I have officially experienced the brunt of my scathing tell all blog. My mother- in- law was pissed about what I wrote about her mother, then my sister- in- law (and probably brother- in- law) got pissed about what I wrote about their aunt. I must now clear a few things up.
Number 1: Crazy Cat Lady is not a bitch. I was annoyed when I wrote that statement, but she is really a very nice person. There is nothing wrong with being a crazy cat lady. I am a crazy cat lady in training. As I said before, I have all the makings. It is very dramatic the way we react to our pets interactions, and the way we treat the owners as a result.
Number 2: The new family is not the only crazy family I interact with. My own family is super nuts also. This is not a bad thing in either circumstance. I am spending the bulk of my time with the new family right now, so they are who I interact with the most. Of course they end up with starring roles. Later, I will tell a story about my crazy mother so that no one feels left out.
Number 3: All the things I write are caricature's and exaggerations! Hopefully you, my readers, already know that. Hopefully this will give the new family some peace of mind, to know that all those reading this are being informed that not all that is said should be taken literally.
Now, for the smack talking I promised about my own family. Though my family has had a long history of crazy, we'll start with my mom.
My mom has always said that she doesn't believe in punishment, but rather natural consequences of your actions. I will tell the story of the ultimate consequence that I experienced when I was 16.
I snuck a boy into the house at night. He was my boyfriend at the time, and I loved him like no one has loved a man before. (Correction, I loved him like all 16 year olds love boys their parents don't like.) He was supposed to leave before my parents woke up, but we fell asleep. Stupid teenagers!
In the morning, my mother knocked on the door to let me know I had to get ready for school. At the time I was going to a charter school. I took most of my classes at home and met with a teacher periodically to go over my work and get tested. This was going to enable me to graduate early and, I thought, get into college with scholarships.
I took a shower. The plan was for the boy to get out when we left, and stay quiet until that time. Good plan, right? Wrong. While I was in the shower, the boy decided to munch on the chips from the night before. My ever clever mother heard the bag crinkling from outside my bedroom door. But I was in the shower, how could there be a bag crinkling in my room? She caught him! Red handed!
So what, you ask, might the natural consequences be in this matter? Well, first she had him arrested for trespassing. A perfectly natural response. Then she went to my school, without me. I thought maybe she would be picking up my new books for me but was to angry to take me with her. I was terrified of the yelling and screaming that I knew was coming when she got home. So I left. When the cops were done talking to me, I just left. I didn't come back for almost a week. The story of that week is a story for another time.
Upon my return, ready to face the music and get back to my dreary, boyless life, I found out that my mother had not picked up my new books for me. In fact, she had pulled me out of my school! She had taken it upon herself to take me out of my fast track to college school and enroll me in the regular high school, where I'd have to take the whole year at a snails pace!!! Of course, I boycotted and refused to go. I told her I wanted to finish at my own school, It was only going to take the rest of the semester and I'd be graduating more than a year early. My protest was recognized. She pulled me out of the traditional school after not attending a single day. She enrolled me in continuation school!!! Even worse, no one gets into college from a continuation school!!! I went for one week and did so much extra work, they graduated me the following Monday.
So this is the natural consequence of sneaking a boy into your mother's house, apparently. Your educational record smeared and college delayed. Man, I learned my lesson! To this day, my mom will tell you that it was because of my grades she pulled me out. But take a look at my transcript and you will find that I was getting A's and B's.
Of course, there are many more stories about my family that I could tell, but I want to save them for a book about another time. There is the one about how my best friends mom called cps (the public display), a myriad of trials and tribulations arising from her choice in men, the annual beat downs when she 'just couldn't take it anymore', the eating disorders fostered by being her 'chunky buddy' on every diet fad you can imagine. Just a taste so you know to read the next book. That is of course assuming that this ever becomes a book.
Gotta Go
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Short Bitch Fest
It is 10:30pm, I just got off an 11 hour shift. I'm tired and I'm sweaty and I don't really feel like writing but I am because I'm also annoyed.
Last time we stayed with New Grandma, New Aunt had already moved in with her. (This is not the aunt previously mentioned in other blogs. I still love that woman.) Anyways, New Grandma found the most non- confrontational way to make my time there miserable. She moved the furniture around when New Aunt moved in with her (all names will be inserted when I think of fake ones I can stick with) so that both guest beds were in one room and New Aunt's bed is in the other. She put New Aunt in the room with two beds so that in order to be in the same room as my husband, I have to sleep on the floor!
New Aunt can be classified as the crazy cat lady. I've always joked that I would end up the crazy cat lady. I love cats and I hate men, I want a new kitten every six months like my biological clock doesn't recognize my species. I'm the perfect candidate, but this woman takes the cake.
My cat, Anastasia (real name here) got into a scuffle with her cat, fluffy pussy (not real name). When I say scuffle, I mean scuffle. Not a fight, not a knock down, drag out brawl, just a scuffle. It is very common for cats that are new to each other. This woman is no longer speaking to me because my cat was mean to her cat. Of course, I can't say I'm surprised. We are, after all, talking about a woman that keeps cats in her freezer when they die. Not beloved pets that are being preserved until their final resting place is determined. I'm talking about cats no one else has ever seen before, 'preserving' them for months at a time.
My mother in law read the blog about her mother. She told me she understood the nature of the blog and that in order to make it interesting, I needed to talk some shit. After all, her mother is crazy anyway. Come to find out, she's just started talking shit behind my back now. I just changed the URL of my blog so that she can't read it.
Crazy cat lady is here now with her sister, the aunt I love, where we are staying. They are watching the tony awards and she is glaring at my cats. Bitch.
I'm going to go take a damn shower.
Oh! And Bobby fell down, and sprained his ankle, slammed his hand in the hood of his new crappy car and went to the hospital while I was at work. None of this is going to postpone his surgery, but you would think that now is the time to be paranoid about hurting himself. When I say his new crappy car, I'm talking about the Catalina he traded his Honda for. It is a classic, but it is a hunk of junk. Just like a little child he is with his cars.
I love my husband, I love my husband, I love my husband.
I just keep repeating it to myself.
I love my husband enough to put up with his family.
You know, if I wrote a bunch of crap about my mom she'd just laugh and say, "If I were normal, I'd be boring."
Stay tuned for next post when I talk shit about my mom.
Last time we stayed with New Grandma, New Aunt had already moved in with her. (This is not the aunt previously mentioned in other blogs. I still love that woman.) Anyways, New Grandma found the most non- confrontational way to make my time there miserable. She moved the furniture around when New Aunt moved in with her (all names will be inserted when I think of fake ones I can stick with) so that both guest beds were in one room and New Aunt's bed is in the other. She put New Aunt in the room with two beds so that in order to be in the same room as my husband, I have to sleep on the floor!
