed when absolutely necessary, and I posess my own rather lengthy list of pet peeves, just like anyone else. When I hear the latest reports about the world-wide financial crisis and that thousands of people are being evicted from their homes, of course I find it unsettling, and would rather think of something else. It's not easy to see the bright side of that situation, but as soon as I find one, I'll let you know!

But being good-natured isn't the same as being ignorant! It's just somehow easier for me to point out the silver lining in most situations than it is for me to join the bad-mood bandwagon, so to speak. Any situation in which you find yourself having to wait will confirm it - people love to complain. Whether it's about the weather, or the current price of gas per liter, or the political situation at the moment, people can find an abundance of issues to be negative about.

Sure, if you're waiting for a doctor's appointment, you'll most likely hear people complain. That's a no-brainer. I remember once in an uncomfortably silent and overcrowded waiting room at the doctor's, a man came in and saw another man he knew. He said 'Hey! How are you?' To which the other man replied 'Well, terrible. That's why I'm here.' After which more uncomfortable silence ensued. Now, I am not saying the man should've deceived his friend, not to mention everyone in the waiting room, by saying he felt great, since that would indeed be a big fat lie. Being good-natured isn't the same as lying! If that man had been me, I might've said 'Well, I feel terrible, that's why I'm here. But at least I'm still alive!' or, maybe, 'But at least they've got some new magazines to read! Have you read this article about New Zeeland?'

Recently, when my mother-in-law came to pick me up from the hospital after my operation, she walked in the door and said 'How are you feeling?' Then, when she saw the undoubtedly cheerful expression on my face, quickly added 'Now, don't say you're feeling good!' But, I'm almost ashamed to admit, I was feeling good! Even though it was no day in the park, the operation had gone smoothly. And although I still couldn't feel my own ass due to the anasthesia, I was able to stand, and my bladder was working properly again. And, after waiting all day in that starched and uncomfortable hospital bed in a place where there was a constant aroma of iodine mixed with urine, I was thrilled to see her and finally be going home! So yes, despite the situation, I was feeling good!

Seriously, though, I must be a real pain in the butt to those around me with my infinite positive outlook on life. My husband, I'm sure, wants to toss me out the window sometimes. If we get stuck in traffic on a hot day, he'll react like any other human being and curse every possible cause for the jam, while I will find it irresistable to mention the fact that at least we've got air-co. And if the kids wake up several times in the night, depriving us both of sleep, he'll react with natural dismay and annoyance, while I'll probably say something to the effect of 'Oh, we're going to miss these times when they move out one day!' And if we run out of coffee, he will understandably use a wide assortiment of swear words to express his emotions on the subject, while I'd probably mention the bright side of the situation again by saying something to the effect of...um...well, let's face it, like the financial crisis, there simply is no bright side to that situation either.

So, you see, there are some situations where my positivity is overpowered by negative influences over which I have no control. Something I saw recently on TV confirmed this: the new Alldays maxi-pad commercial. I seriously don't know who invents these commercials, but this one really rubbed me the wrong way. As most women know, almost every ad for feminine hygiene products is far-fetched, but this one was simply ludicrious. For some reason beyond my comprehension, some advertising ignoramous thought little animated bumper cars driving over the surface of a maxi-pad was a metaphore all women could relate to during their monthly menstruations. But the worst part, the worst part of all, was the slogan at the end.

It said...(I can barely type the words...)

'Have a happy period.'

Have a what period?!

First of all, the words 'happy' and 'period' should never, I repeat never, be used in the same sentence. Or paragraph. Or even on the same day. And even the mere implication that a woman could even manage to have a happy period is like wishing someone a fun labotomy, or a really super root canal. I can only surmise that anyone who would dream of wishing any woman on God's green earth a happy period clearly has never had one himself. I say 'himself' because I can only assume a mind behind so absurd a campaign must be male. It's the only plausable explanation. At least I hope so. If a woman had come up with that slogan, we might have to find her and ostracize her, girls.

