So I've been sick for the last month with this wonderful disease. It has caused a lot of pain, both emotionally and physically. The simple act of getting out of bed during the first week was difficult, time consuming, and infuriating. I had an IV attached to my arm with morphine and all the saline my body could handle. We derisively called the entire stand Rosey because she was like the Jetson's robot following me around.
In my case I had an absess. I had waited so long to have the pain my abdomen examined that it turned into a mess inside me. Not that it was that long, mind you. No more than a couple of days. It was the kind of aches and pains a person might have normally, but when I found myself hunched over while trying to walk out to my car when leaving work, I knew something was seriously wrong!
So I went into the emergency room on the busiest night of the week, waited around until 1 AM or so and then spoke with the doctor while in a morphine haze. He told me I was sick and I was like "oh, that's nice." He could have told me I was giving birth to an elephant and it would have meant about as much to me.
By three AM I was sound asleep in a hospital bed in a nice quiet dark room.
The next week was chaos. I didn't know what was happening and then looking back on it now I remember so little of it that I wonder about some of the things I think may have happened.
Long story short, they poked a tube in me, drained the nasty stuff, and sent me home. I sat around for a week singing songs and reading the last Harry Potter book while my body tried to figure out what to do next.
I ached to get back to work or to be doing something constructive. I wrote a bit, wondered about what I wrote, then moved on to something else as I was still feeling the affects of my painkillers.
In the end I did go back to work and I've just finished my second full day at work. Sounds great, until last night when I started feeling pain again in my lower abdomen in the exact same spot I had the first time.
Panic ensues.
So now I sit here on the couch waiting for a return call from my doctor's assistant. What I expect will happen is she'll tell me to come in and get a CT scan--love doing those!--to make sure I'm still doing ok. They'll then give me a prescription for some drugs I can't pronounce--not that I can pronounce too many words mind you--and then I'll have to go home for the day.
Let me tell you, I'm getting really sick of this. I hate being unhealthy, I hate feeling like an invalid, I hate feeling like I'm a weight on my family's shoulders. And I'm mad as hell that I did EVERYTHING I was supposed to to get better and I'm not.
I took the pills. I laid on the couch. I didn't over extend myself. I took more pills. I ate the food I was supposed to. Yet still I'm sick and there's no end in sight. Damn it.
It is what it is, I guess, and I get to wiggle through it the best I can, but damn it damn it damn it.
Ok, enough whining for the day. Maybe I should go eat some oatmeal.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
The Perfect Oatmeal
We live in a fast world. Everything must be given to us now, this minute, right away today. We all have our insta fixes; the things that we must have this minute when the crazy craving comes on. Well, mine is Oatmeal (capitalization intentional). And if I could figure out how to make it into a song and have Britney Spears lip sync it I would. Or maybe have Metallica do it. Either way, the song would be about Oatmeal and you can't go wrong there.
When prepared right or not even close, I love the texture of Oatmeal. When it's done right, it's creamy and soft and is all about the flavor captured in puffy flakes of oatmeal. When done wrong, it's still done right. Slightly dried out with several uncooked flakes adding a visual texture not found in the creamy puffy kind.
And it's truly fascinating that something as plain as Oatmeal can work with a thousand different flavors depending upon your craving. If you want blueberries to day, Oatmeal can handle them. Say you're in the mood for a few apples and cinnamon; oh yum! Ah, Oatmeal, your plainness is your defining characteristic.
Well, I'm off now, think I'll have a bowl of Oatmeal.
When prepared right or not even close, I love the texture of Oatmeal. When it's done right, it's creamy and soft and is all about the flavor captured in puffy flakes of oatmeal. When done wrong, it's still done right. Slightly dried out with several uncooked flakes adding a visual texture not found in the creamy puffy kind.
And it's truly fascinating that something as plain as Oatmeal can work with a thousand different flavors depending upon your craving. If you want blueberries to day, Oatmeal can handle them. Say you're in the mood for a few apples and cinnamon; oh yum! Ah, Oatmeal, your plainness is your defining characteristic.
