My cover of ‘We Can Do Hard Things’ explained
We Can Do Hard Things
I’ve been thinking a lot about doing hard things lately. Not things like jumping out of a plane or running a marathon or rescuing a traumatised dog who shakes and growls and tries to bite your benevolent hand. I’m talking about the control-stealing stuff – the things we don’t choose, like spinal surgery and feeding tubes and type one diabetes.
But this post is not about my hard stuff. It’s about the fact that the human spirit is remarkable, and elastic. It’s about the truth that people get through hard things all the time. More than that, some people seem to grow in love and joy and generosity in hard times. They’ve got my attention.
I love to devour a good podcast, and I’ve been listening to ‘We Can Do Hard Things’ with Glennon Doyle, Abby Wambach, and Amanda Doyle for over a year now. Their conversations about following the wisdom of your body with Dr. Hilary McBride; attachment styles with Dr. Becky Kennedy; the enneagram with Suzanne Stabile; making betrayal beautiful with Maggie Smith, well, they keep this atrophying spirit of mine malleable and breathing.
A recent episode about feeling more joy and romance through cancer with Andrea Gibson and Megan Falley, has left me reeling with inspiration, as well as disappointment in myself for not handling my own stuff with such vitality. I want to be the woman who, in the face of disease and death, dances in the kitchen to blasting music while making a snack, but when I try, I just get dizzy and fall over. Carlos watches me with a tiny tilted chihuahua head, trying to work out what the heck I am doing. Neither of us is ever quite sure.
I am the woman who sits (safely) at my baby grand piano and transmogrifies a song that I am in a love affair with. (I know, I know. ‘Transmogrify’ is an over-the-top, ridiculous word, but I’m a little over-the-top and ridiculous, so it fits.)
The pod, ‘We Can Do Hard Things’ plays their theme song of the same name, in its entirety, almost every episode. I never skip it. Tish, Glennon’s daughter, and Brandi Carlile soothe my broken body and torn spirit with the balm of their voices. Little, knowing Susie, buried deep under the rubble of ill-health and everyday life, hums and sings a muffled, ‘Yes, yes. We can.’ Some days I can hear her more clearly. Some days, I even believe her.
‘Cause we’re adventurers and heartbreak’s our map
We might get lost, but we’re okay with that
We stopped asking directions
To places they’ve never been
And to be loved, we need to be known
We’ll finally find our way back home
And through the joy and pain, that our lives bring
We can do hard things
So, after my transmogrifying (ha!), I put that voice of little Susie to the piano. My cover of ‘We Can Do Hard Things’ is the result.
(You will find it at my artist profile, Susie Bird, everywhere there is music.)
Why I released, Some Days (Brent Morgan cover)
My husband and I and two friends, Esther and Jared, sat at the Cock Inn – a beautiful English barn conversion with tasty food and sub-par service. I know. The name is shocking for us North Americans, but there are pictures of cockerels littered about on the walls, so we’ll leave it at that. The reason for the meal? A proper catch-up and some trip planning.
Ever since we moved to the UK from Canada ten years ago, we’ve been wanting to get to the Netherlands to tour. With Esther being Dutch, we’ve had a particular interest in going with her as our own personal tour guide. Jared, an English bloke, is always up for a trip to Amsterdam.
So why now? Well, April is my birthday month, and also when the Netherlands celebrates its King’s birthday – the biggest celebratory holiday in the Netherlands. Everyone dresses in orange and although not my colour, I do like a good fashion theme. I’ve already bought an orange dress, t-shirt, scarf, hat and handbag – and we haven’t even booked accommodations yet. (Update since the time of writing this: Esther bought me orange earrings and socks. Just call me ‘punkin’.)s
As I ate my gluten-free starter (only to find out later it wasn’t and that I’d been gluten poisoned) and with the wrong fork to boot (my bad), we moved on from discussing the dogs and actual trip planning.
Here’s the thing. King’s day is such a big deal, the city shuts the streets from cars, stops the trams from running, and it’s even impossible to get around on bicycles due the crowds. Also, the prices of modest hotels jump to near ‘Mandarin Oriental Times Square’ rates and are already almost all booked.