So you see, even a fundamentally good-natured person like me sometimes can't be oblivious to negative influences, nor resist the urge to rant about them now and again. That's why I started this blog in the first place! Just like a good meal, when stuff goes in, it eventually has to come out...it's the same with the stimuli of everyday life! I found, the best way to deal with it all is a healthy dose of self-examination and heaps of humour. Oh, and a good shrink. But there's that bright side again: I may be in therapy, but at least I'm not in advertising!

How Green I Am

If you're feeling down, you're blue. If you're a coward, you're yellow. If you're feeling good, you're 'in the pink'. And nowadays, if you're ecologically-minded and conscious about the environment, you're green. I am a tree-hugger and I'm proud of it.

Everything seems to be green these days, have you noticed? We're all constantly being subjected to how incredibly green society is today. The TV bombards you with commercials about green products and their new and improved green packaging, stores are suddenly carrying more sensible lines of green clothing and accessoires, grocery stores are displaying green goods in more prominent places, even businesses are spending huge amounts of money for green initiatives, green consultants and green solutions, all paid for by green government funding. You can get a green mortgage on your house, a green internet connection, and I'm guessing, probably even a green meal at McDonald's.

I often wonder, how much of all this greenness is actually seeping into the minds of my fellow members of society? In my own circle of friends, I'm the only one who drives a hybrid car, religiously switches off the lights in every room except the one I'm sitting in, and lives in a house powered mainly by solar energy. Ok, I am an extreme case, admittedly, but is my perception of being green really so far removed from those around me?

It saddens me to see gas prices sky-rocket and that it has no effect on the amount of cars that pollute the air we breathe. It devastates me to hear reports about the rising sea level, increased CO2 emmissions and polar bears helplessly adrift in the North Pole without any icebergs left to climb onto. It broke my heart to find out that a dear friend of mine doesn't own a single energy-efficient lightbulb. As I type this, I look outside my livingroom window at the ecosystem I live in, and am aware that for us and the world to survive another century, let alone a millenium, a lot more symbiosis needs to be going on between the earth and its inhabitants. Designing a smaller jug of washing detergent and sticking a recycled label on it just won't cut it.

I am in no way suggesting that everyone trade their cars in for one with rechargable batteries and a plug, but it would be wonderful. I can't expect all my friends to boycott the energy conglomerates and install solar panels on their rooves, but it would be wonderful. And I certainly cannot for a second presume the most powerful countries in the world would ever place saving the environment higher on the list of priorities on their political agenda. But that really would be wonderful. Let's face it though, no government I know of thinks the environment needs saving.

The thing that worries me the most about the current mindset about being green is that it is a trend, and as everyone knows, trends are constantly being replaced by new trends. I remember when being green was trendy back in the 80's, then that way of thinking vanished into the archives of history, like stonewashed jeans and shoulder pads. And now, 20-some years later, it's finally found its way back into the media's spotlight and the peoples' consciousness. What was the state of the environment all that time? Exactly as we left it, and getting worse.

For some reason, being green has an odd reputation. I've come in contact with people who have the silliest notions about being green. I've made a list of the top three being green myths I'd like to set right, right now:

Myth A) You pay a lot more for stuff.

Myth B) You have to make too many concessions.

Myth C) It's a waste of time since it won't make a difference in the long run anyway.

As for Myth A, let me tell you from firsthand experience, living green is living cheap! I drive a Prius, which saves me money on gas. I live off the grid, which saves me money on monthly utility bills; better yet, now that the alternative energy system is paid off, I live for free.

As for Myth B, there is a common misbelief that living off the grid requires major concessions and is actually the equivalent of camping outdoors. Not so! We have a household with what we consider the basics: a washer, a dryer, two computers, a flatscreen TV and a complete recording studio, all running on our inexhaustable supply of alternative energy.

And when it comes to Myth C, that being green is a waste of time - it's common knowledge that if everyone does their relatively small part, it'll without a doubt make a monumental difference in the bigger picture. That's what being green means, to me. It means you're aware of the bigger picture, not just what's going on in your own personal future. Because the paradox is, if we don't keep our eyes on the bigger picture, there won't be much of a future for any of us!

