Everyone was right. They warned us all. When/if you watch the documentary about Mr Rogers, have tissues handy. You'll be shredded by the end of it like I was, wondering how we ever deserved to have that man walk among us.
I periodically record a handful of things off of HBO, not knowing whether I'll ever get around to watching them. Earlier this week I set up four or five upcoming shows with the same low expectations. One was "Won't You Be My Neighbor?" and we got around to watching it sooner than I thought we would, thank goodness. This tells a very complete story about Fred Rogers, from his early exposure to television, through his successes and inner fears and opportunities for emotional growth, all the way to his loved ones reflecting quietly about him after he left us. I'm crying inside for how much he cared about all of us when we were tiny, and how he wanted us to continue to care about the small ones once we got big. He was such a fierce defender of innocence. I loved him when I was little, went through a phase where I thought I was too old and sophisticated for him, and came back to understand how much I love him still.
If that poignant trip to my past weren't enough, before I could get the TV turned off, I was reminded that another piece of it is now gone, as of today. The Monkees aired before I was born, but when I was in high school, MTV rebroadcast the series, and I discovered how much I would have enjoyed watching them if I'd been a teenager in the 60s. I remember being nineteen and the older guy I had a huge crush on at CU found that I was still listening to them, and he gave me crap about it. I refused to be shamed. They represented a vivacious innocence I needed to hang onto, and I wasn't about to let it go. Not then. Now that Peter Tork has passed away, I may need to revisit that goofy, wonderful bit of history. It sure was fun.
I had a very quiet day today, on purpose. I am still waiting on a diagnostic test that will hopefully tell me what's going on that is dragging me down so badly. I went to my doctor a week ago, not knowing whether I had an infection of some sort, or something else. She didn't agree with my inflammation theory right away and instead ordered imaging that couldn't be scheduled until next week, and every day I wait I feel worse. I normally hate going on antibiotics for any reason, but the longer I wait for my appointment, the more I wish she had given me a course just in case. I know she had no idea they'd put me off for two weeks, but I feel like she should have assumed it. I'm dealing with a ton of fatigue and soreness, and I look like crap. I look like this is a bad autoimmune flare, or that's what I think when I look at my pale face and unusually flushed mouth in the mirror. (It doesn't help that I am also still in the jammies I wore for D&D last night, having not showered since right before the gang came over yesterday.) I feel so crappy I'm willing to put up a terribly unflattering photo of me from mid-day, when I had three cats holding me down on my chair like turtles on a log (to repeat a description my mom used recently). Maybe tomorrow I'll feel perkier.
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