I have invisible illness – so many including type 1 diabetes, retinopathy, fibromyalgia, gastroparesis and ME/CFS – that I am on disability. Some days I can walk my dog around the neighbourhood and some days I am in bed with legs that don’t work and body-wide pain. On a good day I can walk a large shopping mall, all the while popping over-the-counter pain meds. (My body takes issue with prescription painkillers.) The last time I went to Manchester with girlfriends to wander the Christmas markets, I had a full out body meltdown while trying to catch the train home, diminishing me to a pile of agony and tears on the platform.
So when my husband and I trip plan (I love seeing other parts of the world), we build in rest days and find hotels with parking and book close to where we want to be so I can always go back to rest part-way through the day if needed.
Between our (poisonous) appetizers and our mains, we started looking up hotels and talking logistics.
“Well, the problem is, that hotel isn’t in the right area of the city. It would be a half-hour walk to get where we want to go. Can you walk that far, Susie?”
“We could get a hotel outside the city and take a taxi in, but then Susie wouldn’t be able to go back to rest.”
“We’ll need to drive to the hotel the day before to drop off all of Susie’s stuff and then Don and I will need to take the car back out of the city to park, then take the train back in.”
“We can’t use bikes at all on King’s day. On the other days, we could put her in the front of a carrier bike. They’re usually for children but desperate times….”
“We could just spend two nights in the expensive hotel instead of three to save money. At least we’d be nearer the center for King’s day and then taxi around on the last day. But it would mean moving all our stuff. And the car will be outside the city.”
“Maybe a wheelchair? But that might be impossible too, on King’s day.”
By this time our mains had arrived, and as I wrestled my rice with my tiny starter fork, I lost the ability to speak. If I opened my mouth, tears would be my words.
They were all trying so hard to make it work, but the elephant in the room sat on my chest suffocating my spirit. I was the problem.
I hobbled precariously in my heeled boots to the loo, choking back tears all the way.
Hold it together, Susie. Think.
I could only think of one solution and headed back out to the table.
“I think we should get a hotel on the outskirts and I’ll stay in that day. You guys can go celebrate and I’ll rest up for the next two days of touring. You know me. I don’t love crowds anyway, and I really want to see the city and its beauty without all the people in the way. I will be fine on my own.”
It was all the truth. I don’t love crowds and was more excited to see Amsterdam in its more natural state and I don’t mind my own company. But by this point, all the ‘problem solving Susie’ had done its damage. Waves of depression swept over me as I fought to stay engaged and smiling. We spoonies get good at that – smiling while almost crying.
“Well, we shouldn’t be going on King’s day then,” Esther said.
“No. Jared’s never been on King’s day. Don has always wanted to go on King’s day. You love celebrating King’s day. We’re going on King’s day,” I said.
I think I speak for many of us in the chronic illness community when I say, we would rather be alone with a book than be the reason others aren’t having a good time. And also, we aren’t stupid.
I know that when our supportive friends and family have to leave us behind, it’s hard on them too. Don has gotten used to touring on his own while I lay in a hotel room alone. But he hates it. Sure, he’d prefer to explore a new city together, but I think even harder is knowing I am missing out and feeling helpless to stop it.
Jared and Esther and Don were trying so hard to make a workable plan with my needs in mind, but my health defeated us all.
And as I sat in a coffeeshop the next day writing this with tears in my eyes and a leaden spirit feeling like an absolute burden, no word of a lie, ‘Some Days’ by Brent Morgan started pouring into my ears on full blast through my headphones.
‘Some days I feel I’d make a good sunset
Some days I just don’t wanna’ give up yet
Some days it’s hard to breathe
Some days I’m over being me
Some days, some days, some days’
Yes! This! Some days I’m okay, and others, I am SO over being me. It continued…
‘Some days I try my best to seem happy
Some days this place seems better off without me
Some days I’m overwhelmed
Some days I’m lost inside this hell
Some days, some days, some days’
I slammed my laptop shut and drove home too fast.
I had to get to the piano.
