It feels so good to be blogging again! Since my last post, I spent three days in the hospital. I'm currently blogging from Pittsburgh. I guess I should start at the beginning...
About a month ago I moved to Ann Arbor and dove head first into my new life. From staff meetings, to office training, to wandering around the Diag hopelessly lost, I was a woman of action. After about a week of this, I woke up in the middle of the night with stomach pains that quickly turned into nausea/vomiting. My roommate thought I had the flu. But I never knew the flu to cause stomach pains without a fever. By the next morning I felt better, so I shrugged the night off as my body's way of adjusting to a new environment.
3 days later I awoke at 6am with the worst stomach pains I've ever experienced. Pain is a very humbling state of being because any pain worth its name suggests that the person in pain has exhausted all means of relieving the pain. I knew I had to go to the hospital. Thankfully I live within a ten minute drive of U of M's hospital and my roommate had a car. After a several hours of pain medication and ultrasounds, the doctor informed me that I had an acorn-sized stone in my galbblader. My galbblader would have to come out within 24 hours.
So here I was an otherwise healthy 22 year old. Laying on a hospital bed 5 hours away from home drifting out of a narcotics-induced state of consciousness. I remember laying in my bed and hearing God say that he wanted to heal me. My first response was great, but couldn't you heal me in a less dramatic manner? I absolutely hate being the center of attention. I know that the speed of news, particularly bad news can travel faster than sound and that people were going to want to talk to and about me. God responded by telling me that me getting sick was not about me. Then I fell asleep. Again.
It was not until a couple days ago that I understood what God said to me. Before I left for Ann Arbor, my mom and I fought about me leaving. She did not understand why I needed to go live 5 hours away and work for free for a year. I tried to explain to her the benefits of living in the community there, but my arguments fell upon deaf ears. When I got sick Mom hopped in the car and drove to Ann Arbor. She was blown away by the kindness every in Ann Arbor extended to a girl they'd known for less than a month. Their care of me during my illness explained community life to them in a way my intellectual arguments failed to do.
I'm going to be heading back to Ann Arbor this weekend. When Mom drops me off this time she'll be able to drive back to Pittsburgh knowing that she can turn off her mom radar for the next little while because there is a whole community of people in Ann Arbor willing to sit in the emergency room with her baby girl.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Monday, September 5, 2011
Slap on a life jacket. Grab a Water Bottle. Climb in. Say a Prayer.
When I was a senior in high school, my sociology teacher spent a week lecturing us on Culture Shock. I clearly remember the way his cheeks turned a faint shade of purple as he proclaimed "you are going to wake up one morning several months from now, after Mommy and Daddy drop you off at your chosen institution of higher education, and experience the phenomenon known as CULTURE SHOCK and what are you going to do? DEAL WITH IT."
I dealt with his proselytism by wiping his spit off my nose. Deal with it? Is this guy insane? Success doesn't come to those who deal with things, but to those who organize their lives well enough to avoid dealing with things. So I decided to outsmart the demon CULTURE SHOCK by enrolling at a university located less than 30 minutes from my parent's house.
Five years and a university education taught me that the only way to outsmart Culture Shock was to face it head on. So I packed up my storage bins, hugged my hometown goodbye, and journeyed to Ann Arbor, Michigan. Again, I thought I could outsmart culture shock by experiencing a mild form of it? Right? Wrong.
Before I become too distracted by my analysis I just wanted to say that I truly do love it here. I love that I am living on my own five hours away from my childhood home. I love that everything I need I can walk to from my apartment. I love that the people I've met here treasure learning and engaging with complicated ideas. I love that the city turns Mauze and Blue on Saturday football days...
But with the excitement of a new city comes the uncomfortable feeling of being a spy in enemy territory. I'm convinced that privacy is the child of routine. As the newly adopted family member, you lack the shared experiences that solidify random people into a cohesive whole. While you experience the best acts of generosity, compassion, and love your new family has to offer, you live your life in a fishbowl. As everyone tries you on for size, you don't know how to negotiate your newly allotted space.
In my short time in this beautiful city I am learning that culture shock goes deeper than differences in language, art, philosophy, or food. It is entirely possible for two people to speak the same language without understanding each other. I am also learning that my teacher was right. The best way to deal with culture shock is to deal with it.
The best way I've found to deal with it? I'll use learning how to canoe as a metaphor. Grab a friend who's never canoed either. Slap on a life jacket. Grab a water bottle. Climb in. Say a prayer. Hopefully you will both arrive at the loading dock at a reasonable hour. Albeit a little bruised and a little bit wet.
I dealt with his proselytism by wiping his spit off my nose. Deal with it? Is this guy insane? Success doesn't come to those who deal with things, but to those who organize their lives well enough to avoid dealing with things. So I decided to outsmart the demon CULTURE SHOCK by enrolling at a university located less than 30 minutes from my parent's house.
Five years and a university education taught me that the only way to outsmart Culture Shock was to face it head on. So I packed up my storage bins, hugged my hometown goodbye, and journeyed to Ann Arbor, Michigan. Again, I thought I could outsmart culture shock by experiencing a mild form of it? Right? Wrong.
Before I become too distracted by my analysis I just wanted to say that I truly do love it here. I love that I am living on my own five hours away from my childhood home. I love that everything I need I can walk to from my apartment. I love that the people I've met here treasure learning and engaging with complicated ideas. I love that the city turns Mauze and Blue on Saturday football days...
But with the excitement of a new city comes the uncomfortable feeling of being a spy in enemy territory. I'm convinced that privacy is the child of routine. As the newly adopted family member, you lack the shared experiences that solidify random people into a cohesive whole. While you experience the best acts of generosity, compassion, and love your new family has to offer, you live your life in a fishbowl. As everyone tries you on for size, you don't know how to negotiate your newly allotted space.
In my short time in this beautiful city I am learning that culture shock goes deeper than differences in language, art, philosophy, or food. It is entirely possible for two people to speak the same language without understanding each other. I am also learning that my teacher was right. The best way to deal with culture shock is to deal with it.
The best way I've found to deal with it? I'll use learning how to canoe as a metaphor. Grab a friend who's never canoed either. Slap on a life jacket. Grab a water bottle. Climb in. Say a prayer. Hopefully you will both arrive at the loading dock at a reasonable hour. Albeit a little bruised and a little bit wet.
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