I truly feel like I'm going to die and no one is taking my allegations seriously. A part of me wants to collapse and croak just to prove them wrong, while the other part is hoping this is all a misinterpretation.
After surgery, I'd been left with a freshly new incision on the rib just underneath my right breast. Needless to say, I was more than okay with allowing him access to check if everything was healing properly from time to time. "Please, by all means". Who am I to keep the man from doing his job? Unfortunately, it's a week later and I have absolutely NO RECOLLECTION to what Nurse Jeremy looked like. I seriously do not remember; be it the trauma, the drugs, or an entire figment of my immagination. All I do know is that he made my Valentine's Day worth while.
For whatever reason, I was naive enough to believe they weren't going to shave my head this time. Before going in, my hair had finally evened out andgotten to a length I really liked. Now it appears I'm one diabolical plan from becoming Mr Burns. (Not-so excellent) I look like a man with a grand receding hairline; gripping onto the follicles that halo around his head. It's hard to let go but not so much for me. As I heal up, I'm going to cut it all off again and start anew. I wear bandanas and scarves now.
For years, I've twisted things around here on LJ or to my friends IT'S SO CHEAP.
** I wanted to mention, in my last entry I went on a bit of selfish rant on how over the years I never receieve Get Well flowers anymore. Well, not only did she stop by with a bouquet but Meghan also gave me a pretty bag of Valentines Dat candy when I got home last week. Thank you, dear. It means more to me than you will ever know. I love it.
Also, something as silly as Maggy tagging me in a rather great photo in facebook really cheered me up. Thanks to you as well. Loves it! That's my dream weave.
The last time I saw Dr. Telischi was in 2006. That's three years of unattended problems gradually getting worse and worse. Since my diagnosis in 1999, it's always been about prioritizing. I'm never gonna catch a break. I have a disoder that targets the central nervous system. A million of complications can come from that. I have more than a handful of problems that need to be constantly monitored and checked, but when it comes to taking action it's about what is absolutely necessary and most crucial to my life and health. I can only focus on one thing at a time.
However, as disheartening as it was, the news wasn't exactly news to me. I can't say I didn't walk into the appointment expecting it. I knew exactly what was coming. I was given a good warning from Ragheb a week earlier. Ragheb has always been my bearer of bad news ("Hey, I'm just the messenger!") but last week he pretty much left it in Telischi's hands.
Telischi suggests I see a doctor way out in California who can probably help me, but I don't know if the procedure is worth it. I don't want this to be the reason for traveling to the west coast. (My heart is now set on going to Alaska) Nevertheless, I still gotta do what I gotta do. At the same time, it's slightly comforting to know that the root for my new list of concerns all come from the same source.
It's been over five years since I've had to undergo something this serious and hardcore. I know what to expect, and yet I don't. But what I do know is that it's going to be bad. I can't say I've been hit feeling defeated because I've given up fighting a long time ago. I don't know how to describe it. I can't breathe. I'm alone. No one's even on AIM. I don't know what to do. I left staring at the ceiling.
This is my life and there's absolutely nothing I can do about it.
Weeks ago, my next upcoming operation was scheduled and it's ironically set for FRIDAY the 13th!- but this surgery is a whole different story. I joke around and boast how I will get to have a real My Bloody Valentines in 3D, but the truth of the matter is, everything has become so frequent and routine I NEVER get get well gifts anymore. It's been years! All I want is a flower.
The Pensive Little Punk Rocker
He's more of a New Waver though. His favorite band is The Police.
For over a week now I've been locked up behind Booger Boulevard bars without the possibilty of parole. I'm looking at 2 weeks to life. It's awful. Every morning I wake up with a luxuriously thick dried-up snot crust mustache; the aftermath of hours spent with an unattended runny nose. It doesn't let up. Al Gore would have my head if he saw all the tissues I go through once a day. "That's perfectly good paper that comes from perfectly good trees used by perfectly good Grizzlies as perfectly good toilet seats. You obviously dont care about the environment and all its scentful splendors. Tipper, where's the remote?", he'd say.