It’s not a complicated song so I printed off the words, worked out the chords, and started to play. And then sing. It felt like I was fitting the last piece into a 10,000 piece puzzle after working on it for six years. Only that piece could fit the space within me in that moment.
So, I thought I’d share my version of ‘Some Days’ with you. For me, it is therapeutic. Maybe it will be for some of you, too. (Plus, it fits really nicely into my moody ballad thing I’ve got going on, yes? Ha.)
It really is only some days that I feel so down, so no need to worry, but I think in this time in history, it is so important to be honest about our emotional health and the reality that life isn’t always easy-breezy – even (or especially!) when travelling to a beautiful place such as Amsterdam in head-to-toe orange.
So yeah. #vulnerability.
Levitating
I love rearranging popular and perky songs on my piano. (‘Perky’ might conjure up an, er, specific image in your mind. Well this is not that, but close.)
Taking a fast, upbeat song like ‘Levitating’ by Dua Lipa and making it slow, moody and simple is one of my favourite past times. This is partially due to not having a full band in my living room. (Whaaaaa? You mean, you DO??? I’m Jeal.ous.) So when it’s just me and my piano, I have to get creative to make music interesting. Carlos stays ‘up’ on all the latest pop songs done my way. He sits in his planter pot in the window next to the piano and just sways and hums along in support. He’s my tiniest fan.
Anyway, I was classically trained for about 12 years and within a couple of years of stopping lessons at the age of 17, I forgot most of what I learned. Thankfully, in my teen years, I lived very close to a radio/concert pianist who gave lessons. After years of feeling frustrated with lessons and practice, Mrs. Mann clued in to the fact that I more naturally play by ear. One day, after asking her to play for me a new piece that I was to learn so I could secretly mimic the timing she said, “Susie, you’re not fooling me. You clearly play by ear and are relying heavily on that. Why don’t we develop that skill and have you play what you want to play?”
“YES!!!” I shouted. (Well, probably not actually, but I would’ve wanted to.) Since that day I have been playing the piano for pleasure. THANK YOU MRS. MANN!
You may or may not know that I started composing around the age of 30 when my diabetic retinopathy was diagnosed and in full force. I was going blind and lived in the darkness of devastation for many months. Then I realized that because of my ear, blindness could not steal my ability to play the piano and I started to write. Let’s just say those first few songs were…heavy. Anyway, years later, I decided to visit Mrs. Mann and thank her for her profound influence on my life. She asked me to play something on her portable keyboard in her small suite in a senior’s home. After I finished she right away started animatedly saying things like, “You could hold that note there,” or “Have you thought of giving it some musical space between that chorus and verse?” This was the biggest compliment I could get from her – She saw my music as being worth something to improve on. She went on to breathe deep and say, “I’ve had so many students come back and play me something they’ve written and it is TERRIBLE. You’ve got something here. You can compose. Do you want to work together? I won’t charge. It would be informal.” Okay so THAT was the best compliment I could get.
Anyway, when I am doubting myself and my music, I remember her voice and know that even though it might not be for everyone, it is worth something. (Which is ridiculous because writing to improve my mental health is worth gold and should be enough. But the power of someone you admire believing in you, well, that is something extra special.)
Mrs. Mann soon got dementia and then passed away. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that I reconnected with her and how honoured that she met with me a few more times before getting ill.
I did lose my sight in each eye (a few months apart), but thankfully with (brutal) surgeries I regained most of it. (My heart is full.)
So back to ‘Levitating’. It may sound strange but this is a song I much enjoyed making delicate and darker. If you like artists like Phoebe Bridgers and Billie Eilish, you might like this. If you like piano covers, this one is for you. If you like the original version, this is familiar enough that you may still enjoy it. Picture it played behind a scene in Grey’s Anatomy as a gorgeous gentleman lay slowly slipping away from some rare and incurable disease. (Sorry, this episode has a sad ending. They can’t win them all.)
Meanwhile, I’ll be at my piano creating a version of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. (Not really. Don’t be ridiculous.)
You can listen, save and share here: https://linktr.ee/Susie.Bird on Friday, Sept. 16th!