New Aunt can be classified as the crazy cat lady. I've always joked that I would end up the crazy cat lady. I love cats and I hate men, I want a new kitten every six months like my biological clock doesn't recognize my species. I'm the perfect candidate, but this woman takes the cake.
My cat, Anastasia (real name here) got into a scuffle with her cat, fluffy pussy (not real name). When I say scuffle, I mean scuffle. Not a fight, not a knock down, drag out brawl, just a scuffle. It is very common for cats that are new to each other. This woman is no longer speaking to me because my cat was mean to her cat. Of course, I can't say I'm surprised. We are, after all, talking about a woman that keeps cats in her freezer when they die. Not beloved pets that are being preserved until their final resting place is determined. I'm talking about cats no one else has ever seen before, 'preserving' them for months at a time.
My mother in law read the blog about her mother. She told me she understood the nature of the blog and that in order to make it interesting, I needed to talk some shit. After all, her mother is crazy anyway. Come to find out, she's just started talking shit behind my back now. I just changed the URL of my blog so that she can't read it.
Crazy cat lady is here now with her sister, the aunt I love, where we are staying. They are watching the tony awards and she is glaring at my cats. Bitch.
I'm going to go take a damn shower.
Oh! And Bobby fell down, and sprained his ankle, slammed his hand in the hood of his new crappy car and went to the hospital while I was at work. None of this is going to postpone his surgery, but you would think that now is the time to be paranoid about hurting himself. When I say his new crappy car, I'm talking about the Catalina he traded his Honda for. It is a classic, but it is a hunk of junk. Just like a little child he is with his cars.
I love my husband, I love my husband, I love my husband.
I just keep repeating it to myself.
I love my husband enough to put up with his family.
You know, if I wrote a bunch of crap about my mom she'd just laugh and say, "If I were normal, I'd be boring."
Stay tuned for next post when I talk shit about my mom.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Purely Selfish
I know that in this time where my husband is having such difficulty it is incredibly selfish to think much about myself, but sometimes I can't help it.
You see, last night I noticed that somehow I've gotten fat again. What is this shit all about?! I thought that I was having no time to eat with all the crap I've been doing, but apparently that doesn't make a difference.
My thighs have been filled with cottage cheese without my knowledge or consent. (gnomes?) That cute, sexy little crease where your butt cheek meets the back of your leg could now hold a pencil.
My husband just walked in and told me that I'm not fat. He's a super good lier, you know, coming from the family that talks about nothing.
Back to me, this is the purely selfish blog.
Anyways, so now I'm fat. Maybe not quite fat, but well on the way. I suppose it shouldn't matter now that I'm married. I mean, who am I trying to impress?
Here's the real concern. With Bobby about to have open heart surgery, we are going to have a period of a few months with no sex. This will be a huge strain. Even as sick as he is, he's always able to muster up the energy for that particular activity.
With the decreased activity (not doin' it) plus the extra chocolate cravings from not getting any, I can only expect to get fatter. I'm really not that superficial, If I get fat it isn't the end of the world.
But what if I get big enough so that I break the fragile little post- op body of my husband?! All the bouncing around will be hard enough without a 700 pound woman on top of a cracked sternum.
And forget about him being on top. That will just be to much work for him.
Maybe with my newly emerging creases and folds we can play a new game, hide the pencil. I'm sure I could get a whole box under my bosom. What do you think, America?
That's all for now. I have to go try to haggle with a man who barely speaks English to try to trade Bobby's car for a crappy but classic car that he's in love with. The things we do for love.
Comment if you know anything about car restoration.
You see, last night I noticed that somehow I've gotten fat again. What is this shit all about?! I thought that I was having no time to eat with all the crap I've been doing, but apparently that doesn't make a difference.
My thighs have been filled with cottage cheese without my knowledge or consent. (gnomes?) That cute, sexy little crease where your butt cheek meets the back of your leg could now hold a pencil.
My husband just walked in and told me that I'm not fat. He's a super good lier, you know, coming from the family that talks about nothing.
Back to me, this is the purely selfish blog.
Anyways, so now I'm fat. Maybe not quite fat, but well on the way. I suppose it shouldn't matter now that I'm married. I mean, who am I trying to impress?
Here's the real concern. With Bobby about to have open heart surgery, we are going to have a period of a few months with no sex. This will be a huge strain. Even as sick as he is, he's always able to muster up the energy for that particular activity.
With the decreased activity (not doin' it) plus the extra chocolate cravings from not getting any, I can only expect to get fatter. I'm really not that superficial, If I get fat it isn't the end of the world.
But what if I get big enough so that I break the fragile little post- op body of my husband?! All the bouncing around will be hard enough without a 700 pound woman on top of a cracked sternum.
And forget about him being on top. That will just be to much work for him.
Maybe with my newly emerging creases and folds we can play a new game, hide the pencil. I'm sure I could get a whole box under my bosom. What do you think, America?
That's all for now. I have to go try to haggle with a man who barely speaks English to try to trade Bobby's car for a crappy but classic car that he's in love with. The things we do for love.
Comment if you know anything about car restoration.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
What It's Really Like to Die
Bobby died.
Don't worry, though, it didn't stick. When he first got sick 11 years ago, Bobby died for about 3 minutes. I asked him the other day what it's like to die. When you hear about these experiences, often times you also hear about someone's personal belief system and how their theology was confirmed whilst choosing between life of death. I've always thought it was interesting that no matter the religion's stance on life after death, it happens exactly the way the 'book' says it will for that person. It is interesting to find out what happened for an atheist.
Nothing!
During the actual 3 minutes of death, nothing at all happened. Not even a dark sense of oblivion. Literally an absence of time and awareness- nothing. Doctors were doing stuff, then they were doing other stuff.
But that doesn't mean the experience doesn't make for a good story. I will tell it to you now.
They were just figuring out that it was the heat that was causing all the health problems my Bobby was suffering from. They decided they needed to do a biopsy. When going into the heart with the needle, they nicked a nerve which ultimately caused the temporary death of my baby.
First there was extreme, excruciating pain. Nothing else existed except this white hot compression of the chest that hurt more than a thousand paper cuts in a lemonade pool.
Then the heat set in. Hot like the sun only two feet away all over his body. He thought maybe he was going to be one of those cases of spontaneous combustion. It seemed to fit, him being part of a mysterious phenomenon, after all the time it took to figure out his heart was causing symptoms of heart failure.
Then the heat went away and in came the cold. It started inside and worked it's way out to the skin, like he'd eaten a popsicle way to fast but magnified times a million. He shivered and his teeth chattered and he could barely complain. But, because he's a pro, complain he did.
Then he had to go potty, and he told the doctors as much.
They asked, "Which one? Number one or number two?"
Bobby said, "Both."