I missed Barack Obama's presidental inauguration on the 20th because I was stuck inside a MRI machine. The historical moment of that cocoa flavored man with purple lips being sworn in as America's 44th commander in chief was missed due to an all around bad day that included a bad wait, a bad vein and an even worse technician. I'm stubborn and defensive and now with my new temper, don't fucking cross me. "I've been doing this for 10 years, honey, I'm a frickin pro. Don't stop the machine in its entirety to tell me to quit moving because I know for a fact that I'm not. Why would I purposely turn this into a two-hour deal? This is not fun for me. Just get me the hell out of here!" But I didn't say any of that, I just cried.
Afterwards I was able to catch clips of the ceremony from the internet and on the evening news, but it doesn't compare to watching millions crammed and excitedly going wild outside the White House live. Be as it may, two weeks later and this still does not get old to me:
**Aaran's artwork, not mine.
Damn Aretha, that fancy shamcy headgear of yours has become a larger national symbol than Mt. Rushmore, The Liberty Bell, and United States flag combined. Salute.
I have to get ready to see Ragheb on Tuesday. I've been proping up baricades for a few weeks now in pteparation. Outlook does not look good.
Happy New Year!
...or we'll just see about that, now wont we?
I rather wait it out a month or two before insisting the next 364 days that follow are to be "Happy" ones.
Everything will turn out fine in 2009. Everything will turn out fine in 2009. Maybe if I repeat it over and over as some sort of distorted mantra, the words will blossom into an off-color reality. Where are MY ruby slippers? Glittering red pumps never go out of style.
* * *
For almost two years I've had an excuse. But I know, even if I didn't, things wouldn't be any different. It literally upsets me when a subplot in a novel brings this to my attention.
I find myself plowing through the 2 or 3 pages that keep popping up. It's truly a hardship. I sometimes end up slamming the book shut and throwing it down on the couch beside me. I would never intentionally read something with the theme, as I purposely avoid movies and DVD rentals with the same subject matter because I know exactly how it'll leave me feeling. Empty. Lonely. Sad. Freak of nature.
I would hate to admit the reasons for my tears. Luckily no one's ever around to ask me why I'm crying.
I just dont need the added reminder. The clock is enough.
( New Me -- In HidingCollapse )
The happy times spent with my family during our low-key festivities help me remember as cursed as I sometimes feel through my on-going medical trials and tribulations, I am tremendously fortunate to have the caring, loving and funny support system that is Mom, Dad, Jamie and Angelina. I've always had such an amazingly unrealistic relationship with my parents and siblings. We're like a picturesqe family cut-out of some warped 1950's sitcom. It's all I've ever known, and for that I am truly blessed.
At the dinner table on Christmas Eve, Jamie and I reminisced over the holiday songs we'd sing as children on the Alpha Academy school buses. This one too.
Gift-wise, I pretty much got clothes- clothes that all had to be returned and exchanged the following day. I'm a few sizes smaller than last year. What fills my closet is absolutely useless. I've been left with wearing my mom's shorts and T's. I need to start dressing my age.
Aaran came by on the 24th with his presents. Not only did he drop off something for me, but he also brought along a Christmas gift for Angelina as well. She's a fanatical reader and adores dogs, and if there's anything she loves just as much, it's farts. So Fefa was right on the money when he got her the book, Walter the Farting Dog, along with a Walter plush toy... that actually farts.
Since Christmas morning, her and Walter have been inseparable. She carries him around with her everywhere she goes. When she's eating lunch at the kitchen table, Walter's right there beside her, farting.
What started off as a little project between me and the little sis one bored afternoon, spiraled into something the whole house got involved in. Even my dad wrote a small piece and his totally brings in the LOLs. It took me a couple of agonizing hours to put together on MS Word, but it was worth it. It's cute. So without any further ado ( The Holiday HeraldCollapse )
It doesn't take much to make me happy,
And this Christmas, I was pretty happy.