P.S. When I covered this one, I didn’t know Dua Lipa was getting sued for copyright infringement. Oops! Her bad. (Maybe. It’s still undecided.)
It’s Lonely Here
I walked through the hospital halls alone because – Covid – and followed the directions given. Double doors opened up and I entered a new world. Waiting area chairs to the right, a wig shop to my left. Straight ahead were moon-shaped half walls with recliner chairs in each crescent, I.V. poles standing tall in each inhabited semi-circle above the wall.
A nurse called my name and led me to my chair for the afternoon. Another came and hooked me up to my own hose and encouraged me to get comfortable.
Here’s the thing: I don’t have Cancer. My doctor had ordered an iron infusion. Thanks to some health issues I both lack in iron and can’t tolerate supplements in pill form.
What was I doing here? Sitting getting literal liquid energy, while others sat being poisoned to kill the monster growing within? A couple of knowing glances came my way by other patients, but they didn’t know. I was an imposter. I crossed and uncrossed my legs; my clothes felt too tight; I wanted to cry but didn’t deserve to.
My heart flashed back to 5 years ago when our two-year-old nephew (at the time), Caius lay in his ICU bed with a huge Cancerous brain tumour and needing emergent surgery. Chemo and radiation followed. He was not expected to live. (He did. And he’s the best kind of awesome.)
Did that qualify me to relate? Could I add Caius and my own health issues together to equal a legit amount of suffering to belong? (Type 1 Diabetes; Diabetic retinopathy; neuropathy; Gastroparesis and ME/CFS. Also, I had a non-cancerous brain tumour removed.) But I don’t think sickness makes for a solid math equation.
After a couple of hours the nurse unhooked me, all topped up for the next bunch of months. I collected my things and touched my hair as I walked past the wigs. I needed to get out – get out so I could cry for those I left behind.
Around the same time as this appointment, I had come across the podcast of @Katecbowler and she, as a cancer patient talks often about the idea that it is okay – expected even – to not be okay. Her kind, generous and hilarious spirit resonates with mine and I find her so refreshing in a self-help crazed society. (She’s heard the song and threw me some kind and meaningful words about it. Thanks Kate!)
All of this swirled through me for the next couple of days until I sat at the piano to ‘just play’. “It’s lonely Here” unexpectedly met me there and is my newest single. I doubt you’ll ‘enjoy’ it, as it is a sad sad song, but it might resonate with you or someone you know. So this is me, putting it out into the world in honour of all of you who have sat in a chair, alone, even while surrounded by others, whether that be in the chemo department or another lonely spot life may have put you in. Watch for it Friday, July 8th. Gentle hugs from my spirit to yours.
Somewhere in the Inbetween
“Somewhere In the In between is a hauntingly beautiful reflection, it merits close listening. Too often we want to avoid pain at all costs but in doing so we lack the contrasts that give life depth and meaning. Through the words and the music, Susie draws us in to feel deeply, letting our hearts linger where the pain, the loss, the fear and the tears reside, evoking emotion. This is a song that does not just grace the surface of one’s ear. Instead, this is a song that moves quickly past the ear to the depths of the inner chambers of one’s heart and can go even deeper the more you listen.” – Connie Isaac, writer
How ‘Somewhere in the Inbetween’ came to be
Have you ever had energy itself wrap its arms around your spirit and take you somewhere? I mean, literally guide you to a different room or outside or to your personal diary? The day I wrote ‘Somewhere in the Inbetween’ my piano silently whispered, “Come. Trust me, just come.”
Don’s phone had rung the night before and his brother gave us the news that my father-in-law, a dad to me for 30 years, had just had a third stroke in six months and was unresponsive, not expected to wake up. We sat on the couch for an hour or so, talking and crying, knowing we were far beyond the beginning of the end. Dad hadn’t yet gone, but still…we had lost him.
After a poor night’s sleep, I woke up not sure what to do with myself, and shuffled around our kitchen searching for chores I usually hated just to fill the time. The smell of fresh ground coffee beans hung in the air as my cup went cold from neglect. As I folded dishcloths that I never fold but rather stuff into a storage bin and shove into the cupboard, I felt it; heard it. As if it were a wise old grandpa with rough but gentle hands and a low, soothing voice, my piano called for me.