When it comes to people wanting to be green, I see the same question proposed in a hundred different ways in glossies and newspapers and on TV all the time: 'What can I do to make a difference?' I think it begins with a fundamental change in mentality. Once you accept that there is a problem, which there is, you're well on the way to being a part of solving it. Stuff like turning off the lights, not letting the faucet run and recycling cans is common knowledge nowadays, and I think a change needs to be more fundamental for it to really work. It's more than replacing all your lightbulbs with energy-efficient ones, but it's a start. But the most important thing is to know that being green isn't a trend, it's a necessity.

But for now, I'll stop feeling blue, because I'm in the pink when I'm green.

Je ne sais ... wha?

I just love Paris. It must be the American in me, since just about every self-respecting European friend I have tends to cringe at my suggestion of a city trip to Paris, and apparently would rather spend the afternoon having a root canal than roaming the filthy streets of that fairy-tale 'City of Lights'.

I grew up with this romantic idea of Paris, probably like just about every other American girl on the planet. I wonder if it was some form of American propaganda, to idealize and at the same time mock parts of the world you were probably never going to get to see for real. Besides, if you wanted to go to Paris, you wouldn't have to leave the country at all! You could go to Paris, Texas. Same thing.

Lucky for me, I have these nomadic parents who have brought my brothers and I up with the family creed: 'Wherever I lay my hat is my home'. We moved to the Netherlands when I was 15 and I have seen more of the continent than a lot of my peers whose parents weren't wealthy enough to send them backpacking through Europe after highschool. And of all the cities I've visited, Paris; with its snobby vagrants, foul streets and expensive beverages, has somehow stole a place in my heart.

So what is it about Paris that I love? It's not the French who live there. It's virtually impossible to gain access to their good graces as a tourist, as anyone with a limited French vocabulary will know. And when I say limited, I mean non-existant. In fact, even attempting to ask directions or order a coffee in French when your pronunciation and use of grammar is anything but flawless, is probably more insulting to a French native than telling them their mother resembles some kind of farm animal. My husband once told me an amusing and pertinent anecdote based on this very topic. While he was visiting Paris in the 1980's, his caffeine dependancy surfaced at one point in the day, and he decided to get a warm, milky coffee at one of the nearest cafés. When the waiter came to take his order, my husband foolishly asked for a 'Cappucino'. Oh, the horror. The waiter, whose expression portrayed the shock and dismay of a man who had been insulted to his very core, repeated with contempt, 'Cappucino?!' and then thoroughly put my husband in his rightful place by saying, 'Caf-é-au-LAIT!! Ce n'est pas l'Italie, monsieur!!!'
So, no, it's not about communicating with the locals.

So what is it about Paris that I love? It's not the food. Although I am certainly a fan of French cuisine (and pretty much every other cuisine out there), I wouldn't go so far as to say I'd travel all the way to Paris just to eat there. I'd be just as happy bringing my own home-made brown bread, a chunk of Gouda cheese and a bottle of Californian red wine and munch on that on the bank of the Seine than dine on an overpriced, overrated dish in some overcrowded corner café.
So, no, it's not about the food.

So what is it about Paris that I love? It's not the art. Well, not necessarily. As fond as I am of French movement, I am equally as fond of the American, Spanish and Dutch ones, to name but a few. If the opportunity arose to gaze upon an authentic Monet while in Paris, I certainly wouldn't turn it down. But if it included a trip to the Centre Pompidou, which to me is just pompi-pompous, I would probably opt to stay in the hotel and watch pay-per-view.
So, no, it's not about the art.

So what is it about Paris that I love? It's not the fashion, even though when it comes to being a fashion victim, I am pretty much DOA. It's common knowledge to even the most unfashionable among us that Paris is the genesis of couture, and I would most definitely become the proud owner of an original Chanel or Gaultier, if only I could manage to win the lottery or inherit a fortune. Unfortunately, the likelihood of either of those options actually becoming reality is utterly out of the question. But naturally, when in Paris, I wouldn't hesitate to wander along the Champs Ellysees in the hopes of admiring the very latest and glamorous French trends sure to be displayed in the shops. But in reality, la plus belle avenue du monde is a tourist trap which Starbucks and H&M have squeezed their internationally franchized backsides into, and where one has to dodge in and out of a horde of absent-minded visitors of every nationality just to get from the Place de la Concorde to the Arc De Triomphe, never mind getting a glimpse at any fashion in the shop windows. And if one goes to Paris in the hopes of seeing the locals all clad in charming black-and-white striped t-shirts and jaunty little berets, one will be gravely disappointed.
So, no, it's not about the fashion either.