Well, I'm off now, think I'll have a bowl of Oatmeal.
Friday, January 5, 2007
Unknown Pleasures
Snow falling on Cedars.
Or something like that.
The snow is falling outside again. It looks like it'll last into the evening. Joy Division's She Lost Control is playing on the stereo, but everything else is quiet. Standing at the patio door I can feel the cold coming through. I lay my head against the glass and enjoy it for as along as I can stand. Then I pull my face away and touch it with my hand. I'm almost numb. I shiver.
The song changes, another track from Unknown Pleasures. I listen for a minute, getting lost in the reverb.
I still wonder about the magical right words to say. I think of all the people who say the right thing at the right time for the right person, and wonder what makes it possible. The song which touches a million souls and makes each one of them feel so special, makes them believe the song is speaking to their very soul.
What are the words? Are they different on Monday than Sunday? Is it as simple as choosing chocolate ice cream one day and vanilla another? Maybe it's about context, the moment, the feeling that happens at a particular time; and the only chance is to grab onto it and hold it as long as possible. Maybe that's what made Hunter S. Thompson who he was. He grabbed the moment, lived it, wrote it all out, and then lived off that high for the rest of his life. Is it better than others? Perhaps not. Is it written better, clearer, with greater insight? Perhaps not. But it was there, and too many times the louder the bark, the crazier the dog, the bigger the piece of glory, not matter how much of it is lived in the past.
Or something like that.
The snow is falling outside again. It looks like it'll last into the evening. Joy Division's She Lost Control is playing on the stereo, but everything else is quiet. Standing at the patio door I can feel the cold coming through. I lay my head against the glass and enjoy it for as along as I can stand. Then I pull my face away and touch it with my hand. I'm almost numb. I shiver.
The song changes, another track from Unknown Pleasures. I listen for a minute, getting lost in the reverb.
I still wonder about the magical right words to say. I think of all the people who say the right thing at the right time for the right person, and wonder what makes it possible. The song which touches a million souls and makes each one of them feel so special, makes them believe the song is speaking to their very soul.
What are the words? Are they different on Monday than Sunday? Is it as simple as choosing chocolate ice cream one day and vanilla another? Maybe it's about context, the moment, the feeling that happens at a particular time; and the only chance is to grab onto it and hold it as long as possible. Maybe that's what made Hunter S. Thompson who he was. He grabbed the moment, lived it, wrote it all out, and then lived off that high for the rest of his life. Is it better than others? Perhaps not. Is it written better, clearer, with greater insight? Perhaps not. But it was there, and too many times the louder the bark, the crazier the dog, the bigger the piece of glory, not matter how much of it is lived in the past.
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
The book mark
I stared at the book mark for a good ten minutes. It was purple with a quote on one side, silver on the back. A thin tassel was twist tied at the end. Sometimes the cats will paw at it, slapping it and then looking at me to play with them. On more than one occasion I've succumbed to their wishes and, marking my page with a random piece of paper, proceeded to tire them out.
After they're bored of attacking it under the blanket or jumping into the air to catch it and release it so I can perform my part again, I return it to a random page behind one the I was currently reading and forget about it until I'm ready to use it for its created purpose.
I haven't thought of its original meaning for a long time; what it was before, what it was supposed to remind me of while I was reading. Except for the marker I don't think I have any of mementos left from those days, only memories which are distorted and softened by time.
Everything else is gone except the book mark. I remember when I received it, the first pages I put it between. I remember reading the quote and the look of expectation in her eyes. I remember looking at her and nodding and saying something ridiculous about liking it or thinking it was cool. The words couldn't describe how happy I was, not for the marker, but for her.
I've used the book mark ever since, although time to read has been limited. At one point, after moving I thought I had lost it. The thought saddened me, for I truly didn't have anything left as a reminder, nothing but those memories and I know all too well how bad my mind can play tricks on me and make them memories into something they're not.