Thirty seconds after sitting on my wonky, recovered piano bench, the chord progression and first verse fell out of my heart, fingers and mouth.
‘Another moment comes and goes, do I even know?
Another sunrise grows and goes, do I even notice?
People talk but I don’t listen, even though they call my name
Does it matter what they say, if I’m not even in the game.
Go ahead and blame.’
Whoa. Where did all that come from? But as the tears slid down my face I realized I had a lot of questions. Did Dad understand his circumstance? Was he confused, in pain, upset? What should we call that space between life and death?
‘Somewhere in the in between
Somewhere in the in between
Somewhere in the in between
Somewhere, somewhere’
Still thinking of dad, part of the second verse came to me swift, right after the chorus.
‘I lay in darkness, even in the light
They both close in on me
I often wondered what I would see
As I was carried free
Carry me’
For the next few days, I played it over and over, as I sat in it on that piano bench. As the notes floated around me and I tried to grab them before they too were lost, I began to wonder if people could be open-eyed, walking and talking, yet also feel like they are somewhere trapped in the in between. In a world of curated and filtered Instagram pictures and Twitter bullies and high school mean girls, and racism, and, and, and, society is a broken, emotional mess. Within that mess are individuals trying to belong somewhere, anywhere. Add a pandemic to this age of technology, and uncertainty rules our thoughts and choices. Although incapable to handle it, we have the capability to ingest fear on a worldwide scale and anxiety spreads faster than all the viruses.
Where do we find ourselves? Somewhere in between fear and hope; loss and new life; destruction and peace.
Sometimes in that place in between our thoughts scream and our bodies knot and we cry and sleep as our dreams twist.
And sometimes, we become numb.
The song felt incomplete. I shared it with a few other songwriters and they agreed.
I sat back down on that worn bench.
‘In the stillness, I show no fear
Even I’m surprised
I see a mirror, so unclear
My mind has become blind’
It was time. Time for the song to be put out in to the world. But who could I get to sing it and mean it like I did?
I talked to a producer. She said I should sing the song.
I pushed back. I’m not a singer, I said. She disagreed.
I hired a singer. (Who is also a producer.) After hearing my demo she said, ‘You should sing this song.’ I said, I’m not a singer. She disagreed and told me only I could ever sing the emotion of the song.
I talked with my regular producer. ‘You can sing this song.’
Back in Winnipeg from our home of eight years in the UK, I found myself in a vocal booth at his studio recording all the vocals.
I still don’t know if I’m a singer, but I felt my way through the song as I stood in from of that mic.
Now I find myself in the in between of insecurity and relief. I’ve obeyed that wise-old muse that called me to my bench and now I’ve done all I can do by sending it outwards toward you.
This is for Dad whom we lost a few months after that stroke, and for all of you who feel somewhere…in the in between.
My Birthday (Fake) Heart Attack Music Playlist
It was April 7, 2020. I remember because it was my first covid-19 birthday and we were in lockdown here in the UK. After having received a few gifts from friends (and I may have been wearing a blow-up pink sumo-style ballerina suit for protection cuz that’s normal, right?), my hubs and I settled in on the couch to watch some tv.
Then it began.
First, pain down my left shoulder and arm. Then, a tightening chest. I struggled to breathe. The pain would’ve knocked me down but as I said, my butt sat deep in the couch.
As things intensified, Don made the call.
999. During the peak of Covid-19.
Now what I haven’t yet told you here, is that I have had Type 1 Diabetes for 28 years, I have ME/CFS (Triggered by a virus. The good news is, I am over the worst of it, 5ish years later), plus a couple of other autoimmune situations. (Disease sounds so dramatic, yes? Even if that’s the correct term?)
So…I was vulnerable. And freaked out. The paramedics came in their near-space suits, and I needed to go to the hospital.
I was having a fake heart attack.