So exactly what is it about Paris that I love? Maybe it's the overwhelming contrasts one can't possibly ignore there. To me, it's a city so bustling with life yet at the same time delapitated with neglect. Somehow, the Parisians have managed to cram an abundance of impressive architecture into just a few square kilometers, so it's possible to walk from one end of the city to the other and admire a multitude of amazing structures and historically important monuments along the way. What you also can't help but notice is how the streets, though lined with exquisite beauty, are filthy enough to make a sewer rat think twice about settling down there. Maybe the idea of the architecture is to draw your attention away from whatever horror you might step in on the pavement.

So, if you choose not to walk, the Métropolitain is an excellent, yet decidedly hair-raising, alternative. Once you decend into one of those dark, underground caverns and eventually overcome the penetrating aromas of urine and stale booze long enough to comprehend the Metro map, you can actually get where you want to go in a flash! Granted, some Metro cars look, feel and sound ready to fall to pieces as soon as they get underway and gain momentum over those dodgy tracks. But as far as I know, the Metro network rail system, which intertwines more intricately than the Jersey Turnpike, has never once been on the news headlines for crashing down. Despite the jarring ride and sounds of grating metal that would otherwise be cause for great alarm, I feel utterly safe as I zoom underneath the streets of Paris.

And upon reaching your destination, whatever it may be, you can be sure you aren't the only one whose bright idea it was to go there. According to Wikipedia:
'Paris is one of the most popular tourist destinations in the world, with over 30 million foreign visitors per year'.
The last time I was there, I could've sworn it was 30 million in one day, 20 million of which were in the same Metro as me en route to the Eiffel Tower. Aaah, the Eiffel Tower. Like so many other monuments and attractions in the 'The City of Lights', it stands and waits, as it has for decade upon decade, for the masses to gravitate towards it and thoroughly fill up their memory cards with digital snapshots of every angle it has to offer.

To me, Paris is a place where you can sit in one spot and watch the hectic throng of people rush by for hours on end. Or, you can let yourself be swept up and carried along with the current, just like a mouldy crust of French bread flowing along the Seine. Maybe it's the time of year, or the sentimental bout of romance I'm feeling at the moment, but most likely, my sudden longing for Paris was brought on by watching Disney's 'Ratatouille', a computer-animated movie that takes place there, and incidentally manages to make CGI food look good enough to make your stomach growl.

Paris has something, that oh-so all-encompassing je ne sais quoi that most people don't want to know, but have to admit it's there. I don't care what any of my more worldly European friends with the right upbringing say, I just love Paris.

Here's To Your Health!

Apparently, it's very healthy for healthy people to want to get healthier. Well if that's true, then I must be an astonishingly healthy person!

I have been trying to understanding myself for quite a few years now, only to find myself to be one of the greatest mysteries I've ever encountered. Why have I been exposing myself to this struggle, you may wonder? Well, if the stuff they write in self-help books is true, it's because I am healthy, but I want to get healthier. Which means I must have some sort of advantage - at least I'm not starting from scratch.

The person driving the car that hit me six years ago, sending me and my handbag five meters across the street and permanently damaging my knee, clearly didn't consider the fact that my life literally schreeched to a halt the moment he chose not to. Everything I knew to encompass me was suddenly altered by this singular event. I was messed up, but officially, I had 'trauma'. I was a cripple, but officially, I was 'handicapped'. I needed help, and officially, I needed a 'shrink'.

I've heard it's pretty unique to click with your first psychologist. My first shrink is also my current shrink; a young, intelligent woman who, after six years, knows more about why I do the things I do than I do. Yet, it doesn't seem fair, that every time I see her, she has this mental advantage over me. She'll ask me questions and wait patiently as I flounder around, trying to figure out the answers she already knows... I can never seem to surprise her! I sometimes think about making something up to throw her off course, an imaginary and unforeseen breakthrough of some kind, but I always decide against it. If I'm going to get healthier than I already am, I better play it straight, I tell myself.