* Meghan, your gifts sure came in handy! Thanks again, Sofo. You're special. So special.
( ding-dong-ding-dong-dingCollapse )
I walked in wearing a Santa hat and a crooked smile. Twenty minutes later, I walked out with my hoodie up and in tears; my Santa hat stuffed into my purse.
I hate the life I'm living- if you can even call it that. "It's only been 2 weeks." Actually, it's almost been 2 years.
I give up. You win. I don't know what else to do.
-- That was Wednesday morning. By the time I had logged onto MySpace hours later, I had pretty much recovered and recooperated on my own. Still, I am extremely lucky to know who my friends are. Posting bulletins to boast a platonic girl-on-girl relationship to the public; talk about a show off. Perfect timing, Potato Cakes. Thank you.
I was already in bad shape the days prior. I completely understand why there are prescription drug addicts out there; it's not just physical. Once I'm off the comfort of painkillers a week or so following an operation, I'm usually hit with this sudden overwhelming sadness.
Reality barges in without knocking, and it wasn't even invited! (Wait, this is really happening to me.) Although my body doesn't ache anymore, the helpless feeling I'm left with is absolutely awful. I'm just sitting there at the kitchen table thumbing through Parade magazine weeping.
But as serene and peaceful, and marshmallow-like those pills have me, I don't plan on starring in a new episode of Intervention any time soon. Plus, why pay $50 for a bottle of pills, when I always have Aaran bringing me take-out to cheer me up FOR FREE? (Like I said, I know who my friends are.)
The sense of defeat is engulfing and leaves me drowning in hopelessness . Luckily, give me a few days and I know the tricks of the trade to bounce back. I have no control over a good 90% of my life, but I'm still capable in distracting myself from the inconvenient truth with self-made ridiculousness, like writing stupid messages in my friends' Christmas cards and creating warped holiday imagery on MSpaint. (oh MSpaint, how I've missed you! We must never go months apart ever again)
Viola! A shift in mood and attitude. Over the years I've lost a lot, yes, but my twisted sense of humor is still fully intact.
I've decided to embrace the season festivities in its entirety. Therefore U2 is up and playing and Buster's Christmas has been defaulted. Hell, Christmas is my third favorite holiday of the year. Why not?
I'm all right.
( I Don't Really Miss God, But I Sure Miss Santa ClausCollapse )
As an 11 year (and counting) O.R. veteran, I've come to the realization that waking up from anesthesia is very similiar to the unfreezing process held at the Ministry of Defense's Cryogenic Facility. The disorientment, the horrifying bedhead, but specifically Austin's showcasing at 1:56 to 2:58. Although no one is keeping time, I'm certain it takes me at least 5 minutes for my evacuation to be comple- comp- com- complete. I always have an audience as well, only I'm sitting down and wearing a backless paper dress, rather than standing in a hair vest. It doesn't help that I suffer from extreme pee shyness, either. It's difficult just to get started. Whether I'm hooked up on hospital opiates or as clean as a whistle, baby, can I have some privacy please?
I don't mean to sound like The Queen Bee here, but if South Miami held a Patient Superlatives I think there's a good chance that I would be voted "Most Popular".
My mini-room with a hospital bed and curtain walls is always crowded with nurses every morning of a surgery, as everything gets set up around me. One, who is actually asigned to me, and the other five or six who always come to visit with hugs and kisses and Good Lucks. Even Nurse Teresa, who I met just the week before, came by with a friendly face last Tuesday before my big send off. We're just a bunch of girls hanging out and making jokes as if it's a twisted slumber party, but instead of pillow fights and playing Truth or Dare, we're asking "When was the last time you ate?" and playing Find the Vein.
Everybody loves me. And I love them for loving me.
Names to remember: Nadine, Agnes, Janet, Rebecca, Teresea --the other few names I will ask for on my next trip.