Obviously we didn’t know that. But here’s the thing: Heart disease is the biggest killer of people with Type 1 and I had had no reason to have the ticker checked out for a long while before this fake fateful day. So we had no idea what it may or may not have been doing there hiding deep in my chest. And we were advised that I go in.
It turns out after being checked out by a couple of A&E docs, a cardiologist, multiple blood tests, about eight ECGs, a chest xray, and threats of an angiogram, it was the Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME/CFS) at play, and WOW was it playing hard.
It took over 12 hours to determine this, and although my fake heart attack symptoms had mostly improved, my other symptoms were getting worse. I’m not sure if I felt better or worse when I slowly walked out of the hospital. I felt like death.
So…that was just the preamble and not the point.
Whilst laying in a lounge chair in the waiting room all night (no beds available…shocker!), I tried to settle in, and pretend I wasn’t dying. Remember…they had threatened me with a Cardiologist and SURGERY, so it hadn’t become my Fake heart attack quite yet. I noticed music being piped into the room through mounted speakers.
Then something awesome happened. Dark – really dark – but awesome.
Through the fog and fear, my brain latched onto the lyrics that floated all around us sick people sprawled over stretchers and chairs while medical professionals wandered like zombies in their PPE, unless alarms started going crazy. Then they all jumped into action. The double doors at the end of the hall just outside the waiting room but within view, were covered in plastic and taped off. Had the Cardiologist just been offed with a pick axe back there? Nope…just covid. They had split the hospital in half. Those with the virus and those without. There were no tests then, so I’m not sure how they knew, but I was happy to be on the side of the door sans dead cardiologist.
‘If The World Was Ending’ by JP Saxe and Julia Michaels began playing through the speakers.
Then…
‘…Things look so bad everywhere…’ Whitney Houston and Kygo? Are you here too? Dead or alive?
I messaged my sister Linda and my A&E nurse friend/cousin Barb to update them on me, and tell them it was confirmed that the world was indeed ending and that Whitney was in the house describing my view. (With us being six hours ahead of Winnipeg, they were both awake managing children bouncing off their walls.)
We laughed at Whitney’s insight but my pain was not contributing to the mood. Until the song changed and I heard ‘Killing Me Softly…’ by Fugees, Ms. Lauryn Hill.
You can’t make this stuff up.
Barb said, ‘Staying Alive’ will be next!
She then continued to try to work out from my symptoms what might be happening. Arrythmia? Angina? An actual heart attack? She’s seen a lot of all of these and knows me well, so her triaging and diagnosing on the phone was helpful and comforting.(? Sort of. She wasn’t convinced I was okay.)
As I described the process and what the doc had done and had ordered and all the chaos at the hospital, Barb started singing ‘What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger’ by Kelly Clarkson.
My sister kept typing ‘lol’ and ‘Any news?’ and’ LOL’ and ‘Any change?’ as well as updating me on the chaos of her children, who thought she was losing her mind from all the laughing out loud.
Meanwhile a guy was puking in a bucket and there was a woman with her shoes and socks off and tossed aside, wandering around screaming for a blanket. I was confused by that.
Barb asked me to describe the hospital set up here to compare their covid protocol over in Canada.
My reply, and I quote was, “They’ve split the hospital in two…Red for possible or confirmed Covid and green for people like me having fake heart attacks.”
Cue music. ‘I just don’t feel right…’ (I apologize for not being able to credit whomever the artist of this song was. I was near delirium and I didn’t know the song. There are a few out there with that lyric so…)
“ Who picked the playlist for this place?? They either had no idea what they were picking or they have a great sense of humour!” said my sister.
Barb chimed in with, “Maybe you could make a request. Bon Jovi. Bad Medicine.”
Another lol from Linda.
“Or, Another One Bites the Dust?” Barb.
Me: “YES!!”
At this point I continued ranting about the hospital not having yet taken the second round of bloodwork that is TIME SENSITIVE to prove a heart attack. My fingers may have shouted “They haven’t taken my BLOODY BLOODWORK!”
Barb. “But have they played ‘Heart Attack’ by Demi Lovato’?”
If I wasn’t dying of a heart attack, I was going to die from suppressing laughter. (For the benefit of the old woman trying to sleep and the barfing guy in the corner. And maybe the guy cleaning up the bloody mess behind the double doors.)