And then he flatlined!!!! That was going to be the last word out of his mouth!! "Both"! Can you imagine?! The last words ever spoken by such a smart and loved person being to inform hospital personnel that he had to shit and pee at the same time!
Thank goodness he didn't die for good, he'll be around a bit longer to say more things.
Now he knows, and he's making a list even, that he needs to think carefully about all things he says before and during any medical procedure.
I think he's settled on his last words being, "Make sure you eat my brains to gain my knowledge."
Don't worry, though, it didn't stick. When he first got sick 11 years ago, Bobby died for about 3 minutes. I asked him the other day what it's like to die. When you hear about these experiences, often times you also hear about someone's personal belief system and how their theology was confirmed whilst choosing between life of death. I've always thought it was interesting that no matter the religion's stance on life after death, it happens exactly the way the 'book' says it will for that person. It is interesting to find out what happened for an atheist.
Nothing!
During the actual 3 minutes of death, nothing at all happened. Not even a dark sense of oblivion. Literally an absence of time and awareness- nothing. Doctors were doing stuff, then they were doing other stuff.
But that doesn't mean the experience doesn't make for a good story. I will tell it to you now.
They were just figuring out that it was the heat that was causing all the health problems my Bobby was suffering from. They decided they needed to do a biopsy. When going into the heart with the needle, they nicked a nerve which ultimately caused the temporary death of my baby.
First there was extreme, excruciating pain. Nothing else existed except this white hot compression of the chest that hurt more than a thousand paper cuts in a lemonade pool.
Then the heat set in. Hot like the sun only two feet away all over his body. He thought maybe he was going to be one of those cases of spontaneous combustion. It seemed to fit, him being part of a mysterious phenomenon, after all the time it took to figure out his heart was causing symptoms of heart failure.
Then the heat went away and in came the cold. It started inside and worked it's way out to the skin, like he'd eaten a popsicle way to fast but magnified times a million. He shivered and his teeth chattered and he could barely complain. But, because he's a pro, complain he did.
Then he had to go potty, and he told the doctors as much.
They asked, "Which one? Number one or number two?"
Bobby said, "Both."
And then he flatlined!!!! That was going to be the last word out of his mouth!! "Both"! Can you imagine?! The last words ever spoken by such a smart and loved person being to inform hospital personnel that he had to shit and pee at the same time!
Thank goodness he didn't die for good, he'll be around a bit longer to say more things.
Now he knows, and he's making a list even, that he needs to think carefully about all things he says before and during any medical procedure.
I think he's settled on his last words being, "Make sure you eat my brains to gain my knowledge."
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Bad Ass
I've been thinking a lot about Bobby's surgery and how our lives will change afterwards. He's going to have an external pacemaker for a while, and then he will have a giant scar. The scar might even poke up through t- shirts. I know that when people see it who don't know him, at the beach, at a pool or water park, they are going to ask what happened. I thought maybe this will be a good opportunity to mess with people. Here are some things I came up with to make him seem like a bad ass when someone asks the question: What happened to your chest?
I got stung by a stingray, just like the crocodile hunter.
I was guest starring on an episode of 'Deadliest Catch', those swordfish are bad asses.
You know that scene in 'Alien'? It can really happen!
I wanted to see if it really looked like the hearts on a valentine's day card. I was the only person who would give consent.
This is what really happens when you masturbate to much.
I got the five point heart exploding technique from 'Kill Bill', but the guy messed it up.
I had a box put in for my weed, the cops will never find it now.
I got stung by a stingray, just like the crocodile hunter.
I was guest starring on an episode of 'Deadliest Catch', those swordfish are bad asses.
You know that scene in 'Alien'? It can really happen!
I wanted to see if it really looked like the hearts on a valentine's day card. I was the only person who would give consent.
This is what really happens when you masturbate to much.
I got the five point heart exploding technique from 'Kill Bill', but the guy messed it up.
I had a box put in for my weed, the cops will never find it now.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Chocolate
Doctors are like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get. And, you always feel a little guilty but happy none the less after you eat them.
Forgive me for lagging a bit on my blogging duties, I've been stuck without Internet since my last entry.
I believe I last told you of the great foot problem of 2009. Bobby was going to have surgery on the 28th, but then he hurt his foot. When he went to the ER because the swelling was unbearable, they told him it was cellulitis, an infection of the skin. They admitted him with IV antibiotics.
After a day or so, the swelling went down a bit but not much. The redness was subsiding to a purpely color. Bobby had extreme diarrhea and stomach cramping, common if you are killing all the good bacteria in your digestive system with antibiotics. Not as common if there is a lot of bad bacteria for your body to focus on.
At this point, I began voicing concern to the doctor. She had not contacted the cardiac team that Bobby works with (located at a different hospital). They didn't even know he wasn't coming in for surgery. Bobby had not had a fever once since the whole thing started. The doctor assured me that the antibiotics were working because the swelling was going down.
I began to think, the swelling could have gone down just as a function of being in bed with his foot elevated. I did some research and his foot didn't look like any of the pictures I found of cellulitis. I began to wonder if there was ever any infection at all.
We told the doctor that we wanted a transfer to the hospital where his cardiac team was to get a second opinion. She said no.
She told us that she was working with other doctors in the infectious disease department and was sure, absolutely positive, that she was doing the right thing. None of these doctors had actually been in to see the foot. At this point, his heart surgery, a potentially life saving treatment, was being delayed indefinitely until an incompetent doctor who didn't know his case said it was safe.
We told her we wanted a second opinion regardless of what she thought, and she said no! I happen to know it is our right to get second, third and fourth opinions if we want them. She was not informing us of why she thought it was an infection, not giving the names of other doctors supposedly working on the case, and not treating him as a whole person. She had tunnel vision on the foot and was not making a point to monitor all the other parts of his body that might be affected by his heart.
We just left. We walked out of the hospital and it is in his chart forever that he went against medical advice and refused treatment.
We went to the good hospital the next day and guess what. There was never an infection!!! The doctor there said she didn't know why anyone would have thought there was!!! He could have had the surgery on time!!! Now it has been rescheduled twice already. Three times really. Once they told him there were no openings until July. We were able to get on calender for the 6th of this month, tomorrow, but found out today that the nurse who booked us made a mistake. Now it is on for a week from Thursday and I have had to call my bosses over and over to request time off and on and off again.
How unlucky can this guy get? I mean, this is enough for me to deal with, but how about him? You're going to live, nope die, wait we can fix you, but not for a few weeks. All I have to say is that after that much college, people should know how to organize a bit better.
Bright side: We have an extra week to get in some extra sex before the surgery.
Forgive me for lagging a bit on my blogging duties, I've been stuck without Internet since my last entry.
