A few months ago, an acquaintance of mine died.  His death was immediately preceded by a short hospitalization - he lost consciousness fairly quickly after admitting himself to the hospital for his illness.  His final weeks contained quite a narrative: the health crisis, the coma, the changing levels of organ and brain function, the determination that death was inevitable, the final visits, and, finally, his passing.

This young man's death was exceptional in a number of ways, as was he during his life.  One part of the experience I come back to, over and over, in my mind is the way that his extended community, and the extended communities of the numerous members of his incredible extended family, witnessed and participated in his final weeks through Facebook. 

I'm not even going to begin to tackle the larger subject of communication technologies here.  There is way too much to say, and much of it I don't find particularly interesting to be perfectly honest. 

Furthermore, Facebook is the only thing of its kind (meaning any form of electronic communication or community other than paleolithic email and listservs) in which I've participated.  So I'm not actually qualified to talk about any other new forms of communications.  Not that utter lack of experience has prevented me from expounding in the past.

Something that has struck me about Facebook, and that I say in its defense when Luddites (and even some techies) call it out as a time-waster, is that it provides us with the opportunity to hang out.

I did a LOT of hanging out in my 20's.  Spending time with friends.  Doing stuff, doing nothing.  Running errands together, making art together, listening to music together.  Hanging out.

I don't do so much hanging out anymore.  My time has shifted from my friends to my family.  I'm busy.  I have young kids.  There just isn't that much down time in my life, and there is less opportunity to casually and frequently gather in a group or to just stop by someone's house.

Enter Facebook.  I pretty quickly got past the thrill of locating people from elementary school and looking at humiliating and hilarious old photos, and now Facebook has settled into a comfortable, functional role in my life.  At its best, it is a place - yes, an electronic place, but a place nonetheless - where I do get to spend smallish, unstructured, and unscheduled amounts of time sort of hanging out with my friends.  Other people stop by while we're hanging out, commenting on whatever it is we're talking about, and it is frequently really fun.  We make jokes, we riff off of each other's jokes.  We kvetch, we sympathize with each other's kvetching. 

I don't know exactly how people of other ages experience Facebook - I'm particularly mystified by the Facebooking habits of those who are still young enough to have little better to do than to hang out - but for me, this communal space - my own contemporary version of a quad or dorm lounge or friendly pot dealer's house - is really sweet and familiar. 

As this acquaintance of mine was dying, his brother posted very frequent and intimate updates on his condition, and, eventually, photos of the hospital gathering the day before his death, on Facebook.  As we followed these events and the experiences of his family, it was as if we were all getting to gather in the kitchen, or to get the important news from someone else about what was happening somewhere else.  We got to be there in some bizarre, modern way, and to simply witness, regardless of how busy and far away we were. 

Obviously none of this was a replacement for actually being there.  That was done by others - those closer in spirit and in body to the family and the events.  Plenty were bringing food and scheduling hospital shifts.  No doubt Facebook joined forces with its ancient ancestors - email and telephones - to help with scheduling and coordination.   I was not on the inner circle, not even close, so I did not go to the hospital or schedule meal deliveries or even bring food.  But my own need to know was satisfied, my need to watch over this family and to be there in some way.

I thought a lot about sitting shiva during that time, the time that we looked to notes and updates frequently as illness progressed and death came.    It was as if I was able to walk past the family's house, to be satisfied that it was full of loving bodies, to show my face at their door - however briefly - so that my love and support could be delivered.  I was thankful that Facebook gave me the means to be able to stop by, and to sit silently with them.

Many devoted readers may have already learned of my theory of PMS.  Now it is time to post it to the world, in my most serious effort, to date, to get picked up by a scientific journal.

Let me start by putting a few things on the table and then brushing them aside, roughly, in an explosive fit of impatience.  For one, I suffer from this condition.  Since I was a teenager, I've struggled to maintain equilibrium in my life despite the recurring sequence of biochemical events I experience on a monthly basis.  Moving on. 

Another thing: the name of this condition has always bugged me, the use of the word, "syndrome" in particular, but even the use of the word, "condition."  In medicine, the word syndrome tends to mean a pattern of symptoms indicative of some disease.  The not-so-subtle suggestion being that there is something wrong with me, as opposed to the reality of the situation, which is that there is something wrong with everyone else.

We all know the basics of menstruation - the ebb and flow of various hormones or hormonal triggers, all culminating in the flow of menses.  Call it what you will - having your period, being on your moon, being on your cycle - one thing is undeniable: this is bloodletting.  Think for a moment about what this means - a slow (or not-so-slow) draining of blood.  Life blood.  Vitality.  That is crazy!

So here is my point: It takes a LOT of energy to stay calm most of the time.  To maintain an outward appearance of order in the face of the horror and brutality that humans commit on a daily basis.  To keep my composure despite the very real risks of harm befalling my loved ones.  To act with grace when strangers and friends alike act selfishly, and to show compassion when others drive like morons.  To silently forgive my husband, time and time again, for folding the napkins wrong.  So wrong.

Most of the time, I can summon up that extra energy.  I am strong.  As strong as a small horse.

But when my life force is being drained from me . . . well, sorry, I'm just not that polite anymore.  It is not that I am suddenly crazy or having thoughts and feelings that are caused by my hormones.  Rather, it is that all of the energy I usually use to be superhumanly zen is diverted, and I have to let you know what I really think. 

I invite you to extrapolate from this theory (remember, you read it here first!) and to think about the work you do everyday to forgive, forget and move on.  This is important, productive work.   Doing this work is part of what defines adulthood and differentiates us from, say, my four year old who will wail with all of her being when the wrong kind of noodle is selected for dinner.

But inside of all of us is that four year old, the person who wants fusilli and not tortellini.  Inside also is the person who is thrown into a crying rage because thousands of children in our wealthy nation are too poor to eat properly, and an exasperated person who has no patience left for bigotry or hatred or war and no energy left to fight them.  A person who sometimes needs to scream, occasionally because of a wrongly folded napkin but more often because people are mean for no reason, like the jerk neighbor who thinks his roses are more important than my child's need to play ball.   Also in there is the person who is brought to tears because women are finally playing professional basketball and it is televised with high-cost gatorade commercials.  And because we've finally elected a smart, compassionate President who also happens to be black.  That is amazingly wonderful and worthy of weeping.

We all must continue to do this important work of rising above our daily rage and tears and horror and irritation.   We must transcend the behavior in others we abhor, those daily violations of decency and respect.  

However, and according to my theory, this is the lesson that those of us with PMS can teach: the rage, the tears, the horror, the irritation - those are very very real, and those will not - and should not - just disappear.  The rising above, the transcendence, is a superhuman act.  And when we don't?  Well, its certainly not because something is wrong with us . . .