The first time I was diagnosed with PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder), I took steps to successfully get over it. After a year of shrinking, and with much pride and elation, I finally declared myself healthy and 'de-traumatized', said goodbye to my shrink for good and continued on the merry path of my life as I had known it, 'pre-accident'. Little did I know how unhealthy I actually was! It only took a few years before my disorder reared its ugly head and wanted to play chicken with me. Oh my, it was ugly. Seriously, if you thought the latest smear campaign the Republicans have launched against the Democrats is ugly, let me tell you, my neglected disorder was uglier. I went to my doctor with complaints of head-aches, regular bouts of self-pity and recurrent sobbing fits and to my utter bewilderment, he diagnosed me with... PTSD! What?! I thought I was over that! How was I supposed to know you could get it twice? I thought it was one of those things, like chicken pox, and once you had it out of your system, you were immune! Boy, was I wrong.

As it turned out, the second round of PTSD was of the industrial-strength variety, and it wasn't in the mood to get shrunk anytime soon. In fact, I am still in therapy to this day to learn about how to wrench myself from its clutches. But even after weekly psychological sessions, mindfulness-based stress reduction courses, physical therapy sessions, meditation, self-help literature and the occassional Dr. Phil episode, I didn't really feel like I was getting any healthier! 

Dr. Robin Skynner pointed out in the book 'Life and How To Survive It', which he co-wrote with John Cleese (who, incidentally, is a fellow mental patient, which probably doesn't come as a surprise to any of us who have ever seen an episode of 'Monty Python's Flying Circus'). Anyway, Dr. Robin Skynner said:

'...when we start on this process leading us to greater health, temporarily we can feel worse'.

Aha! Reassuring! The keyword in that sentence being, of course, 'temporarily'. But, a couple chapters further on in the book, he said:

'If you are healthy, you'll get healthier. If you're not, it's down the slippery slope'.

Hmm. Now I'm confused. So, to start the getting healthy process, you have to be healthy. But once you've started it, you'll feel less healthy, allbeit temporarily. But what's happening is that you're actually getting more not healthy. And if you're not healthy, you'll find yourself careening down a ski slope of some kind, assumingly with no experience in skiing and no knowledge whatsoever of how to stear or stop, and staring at a gaping ravine you'll most likely be plummeting into in a New York minute. 

Now just a minute! Where'd the reassuring go?

Although I am full aware of the risks involved, I will not be deterred. I've started this dive into the lake of me, and if I don't finish it, well, then I'd have to remain suspended in mid air for some time with no idea how to get down. Or up, for that matter. I'm not worried. I've managed to surround myself with qualified individuals who have made it their sole purpose to guide helpless souls like me find their way back to, or away from, or out of, or towards, or just a little to the left of...themselves. And it probably won't be too hard for them to do just that, seeing as the bulk of their patients, like me, will most likely already be healthy when they walk in the door.

Healthy, but not quite healthy enough.

Patient Knee Patient

I'm a knee patient, I have been one for over six years now, and if I've learned anything in the past six years about being a patient, it's that you have to be patient, even when it's the last thing you want to be.

It strikes me as extremely contradictory that the definition of the word 'patient', besides 'someone who is receiving medical treatment', is: 'able to wait without being anxious or annoyed'.

Actually I find it downright hilarious that the same word is used for someone who is receiving medical treatment, and someone who is able to wait without getting anxious or annoyed! I sure don't know anyone receiving medical treatment who isn't able to get at least a little annoyed at the fact they even need medical treatment.

Recently, I went under the knife, for the fourth time. I actually shouldn't complain, my track record isn't too bad, especially if I compare myself to some of the poor souls on the knee forums on internet. Some of them have undergone countless procedures involving anything from reattaching to cleaning, replacing to shaving, grafting to drilling, all in the hopes of improving their less than perfect, yet so essential, knee joints.

