verb
- [with object and infinitive] Not prevent or forbid; allow
- [with object and adverbial of direction] Allow to pass in a particular direction
- [with object and infinitive] Used in the imperative to formulate various expressions
- (let us or let's) Used as a polite way of making or responding to a suggestion, giving an instruction, or introducing a remark
- (let me or let us) Used to make an offer of help
- Used to express one’s strong desire for something to happen or be the case
- Used as a way of expressing defiance or challenge
- Used to express an assumption upon which a theory or calculation is to be based
- [with object] chiefly British Allow someone to have the use of (a room or property) in return for regular payments
- Award (a contract for a project) to an applicant
noun British
- period during which a room or property is rented
- property available for rent
noun
- (In racket sports) a circumstance under which a service is nullified and has to be taken again, especially (in tennis) when the ball clips the top of the net and falls within bounds
verb [with object] archaic
- Hinder
Origin
Old English lettan 'hinder', of Germanic origin; related to Dutch letten, also to late.http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/let?q=let
http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/let?q=let#let-2
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Once, her clothes had fit. Now, ratty khakis and a sweatshirt draped her tall, thin frame like a bedsheet on a child Halloweening as a ghost. And like one, she'd damn near glided into the room when she'd entered, stopping at the nurse's station.
"People are worried, but what kind of God would give it to me twice?"
"When is the biopsy?" the nurse asked.
Without any detectable fear in her voice, the woman in the too-big clothing replied, "Thursday morning, but not until after my poker game."
She stood in an opening between a wall and a translucent partition separating medical staff from patients. I could only see her. Except, of course, I could also see myself. When the nurse replied, her voice held all of Too-Big's fear. "I hope you win," she told her.
I'd been sitting waiting for half an hour while I watched and listened to the interaction between Too-Big Clothing and the nurse I couldn't see. When repeat bloodwork was requested after elevated levels in January, the Physician's Assistant asked me to promise not to worry. She wasn't worried, she'd told me. I laughed to make the question go away. I knew I'd worry and told her the same. Over the course of the month, though, I'd found enough distractions between the hours of 8 AM and 9 PM to cope and wait without the ever-present fear. Approximately 97.75% of the time I listened to doctor's orders not to worry.
The rest of the time, I worried. I worried when I let myself worry. I worried out of default. I left myself vulnerable and I worried, breaking the promise I'd acknowledged with the nervous laugh, when I'd lay down to bed or when I'd wake. And anything that left me vulnerable, of which sleep itself could be counted, opened a door for every other worry, every other fear, every other head or body memory of any vulnerability. I could work to the others from cancer or from cancer to the others. One thing trailed into the next like hurled gripes in an unfair argument between bitter partners.
I was tired.
When I talked to Kim later that evening, having walked out of the oncologist's office without the resolution expected, we'd both agreed we didn't have an overwhelming feeling that something was wrong this time. Kim reminded me of how I'd been the first time-- of how tired I'd been, how after work, I'd come home, immediately hit the couch and sleep as long as I could. I reminded her that I couldn't, at that time, tie the exhaustion to illness. Rather, I had tied tired to depression coming from a vulnerability manipulated by a co-worker...a co-worker who repeatedly told me he was dying, when the truth was that I was, though I didn't know it yet. Diagnosis would come a few months later. She reminded me how the lump in my neck had worried her and how the lasting cough produced solid balls of mucus that made me vomit. I reminded her of how I'd cried in pain for weeks, facing the back of the couch, because I was embarrassed that I experienced pain I couldn't explain and that I could do nothing to alleviate, and the last thing I wanted to do was complain. The vulnerability of attention made me too small.
I thought of Too-Big Clothing. I thought of how small she was, physically, but how large she was in her presence-- her presence full of air. I thought of the beauty in her words and how her question--"What kind of God would give it to me twice?"--sounded simultaneously assured and resigned. I doubt she believed lightning couldn't strike twice. It had, already, for her. The 'something's wrong' had been hers before. And she was back there, letting the worry wait until after her poker game.
And I couldn't wait any longer. But I did...and I didn't.
Seconds later, a woman approached, paper in her hand. "You've been waiting for this," she said, before walking away without any additional information. I'd managed a "thank you" in reply, though I didn't understand the interaction.
I'd been told I could wait for results...that the bloodwork would be read and someone would discuss it with me before leaving. Instead, I had waited for results-- three sheets of paper with numbers and ranges and historic data. I knew some, but not enough. I could, however, recognize that my white cell count was still out of range.
I passed the translucent partition and leaned expectantly on the counter replying to the "Can I help you?" with questions. Had I read this correctly? What was I to do next? There weren't answers I could do much with, only a reply that the doctor would read them and get back to me.