I believe I last told you of the great foot problem of 2009. Bobby was going to have surgery on the 28th, but then he hurt his foot. When he went to the ER because the swelling was unbearable, they told him it was cellulitis, an infection of the skin. They admitted him with IV antibiotics.
After a day or so, the swelling went down a bit but not much. The redness was subsiding to a purpely color. Bobby had extreme diarrhea and stomach cramping, common if you are killing all the good bacteria in your digestive system with antibiotics. Not as common if there is a lot of bad bacteria for your body to focus on.
At this point, I began voicing concern to the doctor. She had not contacted the cardiac team that Bobby works with (located at a different hospital). They didn't even know he wasn't coming in for surgery. Bobby had not had a fever once since the whole thing started. The doctor assured me that the antibiotics were working because the swelling was going down.
I began to think, the swelling could have gone down just as a function of being in bed with his foot elevated. I did some research and his foot didn't look like any of the pictures I found of cellulitis. I began to wonder if there was ever any infection at all.
We told the doctor that we wanted a transfer to the hospital where his cardiac team was to get a second opinion. She said no.
She told us that she was working with other doctors in the infectious disease department and was sure, absolutely positive, that she was doing the right thing. None of these doctors had actually been in to see the foot. At this point, his heart surgery, a potentially life saving treatment, was being delayed indefinitely until an incompetent doctor who didn't know his case said it was safe.
We told her we wanted a second opinion regardless of what she thought, and she said no! I happen to know it is our right to get second, third and fourth opinions if we want them. She was not informing us of why she thought it was an infection, not giving the names of other doctors supposedly working on the case, and not treating him as a whole person. She had tunnel vision on the foot and was not making a point to monitor all the other parts of his body that might be affected by his heart.
We just left. We walked out of the hospital and it is in his chart forever that he went against medical advice and refused treatment.
We went to the good hospital the next day and guess what. There was never an infection!!! The doctor there said she didn't know why anyone would have thought there was!!! He could have had the surgery on time!!! Now it has been rescheduled twice already. Three times really. Once they told him there were no openings until July. We were able to get on calender for the 6th of this month, tomorrow, but found out today that the nurse who booked us made a mistake. Now it is on for a week from Thursday and I have had to call my bosses over and over to request time off and on and off again.
How unlucky can this guy get? I mean, this is enough for me to deal with, but how about him? You're going to live, nope die, wait we can fix you, but not for a few weeks. All I have to say is that after that much college, people should know how to organize a bit better.
Bright side: We have an extra week to get in some extra sex before the surgery.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Damn Sickies
I know a recurring theme of my writings has been the upcoming surgery of my husband. It was to be on Thursday, the day after tomorrow. I had finally resigned myself to this fact and come to accept that it was for the best. I arranged time off work, his mom and dad arranged time off work. Now it is to be delayed by some bullshit infection that isn't even life threatening.
Isn't it funny how when someone is in the hospital for a dire illness, something that is potentially life threatening and very severe, you are consumed with nothing but good thoughts for them, worry, love and a somehow frantic sense of helplessness? But when someone is in the hospital for something minor, something that requires inpatient treatment but is in no way life threatening, doesn't even threaten long term symptoms or recover, you're just annoyed.
It started on Friday morning. Bobby said his ankle was a little sore. We thought nothing of it, he's a fragile guy and joint pain is nothing out of the ordinary. When I came home from work that night, he said is was worse. Again, no big deal. He had driven to a friends house that day in a car with a manual transmission and then spent the afternoon working on a different car. Of course if you spend an hour pushing in a clutch and then don't rest even when you're done driving it will worsen joint pain.
On Saturday morning swelling commenced with a bruise. Still not to concerned. It looked like maybe he had banged it on something, he should keep it elevated and ice it. His aunt offered to drive him to the doctor before she went to visit her mother (an hour away) just to make sure everything was ok. The reason he didn't have his surgery last month was, after all, because of a sprained ankle. (You can't be on crutches after heart surgery because they crack your sternum open.) He turned her down, thought it wasn't necessary.
By Saturday night the swelling had migrated down to his foot and we thought maybe, when he banged it, it had broken a bone. Those bones in your feet are tiny and easily fractured. He couldn't walk and we were concerned that if he needed crutches, we'd have to delay the surgery.
On Sunday, his aunt came back from her mom's house and took him to the ER. (I was working during all this time like a good wife.) Unfortunately, Bobby has a tendency to get sick on the weekends so that he has to go to the ER because it can't wait until Monday even when it isn't an emergency.
Guess what it turned out to be. An Infection! Can you believe it?! It wasn't even an injury. He has celulitis, some weird flesh eating bacterial infection! What the *&^% is this about? This guy should be in the Guinness book for unluckiest man ever. So now he has to be in the hospital for several days getting IV antibiotics even though he feels fine. (It sucks even more to be stuck in the hospital when you feel fine.) And he has to reschedule his surgery, all the family has to rework their schedules. So lame.
Ever the optimist, I have found the silver lining in this situation though. (Aside from the super cool pics I got of his foot looking like a poorly preserved ham, you know, the kind that's been cooked, ground, pressed into what the manufacturer thinks is the right shape for a ham and then packed in water.) That silver lining is the show we got in the ER.
I was still at work when I got the call that he was being admitted. My boss was kind enough to let me go early to be there with him. He was still in the ER when I got to the hospital, so that's where I went. At first security wouldn't let me go back because they were having 'an issue' in 'A' unit. This means that someone is going crazy and they can't take the risk of letting people not covered by worker's comp back there.
I was so curious I just had to get back there! Luckily, the security man had already made me my badge (they give you a sticker with your picture on it before you go back). When someone came out of the buzzing doors, I just went in. (I'm pretty familiar with how to get around an ER at this point.) I first went to C unit, where Bobby was, to check on him and bring him his blanket from home. (Again, like a good wife.) The crazy lady had wandered over to his unit, what luck!
Let me just say before going on that the humanitarian in me feels bad about making fun of this woman. Clearly she was in a tragic and desperate situation, from her point of view, and needed psychiatric attention which was not being made available to her. Were I a politician, this would be an issue that would sit on the forefront of my platform.
That being said, we already know that I'm a huge supporter of inappropriate humor. Even the humanitarian in me is crass, rude, and can find the funny in all crappy situations.
This woman was short and round with thinning curls shooting out of her head like snakes. We'll call her Medusa. She had a full smile with at least a piece of each tooth left, leather like olive skin eyes so wide I thought they might fall out of her face. Her expression reminiscent of the one's on horses face when there is a fight scene in an old fashioned movie- teeth bared and eyes rolling with violent fear and rage. All this with a Hawaiian shirt and cute little capri pants!