The book mark was a reminder though, the reminder of a month which was perfect in the present and the possibility of the future. So many things happened, so many good, so many bad, but at least one month can be marked as perfect.
When I found the marker again, it was in a book I had stopped reading due to the trials and tribulations of school. I picked up the book and began reading it, then I found myself looking into the expectant eyes of the cat. He had not forgotten, and I guess neither have I.
After they're bored of attacking it under the blanket or jumping into the air to catch it and release it so I can perform my part again, I return it to a random page behind one the I was currently reading and forget about it until I'm ready to use it for its created purpose.
I haven't thought of its original meaning for a long time; what it was before, what it was supposed to remind me of while I was reading. Except for the marker I don't think I have any of mementos left from those days, only memories which are distorted and softened by time.
Everything else is gone except the book mark. I remember when I received it, the first pages I put it between. I remember reading the quote and the look of expectation in her eyes. I remember looking at her and nodding and saying something ridiculous about liking it or thinking it was cool. The words couldn't describe how happy I was, not for the marker, but for her.
I've used the book mark ever since, although time to read has been limited. At one point, after moving I thought I had lost it. The thought saddened me, for I truly didn't have anything left as a reminder, nothing but those memories and I know all too well how bad my mind can play tricks on me and make them memories into something they're not.
The book mark was a reminder though, the reminder of a month which was perfect in the present and the possibility of the future. So many things happened, so many good, so many bad, but at least one month can be marked as perfect.
When I found the marker again, it was in a book I had stopped reading due to the trials and tribulations of school. I picked up the book and began reading it, then I found myself looking into the expectant eyes of the cat. He had not forgotten, and I guess neither have I.
New Year
The new year is here and the time is right for a few changes, however well the previous activities and things were working. New is not necessarily better as the saying goes no matter what the advertising guys say.
I'm done looking back, looking around, and looking down; today is for looking forward and reading yet another book while drinking yet another scotch on the rocks. To that end I've finished Steven Brusts' tantalizing tale about Vladamir Taltos aptly named Taltos, and yes, he had the name long before Rice took it to use on vampires.
I liked the book. It contained three different stories, which taken by themselves would have produced a long scene and two novellas. Put in the form in which they were displayed it came out with a fast paced, interesting story about death, revenge, and that most important of activities: love.
Published back in 1988, I find it fascinating that the story is 18 years old now. I've read it several times over the years and have only recently continued to read the rest of the stories in the series. I was suprised when the perspective changed to third person in the book after Phoenix, and was actually disappointed. I liked the first person style, liked the intimacy with the narrator. This way, as a reader I feel to far removed after having read five stories from the protagonists perspective. Oh well, we'll see what happens.
Other news. The degree is finished. I'm officially edumacated. I did sign up for classes at Metro. We'll see how that goes. I'd like to take classes on literature and writing. The written word, for all the bells and whistles the information age has given us, is still the greatest form of communication, and the most passionate.
I'm done looking back, looking around, and looking down; today is for looking forward and reading yet another book while drinking yet another scotch on the rocks. To that end I've finished Steven Brusts' tantalizing tale about Vladamir Taltos aptly named Taltos, and yes, he had the name long before Rice took it to use on vampires.
I liked the book. It contained three different stories, which taken by themselves would have produced a long scene and two novellas. Put in the form in which they were displayed it came out with a fast paced, interesting story about death, revenge, and that most important of activities: love.
Published back in 1988, I find it fascinating that the story is 18 years old now. I've read it several times over the years and have only recently continued to read the rest of the stories in the series. I was suprised when the perspective changed to third person in the book after Phoenix, and was actually disappointed. I liked the first person style, liked the intimacy with the narrator. This way, as a reader I feel to far removed after having read five stories from the protagonists perspective. Oh well, we'll see what happens.
Other news. The degree is finished. I'm officially edumacated. I did sign up for classes at Metro. We'll see how that goes. I'd like to take classes on literature and writing. The written word, for all the bells and whistles the information age has given us, is still the greatest form of communication, and the most passionate.
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