In order to remain sane humour is probably the number one tool. Just cruising around finding funny bits in every situation. I am pretty sure that humour is the best medicine. It is clear that people who can laugh over themselves hold better selfpicture and cure better from various illnessess. Or even cure faster. I was once very ill, ended up in the hospidal, nobody understood whats wrong with me because all the tests sort of showed that I am totally healthy. Yet I could not move, my skin was dark grey and all my body was in excrutiating pain. There were strange ulcers on my face and hands. Even breathing was painful. I vaguely remember laughing about it when chief surgeon came, sat on my bed and said they can’t sort of keep me in there if I have nothing wrong with me. So I asked if I am officially the best actor they have seen. We laughed. Then they ran some more tests and in two days she came back and said they have narrowed down the diagnosis to two possible cases and now is only one more bloodtest to be done to be sure which one is correct. I asked what are the two options then, maybe I can already tell you the right one. Because I know my body and each corner of the hell I have been to with this body. So she said the tests results indicate the two possible diagnosis have identical symptoms but cure is totally different. So I asked what are the two possible diagnosis and she hesitated for a long time. First option, she said, is that I have endured very long time very high level of extreme stress. Well, that was, indeed, correct that time. I had been working full time in a position of high responsibility and studying in university full time too. My days started at about 6 in the morning and I got to home at about 22 in the eve, full day only go-go-go, no mistakes, no slowing down. That had been going on for years and my body started to give up on me. I did not want to agree with it though because I had to be tough. I could not be loser like that. In hospidal for stress. It sounded about right, but I had to be tough. In hospidal for stress sounded like Looserville. She stared at me when I sort of fought the diagnosis. I asked whats the prognosis for cure. She said I have to give up one of my main things, either no work or no university. I was not allowed by doc to do both. Or actually, my body was not allowing. I asked for how long and from what time on. She said immediately and by the looks of it for at least a year. I felt she could hear the thoughts pacing in my head and I swear there was smoke coming 🙂 from my ears. I asked her if she saw the smoke, she said, no but I can hear the galloping thoughts in your head. We laughed. No laughing matter, but we laughed. I was devastated of the prospects of slowing down, losing my academic progress and probably re-doing some of the courses.

I asked whats the second option of diagnosis they suspect. And she said HIV. I bursted to laugh because that for sure, for me, was not the option. We did the bloodwork to be “officially” sure. I was right. 

To cure the stress my doc said she has her novice idea of how to cure it. That time the diagnosis was not widely spread. She had seen just one case before. And the patient died of it. We became free not long ago and people were new to the capitalism and she said not all people understood how to live with new rules. Business, gangs, maffia, killings, that was common. And stress. We had long talks and she suggested, as a chief, that I accept her new way of curing for me. I was to be at nights at home and come in back to hospidal in the morning at about 7 or 8. Like work. The idea was that at home among own people the patient gets better faster. She was right. We laughed that me being sick is like a work! First week or two was difficult because I was exhausted and in pain. Then started to be better and better, skincolour changed back to normal bit by bit, the ulcers disappeared one by one. 

I had to pause the university for a year. Obviously. I could not quit work because I had no other means of income, as all the commoners that time. Nor had I family who could feed me. So surviving alone was nothing new to me. Very hard, when thinking back to these times. Very unfair too. This doc saved my life by telling me if I don’t change the workload I will die. Even if my head refuses to believe it my body parts will give up on me. Just like my skin started to give up. Next would be heart.

I was some 2 months going every day to “work in hospidal” and then she said I can go back to either university or work and that I no longer have to come to hospidal. Unless I collapse again. I went back to work. 

Many, many moons later I had stroke. Because of overload again. But that overload was not caused all by myself. That must have been the stars.

Anyways, the weird and partly illegal (she faked the documents as to show that I was in the nospidal 24/7, otherwise I would be considered non-obidient for the treatments) sessions in hospidal proved that humour is vital. Mental health was not considered healt issue at all in soviet union and thats why we did not even have boxed to tick in documents 🙂 So during the hospidal days she always came to my room for her lunch, when it was her shift. We chatted away and laughed about things that happen in life. I don’t remember any jokes, but I remember the feeling of getting literally better within hours.

So one day I now came across a real life story about Brisbane couple who drove their car to the shopping centre only to have it brake down in the shopping centre parking lot. He told her to carry on with the shopping while he fixed the car. Wife returned later only to see small group of people gathered around the car. On closer inspection she saw a pair of hairy legs protruding underneath the chassis. Unfortunately although the man was in shorts his lack of underpants has turned his private parts into glaringly public parts. Unable to stand the embrrassement she dutifully stepped forward and quickly put her hand up his shorts and tucked everything back into place. On regaining her feet she looked across the bonnet and found herself staring at her husband, who was standing idly and silently watching. The bloke from the AA who was the mobile mechanic on site however had to have three stiches on his forhead.

One of my neighbours is 90 years old man who suffers from Alzheimers. So every day in the morning at 9 he knocks on my front door and asks if I have seen his wife. I am doomed to explain every day to him that his wife passed away a few years back. I have been thinking about how to avoid him coming over, or maybe just not answer the door for some time so he would quit coming. But it’s worth it. I will keep answering the door and explain him his wife is gone because it’s just worth seeing his smile.

Love and all,