Subtitle: Life is short. Do it right the first time.
So many things run through my mind as I lie like an overturned turtle for the better part of each day. I wish I could hook my brain up to Blogger, because some interesting things are now lost forever. But not many. 🙂
On wishes coming true
I was morose yesterday. I know things could have been a lot worse, but I was certifiable as I sat and stared at the walls yesterday. By the time Shawn came over last night — with a fresh load of laundry he’d done for me — I was so hungry I could eat the computer, but too tired to fix anything. I was longing for pizza (even though I haven’t eaten *real* food since last Saturday). Surprisingly, we were standing on my balcony when the Big Bite delivery guy pulled under it. Shawn joked with him that, if no one claimed the food, come knock on our door.
So the guy knocked! Seems it might’ve been a prank order. How cool was that?
It was a small pepperoni pizza and two burritos. I ate about a third of one slice of pizza, and I’ll never touch the burritos (my stomach is not happy with anything right now), but it was the best $23 I’ve ever spent in my life. Thank you, Big Bite!
On leg hair
Shaved it today. Was able to braid it, after a week of no razors going near it. Hurt like a bitch to bend over (!), but I’m happy now.
On John Ritter, Johnny Cash
Well, who the hell would have predicted losing both of them within a few hours of each other? My grandfather was a country musician himself, so Johnny Cash was the shit in our house. And I have the 8-tracks to prove it. 🙂
But the John Ritter story threw me. I mean, that could have been me. He had that undiagnosed tear in his heart, and it proved to be the death of him. Like when my abdominal pains started flaring last Saturday, I just tried so hard to take it like a woman and just brave my way through the pain. You just never know when or how you’re going to go — sometimes you’re lucky enough to have the time to get taken care of. Other times, you’re fucked. We’ll miss you, John and Johnny.
On 9/11
Although I had great plans to write about 9/11, I can’t tell you how happy I am to have avoided the blogosphere’s take on the tragedy for the umpteenth time. Yes, I will always remember. Yes, I changed 180 degrees that day. No, I don’t feel like reading about everybody else’s epiphanies right now.
One thing I have always said about 9/11 was that it showed me that I am not always going to land on my feet. Things are not always going to work out the way I want them to happen. I can no longer believe that I will live forever. I can’t hide the anxiety disorder that cropped up on that day two years ago and refuses to leave me.
Accordingly, on this Sept. 11, I was forced to recognize my newfound physical limitations. It really blows when you drop a pen and it takes 45 minutes to bend over and pick it up. I was also forced to recognize that I am not special. I’m as human as the next guy. I might have lived through my recent trauma, but that doesn’t guarantee that I won’t be shot or electrocuted tomorrow.
Life’s short. Do it right the first time.
On friends
I never ask anyone for anything. Yet this summer, I have been blessed with friends who have selflessly taken care of me on so many occasions. A grand hat tip to Bryan, Paul and Shawn for not only moving me, but also for getting me through this health crisis. From cleaning my house to fixing me food to providing me moral support (not to mention the untold loads of trash and kitty litter that Shawn has removed singlehandedly), I would have died without them. I kid you not.
I should name all the names, but knowing that employers are reading this, I’ll cut it short here. Let’s just say that a very special little visitor came to me the moment I awoke in recovery on Monday night. Her mom put her on my belly, and she lay there and cooed. It was one of the most amazing moments of my life. I hadn’t seen her since she was born a month ago that day. There are things to live for. That was such a huge one. Thank you for that moment. 🙂
Lucky to be alive
As it happens when someone gets sick, the familial phone chain lights up like a Las Vegas slot machine. And as always, somebody knows somebody who died from whatever you had. Normally, I wave off the stories — my family members know somebody who died at nearly everything, but one stopped me cold.
Long story short, apparently a few weeks ago, a girl’s parents were reading the obituaries, and they saw an obit for a guy, 31, who used to date their daughter. He was found dead in his apartment — his appendix had ruptured, and he died on the spot.
You never know when that fucking organ is going to spontaneously rot in your system. Get it out. Now!
On losing an organ
We’ll leave out the fact that I’m already trying to figure out how to compile a public service campaign to let people know to get their damn appendixes out before gangrene infests them.
But it’s weird. A part of you is gone (granted, it’s a rotten part, and that’s a good thing). At least if you go into the hospital and go into labor, you bring home a screaming sack of diaper rash. It’s your $28,000 souvenir, if you will. And there were literally no other women my age in the hospital who weren’t giving birth. It’s like that’s what’s expected to happen at this age. But seeing that I can’t even take care of myself without an army of friends, there shall be no kiddies for me.
In fact, I hereby declare that I shall be kid-free, just so I don’t have to go into a hospital again. In fact, kill me before taking me to another goddamn hospital. It would be quicker than the slow death you experience there anyway.
I don’t know. Maybe I’ll change my mind. There is always home-birthing. 🙂
On kitties
Kadi is happily terrorizing Paul and Bryan’s cats as we speak. Maddie was allowed to stay with me, and she’s been a little angel. But judge from these two back-to-back voice messages, left within minutes of each other, whether I should take this cat back:
10:36 a.m. “Hey Dawn. It’s Paul. I hope you’re recovering well. It’s going to take a few weeks before you really feel better, but I hope you’re OK. We’re glad to take care of your kitty for a few more days until you’re better. Call if you need anything.”
10:48 a.m. “Hey Dawn, It’s Bryan. This bitch cat of yours is a little monster! She won’t let our boys near their litterbox, she eats their food and hisses at them every time they take a step toward their dishes, and she’s scratched the hell out of me! I can’t wait to give her back to you! (laughter) No reflection on your parenting, of course. Hope you’re hanging in there, and call me when you’re up to it.”
Maddie has perked up significantly since Kadi left. I think I have too. I miss her, but not enough to keep tormenting Maddie. I think I will call Mikey and see if his offer still stands to take her back … after I’ve spent $100 on a cage and food for the little monster. 🙂
On having a bag attached to an incision
It sucks. This tube and plastic bottle are attached to my lower right abdomen. Tug on it, it hurts. Let it get too full and walk with the weight of the bottle, it hurts. Sit down wrong . …. well, you get the idea.
More tales from the crypt to come!