I didn't have a poker game. I did have a counseling meeting and work and emails and phone calls and writing and distractions. I did need to let myself exist in the fear of repeat lightning, the sadness of all the other lightning with which I'd burned and, my least favorite, the anger of having let myself be treated as an afterthought, as a thing, and as unworthy of basic respect.
Though you wouldn't
know it to look
at me, I am
as small as
she, underneath
what you see--This
presentation
me is merely
the picture I'm holding
out of fear--
failure
or freedom--This
presentation
me
letting me be
less than
I am
a poker faced
player
waiting on a
win
"When is the biopsy?" the nurse asked.
Without any detectable fear in her voice, the woman in the too-big clothing replied, "Thursday morning, but not until after my poker game."
She stood in an opening between a wall and a translucent partition separating medical staff from patients. I could only see her. Except, of course, I could also see myself. When the nurse replied, her voice held all of Too-Big's fear. "I hope you win," she told her.
I'd been sitting waiting for half an hour while I watched and listened to the interaction between Too-Big Clothing and the nurse I couldn't see. When repeat bloodwork was requested after elevated levels in January, the Physician's Assistant asked me to promise not to worry. She wasn't worried, she'd told me. I laughed to make the question go away. I knew I'd worry and told her the same. Over the course of the month, though, I'd found enough distractions between the hours of 8 AM and 9 PM to cope and wait without the ever-present fear. Approximately 97.75% of the time I listened to doctor's orders not to worry.
The rest of the time, I worried. I worried when I let myself worry. I worried out of default. I left myself vulnerable and I worried, breaking the promise I'd acknowledged with the nervous laugh, when I'd lay down to bed or when I'd wake. And anything that left me vulnerable, of which sleep itself could be counted, opened a door for every other worry, every other fear, every other head or body memory of any vulnerability. I could work to the others from cancer or from cancer to the others. One thing trailed into the next like hurled gripes in an unfair argument between bitter partners.
I was tired.
When I talked to Kim later that evening, having walked out of the oncologist's office without the resolution expected, we'd both agreed we didn't have an overwhelming feeling that something was wrong this time. Kim reminded me of how I'd been the first time-- of how tired I'd been, how after work, I'd come home, immediately hit the couch and sleep as long as I could. I reminded her that I couldn't, at that time, tie the exhaustion to illness. Rather, I had tied tired to depression coming from a vulnerability manipulated by a co-worker...a co-worker who repeatedly told me he was dying, when the truth was that I was, though I didn't know it yet. Diagnosis would come a few months later. She reminded me how the lump in my neck had worried her and how the lasting cough produced solid balls of mucus that made me vomit. I reminded her of how I'd cried in pain for weeks, facing the back of the couch, because I was embarrassed that I experienced pain I couldn't explain and that I could do nothing to alleviate, and the last thing I wanted to do was complain. The vulnerability of attention made me too small.
I thought of Too-Big Clothing. I thought of how small she was, physically, but how large she was in her presence-- her presence full of air. I thought of the beauty in her words and how her question--"What kind of God would give it to me twice?"--sounded simultaneously assured and resigned. I doubt she believed lightning couldn't strike twice. It had, already, for her. The 'something's wrong' had been hers before. And she was back there, letting the worry wait until after her poker game.
And I couldn't wait any longer. But I did...and I didn't.
Seconds later, a woman approached, paper in her hand. "You've been waiting for this," she said, before walking away without any additional information. I'd managed a "thank you" in reply, though I didn't understand the interaction.
I'd been told I could wait for results...that the bloodwork would be read and someone would discuss it with me before leaving. Instead, I had waited for results-- three sheets of paper with numbers and ranges and historic data. I knew some, but not enough. I could, however, recognize that my white cell count was still out of range.
I passed the translucent partition and leaned expectantly on the counter replying to the "Can I help you?" with questions. Had I read this correctly? What was I to do next? There weren't answers I could do much with, only a reply that the doctor would read them and get back to me.
I didn't have a poker game. I did have a counseling meeting and work and emails and phone calls and writing and distractions. I did need to let myself exist in the fear of repeat lightning, the sadness of all the other lightning with which I'd burned and, my least favorite, the anger of having let myself be treated as an afterthought, as a thing, and as unworthy of basic respect.
Though you wouldn't
know it to look
at me, I am
as small as
she, underneath
what you see--This
presentation
me is merely
the picture I'm holding
out of fear--
failure
or freedom--This
presentation
me
letting me be
less than
I am
a poker faced
player
waiting on a
win
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