There was nothing obviously wrong with Medusa's physical health. I couldn't figure out if she was there for herself of someone else accept that staff kept telling her to go back to her own room. She was wandering around screaming in a language I could not decipher (I'm not confident it was a language that anyone but her speaks.) She was clearly pleading with the people in charge for help but could not form words. After a bit of being ignored, she started to make herself at home. She layed down in the middle of the hallway and was almost run over by a crash cart. She sat down in a vacant chair in the nurse's station and started playing with the computer. She walked up to a patient waiting in the hallway, sleeping, and began braiding the woman's hair. This went on for well over an hour, probably the reason that it took so long to get Bobby admitted into the hospital.
Eventually, they got the woman out of the ER. I spoke to a nurse who told me that they just discharged her back onto the street. They couldn't find anything wrong with her and she wasn't a kaiser member, so they let her loose. Now the story gets sad again. Her actions were funny while I watched them, but couldn't they at least call the police? She was clearly chargeable for disturbing the peace. This would put her 'in the system', making it possible for the state to pick up the tab for at least a 72 hour watch in a mental facility.
You know, I always just ramble on in these things (blogs). Everything goes straight from my head to the computer. I really thought at the beginning of this that it was going to be about my frustration with the delay of Bobby's surgery for something much less worrisome than his heart problem. Then I thought I would lighten it up a bit with the funny crazy lady. It ended up being a social commentary about a very real problem in this country with the way the medical industry (and it is an industry) is run. Funny how the mind works.
Maybe I should get in touch with Michael Moore
Isn't it funny how when someone is in the hospital for a dire illness, something that is potentially life threatening and very severe, you are consumed with nothing but good thoughts for them, worry, love and a somehow frantic sense of helplessness? But when someone is in the hospital for something minor, something that requires inpatient treatment but is in no way life threatening, doesn't even threaten long term symptoms or recover, you're just annoyed.
It started on Friday morning. Bobby said his ankle was a little sore. We thought nothing of it, he's a fragile guy and joint pain is nothing out of the ordinary. When I came home from work that night, he said is was worse. Again, no big deal. He had driven to a friends house that day in a car with a manual transmission and then spent the afternoon working on a different car. Of course if you spend an hour pushing in a clutch and then don't rest even when you're done driving it will worsen joint pain.
On Saturday morning swelling commenced with a bruise. Still not to concerned. It looked like maybe he had banged it on something, he should keep it elevated and ice it. His aunt offered to drive him to the doctor before she went to visit her mother (an hour away) just to make sure everything was ok. The reason he didn't have his surgery last month was, after all, because of a sprained ankle. (You can't be on crutches after heart surgery because they crack your sternum open.) He turned her down, thought it wasn't necessary.
By Saturday night the swelling had migrated down to his foot and we thought maybe, when he banged it, it had broken a bone. Those bones in your feet are tiny and easily fractured. He couldn't walk and we were concerned that if he needed crutches, we'd have to delay the surgery.
On Sunday, his aunt came back from her mom's house and took him to the ER. (I was working during all this time like a good wife.) Unfortunately, Bobby has a tendency to get sick on the weekends so that he has to go to the ER because it can't wait until Monday even when it isn't an emergency.
Guess what it turned out to be. An Infection! Can you believe it?! It wasn't even an injury. He has celulitis, some weird flesh eating bacterial infection! What the *&^% is this about? This guy should be in the Guinness book for unluckiest man ever. So now he has to be in the hospital for several days getting IV antibiotics even though he feels fine. (It sucks even more to be stuck in the hospital when you feel fine.) And he has to reschedule his surgery, all the family has to rework their schedules. So lame.
Ever the optimist, I have found the silver lining in this situation though. (Aside from the super cool pics I got of his foot looking like a poorly preserved ham, you know, the kind that's been cooked, ground, pressed into what the manufacturer thinks is the right shape for a ham and then packed in water.) That silver lining is the show we got in the ER.
I was still at work when I got the call that he was being admitted. My boss was kind enough to let me go early to be there with him. He was still in the ER when I got to the hospital, so that's where I went. At first security wouldn't let me go back because they were having 'an issue' in 'A' unit. This means that someone is going crazy and they can't take the risk of letting people not covered by worker's comp back there.
I was so curious I just had to get back there! Luckily, the security man had already made me my badge (they give you a sticker with your picture on it before you go back). When someone came out of the buzzing doors, I just went in. (I'm pretty familiar with how to get around an ER at this point.) I first went to C unit, where Bobby was, to check on him and bring him his blanket from home. (Again, like a good wife.) The crazy lady had wandered over to his unit, what luck!
Let me just say before going on that the humanitarian in me feels bad about making fun of this woman. Clearly she was in a tragic and desperate situation, from her point of view, and needed psychiatric attention which was not being made available to her. Were I a politician, this would be an issue that would sit on the forefront of my platform.
That being said, we already know that I'm a huge supporter of inappropriate humor. Even the humanitarian in me is crass, rude, and can find the funny in all crappy situations.
This woman was short and round with thinning curls shooting out of her head like snakes. We'll call her Medusa. She had a full smile with at least a piece of each tooth left, leather like olive skin eyes so wide I thought they might fall out of her face. Her expression reminiscent of the one's on horses face when there is a fight scene in an old fashioned movie- teeth bared and eyes rolling with violent fear and rage. All this with a Hawaiian shirt and cute little capri pants!
There was nothing obviously wrong with Medusa's physical health. I couldn't figure out if she was there for herself of someone else accept that staff kept telling her to go back to her own room. She was wandering around screaming in a language I could not decipher (I'm not confident it was a language that anyone but her speaks.) She was clearly pleading with the people in charge for help but could not form words. After a bit of being ignored, she started to make herself at home. She layed down in the middle of the hallway and was almost run over by a crash cart. She sat down in a vacant chair in the nurse's station and started playing with the computer. She walked up to a patient waiting in the hallway, sleeping, and began braiding the woman's hair. This went on for well over an hour, probably the reason that it took so long to get Bobby admitted into the hospital.
Eventually, they got the woman out of the ER. I spoke to a nurse who told me that they just discharged her back onto the street. They couldn't find anything wrong with her and she wasn't a kaiser member, so they let her loose. Now the story gets sad again. Her actions were funny while I watched them, but couldn't they at least call the police? She was clearly chargeable for disturbing the peace. This would put her 'in the system', making it possible for the state to pick up the tab for at least a 72 hour watch in a mental facility.
You know, I always just ramble on in these things (blogs). Everything goes straight from my head to the computer. I really thought at the beginning of this that it was going to be about my frustration with the delay of Bobby's surgery for something much less worrisome than his heart problem. Then I thought I would lighten it up a bit with the funny crazy lady. It ended up being a social commentary about a very real problem in this country with the way the medical industry (and it is an industry) is run. Funny how the mind works.