The entire process of dealing with an injury is pretty bizarre, when you think about it. First of all, it took me years before I was really aware of any serious signs of wear and tear. It's a bitch when your mind and body work together to cope with and cover up pain, and when you finally realize they've been pulling the wool over your eyes, you discover you've been living with it daily for years! How did that happen? And when I finally did collapse in physical agony, everyone around me said in surprise: 'Well, with the way you were limping around like a pirate with a peg-leg, we thought you'd cave in a lot sooner!' I found out the hard way, no one was going to tell me I was in pain and should slow down - that was something I had to tell myself... I just couldn't manage to get myself alone for a few minutes to talk about it!

So, when I finally decided to take action, I thought: 'I'm in pain, I know there are people qualified to take away pain, so what am I going to do about it?' That's when the endless examinations and scans began. First, several doctors, doctor's assistants, physical therapists and nurses yanked on, extended, flexed and wiggled around my injured leg to assess what needed to be done, according to them. I got all sorts of expert opinions and advice, and went home with a severe case of knowing too much. I needed time to digest all this information, so I waited, desparately trying to wait without getting anxious or annoyed.

When I was ready for the next step, (pun very much intended) I had to get pictures done. Which meant being exposed to all sorts of hazardous beams coming from X-ray machines and MRI cabins. I would lie there, wondering if my knee was at all photogenic, on a table about as comfortable as a diving plank. Halfway through the scan, I would always regret the position I was lying in or get an imaginary itch somewhere and feel the overwhelming sensation to move, and I'd have to remind myself what the nurse had said: 'Now lie still! If you move even one fraction of an inch, we'll have to start the scan all over again'. So I would have to be patient again and wait, tolerating, accepting, and especially not annoyed, until the last radioactive beam left my body.

And after the pictures were taken, I'd have to wait, patiently. And finally, when the results would come back, I'd meet with the doctor, the one I finally decided worthy of cutting into me, and discuss the possibilities. There were always many, which meant I'd have to go home and chew it over, think about it. And wait.

And wait. And wait some more. I had a couple kids in the meantime, while I was waiting. And all the time, I'd keep in mind: 'I'll just have to be patient, and not get annoyed at the fact that it hurts just to bend down and pick up the pencil I just dropped on the floor'. Because, after all, that's what being (a) patient is.

Then came the point where I just couldn't wait anymore. I made the arrangements to go through with the procedure of my choice with the surgeon I liked best, and then...well, then I wait for that day to arrive.

Being a hospital patient is the epitome of being patient. You arrive early and hungry, and the nurse on duty will probably give you the better part of two hours to get yourself out of your regular clothes and into one of those charming hospital gowns. A support stocking and glass of water to accompany the heavy pain medication will most likely already be set up on the bedside table, waiting patiently for your return from the OR. If you're lucky enough to have a private room, you get to wait patiently in solitude, but I prefer a full room, where you can sneak a peek at the other patients and maybe pick up some tips on how they're managing to be patient without getting anxious or annoyed. Everyone knows, everyone is anxious and annoyed, but no one's showing it.

But a surprising thing happened to me during my most recent patient experience. When I was finally wheeled into the OR, after waiting as patiently as a patient can wait for the anaesthesia to kick in (which, incidentally, is by the far the most pleasant moment of the entire procedure), I was accompanied by a sort of OR guide, who looked friendly, despite the fact that his entire head was covered with a surgical mask and showercap. Good thing he could smile with his eyes.

As he called up my file on the OR computer, probably to ensure they had injected the drugs into the correct limb, he saw my name wasn't Dutch, and asked where I came from. I've noticed on many uncomfortable occassions that being foreign is the best and easiest ice-breaker. When I said I was American, we launched into a discussion about the presidential elections, which are coming up in less than a month. Just before he left the room, the friendly man jokingly said I was prettier than VP candidate Sarah Palin. I couldn't help visualizing myself in my unflattering hospital gown and showercap, with my limp and lifeless leg looking about as attractive as an oversized breadstick, gone sort of yellow-ish. In spite of myself, I laughed outloud at his bizarre compliment. That's when I realized the doctor had already made his first incision! To my surprise, I'd actually been waiting patiently all that time, without getting anxious or annoyed! The definitions matched!

Now, how did that happen??

I know from first-hand experience how resilient the human body is, and that it really does take time to heal all wounds, but that certainly doesn't mean I'll always be able to sit back and wait without getting anxious or annoyed about it. I'm a patient, but I can get so sick of being patient.