Los Angeles, California
I spend most Wednesdays with my friend, Barb. It is the day when Ana comes to clean my house and before the pandemic was the day when I would treat myself, solo, to a movie. It is one of my favorite things to do by myself. But I also enjoy sharing a movie with friends. During the past twelve months or so, Barb and I have seen some real dogs. Were there just not a lot of good films out there or were we choosing badly? Probably the best of what we saw was Marcel the Shell with Shoes On. One of the crappiest was Mrs. 'Arris Goes to Paris. We both knew people who liked it, but neither of us did. I am cautious in choosing the films I see. Watching bad films/TV, for me translates as a tearing up of time. Trust me, I can tear up time in even more useless ways, but sitting with eyes glued to a screen while not enjoying what is up there, makes me feel more cheated than, say, sitting in front of this screen writing this useless stuff.
So, I try to choose films I think I will like, and over my adult lifetime, I've been pretty good at this. I also filter out violence, war, and for the most part, westerns. I am beginning to filter out anything too woke. I found the recent remake of Little Women silly in its obviousness of updating. A little bit of the world-according-to-millennials goes a long way for me.
Recently Barb and I went to see a new Tom Hanks movie, A Man Called Otto, based on a Swedish film which was based on a novel by Fredrik Backman. I had not read the novel but I had read another by the author: Us Against You, which I thought was excellent. And who doesn't like Tom Hanks? So off we went to see this film, without my knowing much at all about it. It began (spoiler alert!) with a few various, failed and slightly humorous suicide attempts reminiscent of Inside Daisy Clover, Groundhog Day, or even It's a Wonderful Life. And then the character took out a rifle. Suddenly I was overcome with a crashing wave of anxiety. My first thought was: Run. Just get out of here; away from this. But after so many years of dealing with anxiety, my next thoughts helped myself to calm down. To breathe. Reassurance that, once again, it would be ok. And so, my anxiety subsided by about half. Knowing how this scene might be upsetting to me, Barb turned to me. Are you ok? And I responded how? I nodded? Maybe I said I think so. Frankly, I don't remember. Memories are generally not made during the throes of anxiety. The character's last attempt passed unsuccessfully after the gun went off and blew a hole in a wall? The ceiling? (I don't know. I don't remember. See above.) This too resonated. My heart was still speeding. It's just a movie. It's just a movie. Just a movie.
A friend of mine is going through a difficult time precipitated by a serious health issue affecting her husband. I know that this is difficult and scary. But as I recently wrote to her, I can't quite feel her pain. I can know it, but some part of me is shut down to the physical feelings accompanying empathy. After Sandra died, then my mom, then my husband, and all in the same year, I remember thinking and commenting that I was afraid death in my life would become just a checking-off of the next one. How much can you feel before you shut down?
I fully remember the anxiety of taking care of my mother over the last five years of her life. She was struggling with a lot of health issues including vascular dementia. I, with a great deal of help from Tom and none whatsoever from my only sister, managed for her. We managed her medical and daily care, her rental property, finances, and taxes. We found a care home for her when it came to that time and a better one afterwards. And simultaneously managed our small business through a profound recession. All the while, Tom was depressed and all of the ways he had damaged our marriage somehow came back up in bas relief. It was an extravaganza of trouble and strife. And I do remember all of it. I remember the call that came intimating that something terrible had happened. But many of the feelings attached to all of it are closeted. They're there behind that door. And that door doesn't open. Except for a crack when I see a scene like that one in that movie.
I guess I am fortunate to not feel this all of the time. I am a feeling person for both good and bad. But the intensity that rode in on all I experienced is blessedly now out of range. In my worst moments, I don't care what happens to me. And maybe that was more what I related to in this film. But there was a turn and a hopeful, better ending. Everyone goes through hard times. And no one gets out of here alive. My salve is that it is better to live, to enjoy the time that is given to us, and to not sweat the small stuff. But contrary to the common saying, it is not all small stuff. Some of it is really, really big. And that's when we have to breathe. And to put one foot in front of the other. And to remember what my mom, and maybe yours as well, quoted at us: This too shall pass. Someday.
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