Maybe I should get in touch with Michael Moore
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Inappropriate Humor
Ever since I can remember I have always used inappropriate humor in uncomfortable situations. I talked crap about my grandpa at his funeral, I made fun of the orange jumpsuits in juvenile hall, but since I met my husband with heart problems, it has gotten really funny.
It all started with the first time he went to the ER after we got together. I started telling the doctors they couldn't let him die until he got life insurance with me as the beneficiary. I mean, if I'm going to put up with a sickie for any length of time, I should get paid at the end, right?
Oh, then he went to the ER for dizziness incurred after I accidentally kicked him in the mouth during sex. (An overly ambitious position change for a sick person and someone who isn't a current gymnast. I try to be interesting.) The nurses kept asking how he got the injury and we kept telling them the honest truth, they just thought it was inappropriate humor.
Then he went to the hospital for what we thought might be internal bleeding. He had a huge bruise over an artery and he's on blood thinners, so it was a little concerning. The funny thing about this visit was how we noticed it. It was on his inner thigh right where it goes from being leg to being naughty. You can use your imagination, the gay nurse who was treating him did.
Side note about the gay nurse: this guy was at least 6 feet tall and 200 pounds with a well gelled Latino fro, neon bracelets and a vibrating tongue ring. He had an effeminate lisp and was staring way to hard at my baby's junk. Now, you know I love the gays, I'm a fag hag, but this guy was a little to much. I mean, you don't check out a patient's penis in front of his wife.
So now he's getting surgery that we hope is going to be a cure and I say to you, "When you marry a guy with a chronic and life threatening illness, you go in prepared. I had myself all worked up thinking that he might die in 5 to 10 years, and now he might live for 30 or 40 or more. Now he's put me in the position of having to re- evaluate this whole commitment and marriage thing. I mean, it's really easy to make a lifetime commitment when life will end in 5 years, now what do I do!?"
This is an example of inappropriate humor. Just in case his family reads this, I'm obligated to say that I really do want him to live forever and am completely prepared to spend the rest of my life, regardless of how long his is, loving him unconditionally.
But really, what is a girl to do when a superficial short term commitment turns into life?
(Seriously, I love my husband.)
Such is the life I lead
It all started with the first time he went to the ER after we got together. I started telling the doctors they couldn't let him die until he got life insurance with me as the beneficiary. I mean, if I'm going to put up with a sickie for any length of time, I should get paid at the end, right?
Oh, then he went to the ER for dizziness incurred after I accidentally kicked him in the mouth during sex. (An overly ambitious position change for a sick person and someone who isn't a current gymnast. I try to be interesting.) The nurses kept asking how he got the injury and we kept telling them the honest truth, they just thought it was inappropriate humor.
Then he went to the hospital for what we thought might be internal bleeding. He had a huge bruise over an artery and he's on blood thinners, so it was a little concerning. The funny thing about this visit was how we noticed it. It was on his inner thigh right where it goes from being leg to being naughty. You can use your imagination, the gay nurse who was treating him did.
Side note about the gay nurse: this guy was at least 6 feet tall and 200 pounds with a well gelled Latino fro, neon bracelets and a vibrating tongue ring. He had an effeminate lisp and was staring way to hard at my baby's junk. Now, you know I love the gays, I'm a fag hag, but this guy was a little to much. I mean, you don't check out a patient's penis in front of his wife.
So now he's getting surgery that we hope is going to be a cure and I say to you, "When you marry a guy with a chronic and life threatening illness, you go in prepared. I had myself all worked up thinking that he might die in 5 to 10 years, and now he might live for 30 or 40 or more. Now he's put me in the position of having to re- evaluate this whole commitment and marriage thing. I mean, it's really easy to make a lifetime commitment when life will end in 5 years, now what do I do!?"
This is an example of inappropriate humor. Just in case his family reads this, I'm obligated to say that I really do want him to live forever and am completely prepared to spend the rest of my life, regardless of how long his is, loving him unconditionally.
But really, what is a girl to do when a superficial short term commitment turns into life?
(Seriously, I love my husband.)
Such is the life I lead
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
The World of Dating
Bobby and I have never had good luck with real dating. We became friends mostly because he tried to date my best friend and she shut him down. Then we played the 'do you like me?' game. I asked him out on St. Patrick's Day. He said yes and was going to come all the way down from Grass Valley, until he realized he didn't have the gas. So I went up there. We saw a crappy movie and talked until the wee hours of the night. By the end of the night, it felt like we were good friends, and that is just how it ended. No kiss, no holding hands. As it turns out, we were both waiting for the other one to make a move. I thought he should make the move because I asked him out, he thought I was an aggressive girl and I would make the move if I wanted to date him.
We went on like this for a while until finally, while ignoring a movie at my house and petting my new kitten, he moved his hand over to mine (on the cat) and grabbed my pinkie with his pinkie. It was safe, if I didn't want to hold his hand, he could just say the cat was to small for two hands. All very cute and shy. I told him it was ok to hold my whole hand. Now I thought we were finally going to have a romantic evening, but we had gone out to Ethiopian food earlier (very spicy) and ended up spending much of the night in the bathroom hoping the other wouldn't know what was happening in there.
Then we went on our first real date, or we were supposed to. We were going to go to an all night coffee shop that plays live music after I got off work. He was supposed to pick me up at 11pm. I called at 11:30 wonder where he was.
I called at 12am.
I called at 12:30am.
I called at 1am and told him that I considered this an official stand- up and that it was rude and if he didn't really like me the least he could do is tell me.
Because of the chronic illness he suffers from, Bobby had fallen asleep at 9pm. He called back at 2am, hoping to still come over. He was already on his way, and when he got to my house I had been asleep for a 1/2 hour. We talked for about an hour and then both fell asleep, waking in time for school with no real date happening.
When we finally got to go on a real date, we decided to go to a nice restaurant. We chose Aioli downtown. We went and got the most horrible service ever. The waiter was rude, he didn't bring us the right food, our glasses were almost always empty, he didn't ask if we'd like dessert. He visited all the tables around us numerous times and then completely ignored us. We think because we're young, he thought he wouldn't get a good tip. Self fulfilling proficy. It made for a bad date, but a good story to tell at culinary school the next day.
Six months later, after we'd moved in together, our apartment had burned down, and we'd obtained furniture jointly, we had the time and money to go on another real date. Bobby was working at one of the finest restaurants in the Sacramento area, and he got a discount.
I showered, put on make- up, wore heals and a leather jacket. (I'm kind of low maintenance, this is a lot of gussying up for me.) Bobby wore slacks and a shirt with no stains or holes anywhere on them. (Again, he's kind of low maintenance, this is a stretch for him.)