Okay, it's only been a week and I'm very tired and groggy. I think I'm going to go to sleep for a 13-hour block. Goodnight y'all!
This weekend, I was hanging around my mom as she was going over some paperwork, just shooting the shit and laying around. Without dishes to wash or clutter to pick up I'm really quite bored during the day.I asked her, "What's a better Christmas song, Mariah Carey's 'All I Want For Christmas' or U2's 'Baby Please Come Home'?" She answered me then quickly changed the subject to Tuesday's Game Plan and I got so emotionally upset with her. "Why would you do that?" I had to leave the room, and tripped over a laundry basket in my mini storm off.
She's fully aware of my apprehension when it comes to my upcoming operation. All I want to do is swing my imaginary hair and do melodramatic Bono impressions, not get into the crappy reality that lies ahead. This is my holiday weekend! It should be all about turkey leftovers and Robert Downey Jr. in blackface speaking jive.
I use to walk into the hospital with great expectations, but now I've literally become sick of it all. I really don't want to go. I've been trying my best ti stretch out and prolong the time I have left. But like Pete Dohetry brushing his teeth, it's an impossible feat. So in the meantime, I'm doing my best to savor every moment in ridiculous AIM conversations. (P.S. I love my friends)
My Brother's (Asst) Directorial Debut !
A cute mini flick. So I'm whoring it out like a proud big sis.
This is the final his group made for Film class. He also has a little cameo in the end, after the original actor bailed out.
Wednesday morning, I headed down to South Miami to register for my operation on the 2nd and got my pre-op taken care of. Same questions, same drill, but this time a new nurse took care of it all. Usually Nurse Karen (I'm her "Frequent Flyer") is the one filling out all my information, but on this visit I had Nurse Teresa who was just as nice.
She surprised me out of the blue with a compliment.
-You have BEAUTIFUL hair color.
- N-- I'm sorry. What?
-Your hair color, it's very pretty
-Really? Oh, wow. Thank you.
A complete and absolute lie. There is no way my natural dull and boring brown hair is capable in striking any sort of attraction, so I knew what she was doing. The truth of the matter is, I look absolutely terrible. It
s [retty depressing' I never look in the mirror. (Needless to say, I make a huge mess every time I brush my teeth.)
In order to help boost my morale, it seems Nurse Teresa went on a compliment search, but by the looks of it was running low on options, therefore told me I had beautiful hair color. Ha. I still really appreciated the gesture. Obviously it's stayed with me. Come to think of it, I haven't received a compliment in years. Little words do help.
Updating on my little weirdo: Jake loves to eat paper, and prefers fabric softener sheets to tear and chew up. In turn, it's nice to know his tongue has no static cling. Although he has his own bed, when he sleeps, he likes to prop himself on the windowsill against the couch in the living room. He always leaves the blinds tangled and twisted, and it kicks my OCD into gear. When the shades are open, he lays on his back, sunbathing and exposing all his goods in our window display. For some TMI, when he poops it always has to be against something, whether it's a fence or a tree or a pole. He does not squat or poop on grass. He's fancy. That's Jakey
Wesley still haunts me, literally. I got a ghost dog! Not complaining.
I want to send some extra special good thoughts and good vibes to my lovely friend, Kendra, who recently lost her mother earlier this week to a battle with cancer. Although the little munchkin is much shorter than me, Kendra is definitely someone I look up to. She is such a genuinely good person, whose essence is made up of couragousness and selflessness- it's to the point where I ALMOST forgive her for liking anime. I truly admire her for her strength and composure. She never once used her mom's illness as an excuse for anything. She held the responsibility of mother, father, and daughter, and barely complained.
My deepest sympathies, K. I remember I first met your mom when I was working at Target, while you two were shopping about. I don't like memories of red and khaki, but I look back on that with a smile.
As try as we might to bury our Catholic upbinging, it's still deeply rooted. I can't help but resort to faith. (WWGMS?) Yesterday, on Thanksgiving, my family said a special prayer for you two: your mom and for you.