SUPPORTED

Wednesday, February 7, 2024

A week ago tonight I was laying in my bed, literally writhing in pain. Tears streamed down my face as my chest cavity seemed to be closing in on itself, and a sharp stabbing pain tore through the far right side of my abdomen. I called out to no one “this isn’t good.”

I called upon two of my closest friends (who I met through improv) for their advice, which ultimately led me to the decision to go to the ER. One of those friends came to my house at 11 o’clock at night, and had to practically carry me to my car with the help of my roommate.

I’ve seen a lot of “hospital” and “emergency room” scenes in improv classes. Heck, I’m even planning an Unscripted Medical Drama narrative improv class next month. But this was my first time being in one for real, as a real patient with a pain like none I’d ever experienced before.

As I had chest x-rays and blood drawn and CT scans and blood drawn and long bouts of waiting and more blood drawn, I had a supportive scene partner by my side who was keeping me grounded, and sharing updates with my friends and chosen family (most of whom I’ve met through improv).

Scary diagnosis came in and I was admitted to the hospital. I had to accept the information I’d been given and let the scene play out. Multiple friends of mine who are nurses (who I met through improv) reached out and added information that helped me contextualize what was happening.

Pneumonia and a few other alarming things. I had to commit to this stay and to getting better. I had to get over my discomfort with needles, even as every viable vein in my left arm “burst.” I was pumped with fluids and antibiotics and other medications. I was given breathing treatments. I was given morphine to ease the pain. A pain that had immobilized me.

I was up all night. And by my side was my friend (who I met through improv), who was committed to this scene. He advocated for me in a way I was incapable of advocating for myself.

In the morning came the texts from people who wanted to wish me well (most of these were from people I met through improv). Texts came in from folks asking when they could visit me (most of these were from people I met through improv).

My friend who’d been with me all night went home to sleep, and not two hours later, I had my first visitor (one of my newest friends that I’ve met through improv). He brought me toiletries and fresh boxers and socks, and most importantly, Captain Comfort, my new stuffed Husky. Actually, let me take that back. Captain Comfort was important, but not as important as the visit from someone who went out of his way to be by my side.

Captain Comfort.

Then things got scary again. I was given a (false) diagnosis of Covid and my friend had to be escorted out. Captain Comfort got to stay.

Eventually the Covid diagnosis was clarified to be a positive test for RSV. This meant that I was now to be in isolation. No more visitors. No roommate (for now). Just me and a rotating crew of medical staff who had to throw away their outer garments before leaving my room. That was scary. Visions of what hospitals looked like in February 2020 flashed through my head. The idea that my mom had died just four years earlier from complications from her breathing flashed through my head. Thoughts of who I needed to provide The Playful Stage passwords and information to so that my baby could live on beyond me flashed through my head.

The pain was not subsiding. I was still immobile. And I was scared.

And texts continued to come in from so many Playful People (who I met through improv) who sent me love and gifts and prayers and healing energy.

And I had no choice but to sit back and do nothing but accept the love. That’s not easy for someone like me who was raised to believe that love, particularly familial love, is conditional and can be taken away without warning. I’ve had my walls up around receiving love. I’ve had my walls up about the label “chosen family,” especially after people who have called me that in recent years have also taken it away without warning.

After another night in the hospital, and as the medications did their work, I was eventually discharged. In my view, this particular scene was ending a bit too early and I didn’t feel ready. But it wasn’t up to me.

Once home, again, I was greeted with so many messages of love and support from people who, for some reason or another, have decided I’m worthy of it.

Classes I had intended to teach were covered by very capable hands, or rescheduled. My anxieties told me my students would be angry and having the classes they signed up for be disrupted. My anxiety is a dirty liar. I was given so much grace and support as I had to figure out what my business looked like while I was healing from a painful bout of pneumonia.

Friends (most of whom I met through improv) have reached out daily, some multiple times a day, to check in on me. To make sure I’m okay. To take care of me. As someone who has often felt unworthy of being taken care of, this changed something inside me.

I went into spring cleaning mode. Only in the winter. And more like e-cleaning. I cleared out old emails. I organized my Google Drive. I unfollowed hundreds of businesses, accounts, and former chosen family from my social media, to make plenty of space for the love and support I was receiving almost non-stop. And not from a place of bitterness or resentment. It was about making space for love. Period. And oh boy do I feel that love.

As I work on expanding my lungs and bringing them back to full capacity, I’m also working on my metaphorical heart and opening it back up to receiving love at full capacity.

I’m writing this now because I want to remind myself of what I am a part of: a community of people who show up for each other in our moment’s of need, in whatever way we are capable of showing up at the time. It’s easy for me to forget that, or to feel unworthy of it.

It’s a little late in the year to be making resolutions, but I will be reminding myself constantly after this experience, that we are all worthy of support.

And when that support comes from people you’ve mostly met through improv, it’s a special, special flavor of support that can’t be matched. Because a community of improvisers hits differently. I can’t explain it. It just does.

2023 was a trustfall. 2024 is landing in the safety net of support.