We went to dinner at Hawks and it was beautiful. The water came in goblets made of crystal, the plates were bone china. The dining room was beautiful and dim, lit mostly with candles. The waitress was attentive, and let the chef know a fellow employee was there. We ordered three courses, but were served 7 with all the complementary dishes they gave us. We had salmon mouse on a waffled potato, patrole sole with reduced beet sauce, duck confie, fua gua (I don't think I spelled that right, but it's duck liver), and much more. By then end we were so full we just wanted to lay down and digest.
Back at home the plan was to 'get busy.' We layed down and put on a movie and began to digest and regain energy for the exciting night ahead. While he was feeling better by the minute, ready to go, I was feeling worse. Suddenly, I ran to the bathroom.
I spent the rest of the night spewing out of every orephus of my body with such force I probably could have knocked over the ducks from that carnival game with the water gun. I layed on the bathroom floor in fetal position groaning while my date (not husband yet) brought me changes of garments and held my hair back. When he cleaned up the bathroom later he almost got sick himself. So romantic.
This is the night he says he knew he'd spend the rest of his life with me. If he could look at me with love and desire after seeing all that come out of me, he knew it was the real thing.
We now choose not to plan dates, but just play it all by ear. Planning makes me sick.
We went on like this for a while until finally, while ignoring a movie at my house and petting my new kitten, he moved his hand over to mine (on the cat) and grabbed my pinkie with his pinkie. It was safe, if I didn't want to hold his hand, he could just say the cat was to small for two hands. All very cute and shy. I told him it was ok to hold my whole hand. Now I thought we were finally going to have a romantic evening, but we had gone out to Ethiopian food earlier (very spicy) and ended up spending much of the night in the bathroom hoping the other wouldn't know what was happening in there.
Then we went on our first real date, or we were supposed to. We were going to go to an all night coffee shop that plays live music after I got off work. He was supposed to pick me up at 11pm. I called at 11:30 wonder where he was.
I called at 12am.
I called at 12:30am.
I called at 1am and told him that I considered this an official stand- up and that it was rude and if he didn't really like me the least he could do is tell me.
Because of the chronic illness he suffers from, Bobby had fallen asleep at 9pm. He called back at 2am, hoping to still come over. He was already on his way, and when he got to my house I had been asleep for a 1/2 hour. We talked for about an hour and then both fell asleep, waking in time for school with no real date happening.
When we finally got to go on a real date, we decided to go to a nice restaurant. We chose Aioli downtown. We went and got the most horrible service ever. The waiter was rude, he didn't bring us the right food, our glasses were almost always empty, he didn't ask if we'd like dessert. He visited all the tables around us numerous times and then completely ignored us. We think because we're young, he thought he wouldn't get a good tip. Self fulfilling proficy. It made for a bad date, but a good story to tell at culinary school the next day.
Six months later, after we'd moved in together, our apartment had burned down, and we'd obtained furniture jointly, we had the time and money to go on another real date. Bobby was working at one of the finest restaurants in the Sacramento area, and he got a discount.
I showered, put on make- up, wore heals and a leather jacket. (I'm kind of low maintenance, this is a lot of gussying up for me.) Bobby wore slacks and a shirt with no stains or holes anywhere on them. (Again, he's kind of low maintenance, this is a stretch for him.)
We went to dinner at Hawks and it was beautiful. The water came in goblets made of crystal, the plates were bone china. The dining room was beautiful and dim, lit mostly with candles. The waitress was attentive, and let the chef know a fellow employee was there. We ordered three courses, but were served 7 with all the complementary dishes they gave us. We had salmon mouse on a waffled potato, patrole sole with reduced beet sauce, duck confie, fua gua (I don't think I spelled that right, but it's duck liver), and much more. By then end we were so full we just wanted to lay down and digest.
Back at home the plan was to 'get busy.' We layed down and put on a movie and began to digest and regain energy for the exciting night ahead. While he was feeling better by the minute, ready to go, I was feeling worse. Suddenly, I ran to the bathroom.
I spent the rest of the night spewing out of every orephus of my body with such force I probably could have knocked over the ducks from that carnival game with the water gun. I layed on the bathroom floor in fetal position groaning while my date (not husband yet) brought me changes of garments and held my hair back. When he cleaned up the bathroom later he almost got sick himself. So romantic.
This is the night he says he knew he'd spend the rest of his life with me. If he could look at me with love and desire after seeing all that come out of me, he knew it was the real thing.
We now choose not to plan dates, but just play it all by ear. Planning makes me sick.
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Fragile Heart
I think I may have mentioned in a previous blog that my husband has congestive heart failure. If it is a tiresome recurring theme, please forgive me. It is an all consuming fact of my life that a man who I am so completely devoted to has such a serious illness.
Bobby got sick when he was 15 years old and has been sick ever since. He was actually stable for a while until our apartment burned down. When our cat bit his thumb that day, it got infected. It was three times it's normal size and oozing out of the teeth marks. He spent 4 days in the hospital getting IV antibiotics while the doctors tried to avoid amputation of the thumb. An infection of this magnitude will screw with anyone's body, but in Bobby's case, it aggrivated his heart condition. My sick man got even sicker.
So, now he's going to have open heart surgery. It is happening in less than two weeks. They are going to remove his paracardium, the sac around the heart. Basically, the doctors want to peel his heart like an orange in order to give it some room to relax. All of this isn't really important, what I care about is after. I care about if he's going to get better.
Now is the time when you can see inside my head, devoted reader, because on this subject all words go straight from my brain to the computer. I am TERRIFIED! What am I supposed to do? I have always defined my self as a strong, independent, non- conventional woman. I never thought I'd put myself into the role of trying to be a good wife, until I met Bobby.
The thing about Bobby is that he doesn't want me to be a good 'wife', he wants me to be a good person. He doesn't expect me to cook or clean for him, in fact he does it for me. He has always given me the support I needed to be a good cook, a good student, a good employee, a good daughter, a good person. He's always encouraged me to follow my dreams and I've always known he'd go wherever my goals and aspirations too me.
Until now, that was the case. Now it really is my turn to be a good wife. He needs me to be there for him. He can't work, I have to earn the money. He won't be able to get out of bed on his own. I have to be there to cook for him, clean for him, help him move, shower, potty, walk, everything. How can I do this and earn the money? I'm overloaded.
My biggest worry, though, is that something will go wrong on the operating table. I don't know what I'd do if I lost my guy. He's sweet and loving and caring and wonderful. He's perfect inspite of all of his imperfections, and because of them. I always thought of myself as a single entity and if I found a guy to share life with, it was just icing on the cake. But now I find that I need this relationship. I need for the man I love to be safe and healthy and I don't know what I'll do if he's not.