At this point the three of us decided on a new business venture. Selling hospital playlists. We could diversify beyond just the A&E waiting room and sell to all the departments. I could get really dark here, but I’ll just tell you instead that we could be very clever with our song choices totally inspired by my Birthday Fake Heart attack sitch.
By now, my muscle fatigue and pain was at about a level 8.
Barb suggested that maybe ‘I Wanna Be Sedated’ by the Ramones should play next. I agreed. I was exhausted and needed a bed. My bed. At home.
Barb suggested ‘A Little Bit Longer’ by the Jonas Brothers. (This song was especially apropos as it mentions doctors and finding a cure. Check out the lyrics. Good call Barb!) I just needed to hang on a little bit longer, she said. She then told us that sometimes by accident while triaging for real in the ER, she answers the patients in song. I totally get that. It only takes One. Solitary. Spoken. Word for me to hear a song in my head and belt it out loudly (and badly). Linda decided I should try that then and there. Maybe I’d get sent home earlier. Almost guaranteed.
“WHERE IS THE BLOODY BLOOD TEST?!?” I shouted with my fingers.
Barb. “Hurry up and wait.” (Stereophonics. And I LOVE that there is an alternate version called ‘Hurry Up and Wait – Don’t Let the Devil Take Another Day.’ Again…apropos.)
We decided if I sang that, it wouldn’t come across as sarcastic enough and they might not send me home.
“Just write one now, while you wait. Would love to see what kind of song comes out of your head at 3:30 a.m. in the middle of a fake heart attack.” I should’ve taken Linda up on that. I regret not writing that song. Then. In near delirium.
‘Shut up and dance with me…’ (Walk the Moon)
Well, that took a turn. Equally as cruel though. I can’t help from dancing to that song. And my options for partners were the puker, screaming barefoot lady, and a child in a wheelchair. Plus, now thanks to the ME/CFS my legs weren’t working either. (It has very similar symptoms to MS.)
I then reported that my eyes had gone blurry. Wait. Not so promptly I realized my glasses were propped on my knee. So I sent a picture of that. Obvs.
As my body revolted with pain at this point, I still hadn’t got the bloodwork. So my fingers started to rant again. No joke, this came on the playlist…
‘I still haven’t found what I’m looking for…’ Oh U2 you totally GET me! I told Linda and Barb I was going for it. I mean…Belting out THIS would surely get me the bloody bloodwork! They told me not to scare anyone.
We then talked about whether I would be having any more Birthdays. But Barb pointed out that even if I never got the bloodwork and died in that chair, I still achieved being, well, my new age since the clock had flipped past my birthday.
‘So if the sky comes falling down on you, there’s nothing in this world I can do…’ (Hey Brother by Avicci. Turns out the lyric is ‘nothing in this world I couldn’t do,’ but in my delirium I heard it wrong, according to the message thread.)
Hmmmmm.
I then ranted some more about being exhausted and wanting to go home.
‘I could really use a wish right now…’
Good old B.o.B. (and Hayley Williams). Read. My. Mind. It was getting a little spooky, actually.
I then typed that I was going to try to ‘shit’ my eyes. I meant the ‘I’ to be a ‘U’ but whatever. Somehow it suited the sitch.
So after the Universe having its way with me both in pain and song, it was confirmed that I had indeed had a fake heart attack. Apparently ME/CFS when in the moderate/severe category, can very closely mimic a heart attack. (According to research. Not just me and Whitney.)
So in honour of our new business venture, I’ve made my hospital playlist of all the songs that starred in my very painful, dark and hilarious 2020 Birthday fake heart attack. I’ve also included covers and alternate versions of these songs, just to shake it up a bit. (And support Indie artists.) There is something for everyone here, even if you don’t think you might be dying.
I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. At home. In your own bed. Now go! Have a listen!
P.S. There are a couple of bonus songs that might be a tad self-benefitting for me if you listen, but hey…they might even be your favourites! And…if they had been released back then, who knows? The hospital might just have played them. 😉