I feel myself wanting to scream in the middle of the day. I stay awake all hours of the night to watch him breath, because it is comforting to know that he's breathing. I want to cry but I can't because my role is to be strong and supportive. How can I be scared and in pain in front of a man that is potentially facing death. What am I supposed to do? I search for things to annoy me about him so that if something goes wrong I can focus on how I didn't really need him, but I can't find enough to annoy me.
I'm swirling around in a tornado that no one and nothing created trying to find the way out of the eye. I'm lost and I'm scared and the 'right thing to do' just doesn't exist here. The lights inside my head flicker on and off and I have no control over the switch. I'm in foreign territory and I want to go home to my safe, solitary world where there is nothing and no one to worry about. Nothing is real when you're alone, you are the only person your actions effect and you can effect yourself in any way you choose. The obligation of my duty as a wife is crushing and I feel myself breaking, but I can't imagine doing anything else anymore. I long for a life devoid of meaning, yet I have no desire to walk away.
The few moments of the day when I get to sit and clear my head and Bobby and I are just sitting, just taking eachother in and looking at eachother, I am elated. The lights are on and flooding everything with brightness. These are the moments I live for. I am addicted to this feeling. The feeling of knowing, beyond a shadow of a dought, that I am loved and have love to give back. The sensation of the world floating away and nothing matters because right now, this instant everything is perfect. These are magic moments that make anything I go through worth it.
I live in fear of these moments being ripped from my grasp. My happiness being stolen from me like it is a nice bike I left unlocked in a bad neighborhood. I feel blindly into the darkness for something to hold onto, a room with a locked door where I can put my happiness for safekeeping. The room doesn't exist. Bobby has my heart. I gave it to him freely. If his physical heart breaks, if he dies, I don't think I will get my heart back. He will take it with him wherever it goes.
How can I live without a heart?
Bobby got sick when he was 15 years old and has been sick ever since. He was actually stable for a while until our apartment burned down. When our cat bit his thumb that day, it got infected. It was three times it's normal size and oozing out of the teeth marks. He spent 4 days in the hospital getting IV antibiotics while the doctors tried to avoid amputation of the thumb. An infection of this magnitude will screw with anyone's body, but in Bobby's case, it aggrivated his heart condition. My sick man got even sicker.
So, now he's going to have open heart surgery. It is happening in less than two weeks. They are going to remove his paracardium, the sac around the heart. Basically, the doctors want to peel his heart like an orange in order to give it some room to relax. All of this isn't really important, what I care about is after. I care about if he's going to get better.
Now is the time when you can see inside my head, devoted reader, because on this subject all words go straight from my brain to the computer. I am TERRIFIED! What am I supposed to do? I have always defined my self as a strong, independent, non- conventional woman. I never thought I'd put myself into the role of trying to be a good wife, until I met Bobby.
The thing about Bobby is that he doesn't want me to be a good 'wife', he wants me to be a good person. He doesn't expect me to cook or clean for him, in fact he does it for me. He has always given me the support I needed to be a good cook, a good student, a good employee, a good daughter, a good person. He's always encouraged me to follow my dreams and I've always known he'd go wherever my goals and aspirations too me.
Until now, that was the case. Now it really is my turn to be a good wife. He needs me to be there for him. He can't work, I have to earn the money. He won't be able to get out of bed on his own. I have to be there to cook for him, clean for him, help him move, shower, potty, walk, everything. How can I do this and earn the money? I'm overloaded.
My biggest worry, though, is that something will go wrong on the operating table. I don't know what I'd do if I lost my guy. He's sweet and loving and caring and wonderful. He's perfect inspite of all of his imperfections, and because of them. I always thought of myself as a single entity and if I found a guy to share life with, it was just icing on the cake. But now I find that I need this relationship. I need for the man I love to be safe and healthy and I don't know what I'll do if he's not.
I feel myself wanting to scream in the middle of the day. I stay awake all hours of the night to watch him breath, because it is comforting to know that he's breathing. I want to cry but I can't because my role is to be strong and supportive. How can I be scared and in pain in front of a man that is potentially facing death. What am I supposed to do? I search for things to annoy me about him so that if something goes wrong I can focus on how I didn't really need him, but I can't find enough to annoy me.
I'm swirling around in a tornado that no one and nothing created trying to find the way out of the eye. I'm lost and I'm scared and the 'right thing to do' just doesn't exist here. The lights inside my head flicker on and off and I have no control over the switch. I'm in foreign territory and I want to go home to my safe, solitary world where there is nothing and no one to worry about. Nothing is real when you're alone, you are the only person your actions effect and you can effect yourself in any way you choose. The obligation of my duty as a wife is crushing and I feel myself breaking, but I can't imagine doing anything else anymore. I long for a life devoid of meaning, yet I have no desire to walk away.
The few moments of the day when I get to sit and clear my head and Bobby and I are just sitting, just taking eachother in and looking at eachother, I am elated. The lights are on and flooding everything with brightness. These are the moments I live for. I am addicted to this feeling. The feeling of knowing, beyond a shadow of a dought, that I am loved and have love to give back. The sensation of the world floating away and nothing matters because right now, this instant everything is perfect. These are magic moments that make anything I go through worth it.
I live in fear of these moments being ripped from my grasp. My happiness being stolen from me like it is a nice bike I left unlocked in a bad neighborhood. I feel blindly into the darkness for something to hold onto, a room with a locked door where I can put my happiness for safekeeping. The room doesn't exist. Bobby has my heart. I gave it to him freely. If his physical heart breaks, if he dies, I don't think I will get my heart back. He will take it with him wherever it goes.
How can I live without a heart?
The Fire
So, last September my apartment burned down. Tragic, I know. I do have, though, a great story out of it with ongoing mini skits in court every couple of months.
It was a Monday and I had quit smoking. I made it through the whole day at school without a cigarette and even managed to fall asleep. I was in culinary school, my last semester. In that semester, I was working in the kitchen of the on campus restaurant as part of my training. My now husband had just moved it, his congestive heart failure did not appear to be active, our three cats were getting along. Life was good.
At about 5am I heard a loud banging at the door. I went to the door and shouted through that whoever it was needed to wait for me to get dressed. (I sleep in just underwear. I wouldn't ordinarily divulge that kind of information, but it is pertinent to the story.)
So, I was in my living room searching for a light and a shirt. I didn't have my glasses on and I'm half asleep. The man at the door shouted through "Don't worry about clothes! Your house is on fire!" Meanwhile, Bobby heard the door banging and thought someone was trying to break in. He ran out into the living room with his antique, family heirloom pistol. This gun hasn't been fired in at least a generation, but it was loaded. Who knows what kind of 'protection' it really could have provided.
So, I RAN out of my apartment and down the stairs as is. I was clutching my boobs like they might fall off to prevent them not only from being seen, but to keep them from hitting me in the face as I bounced and ran. (I'm a little chesty)
Bobby ran behind me with a blanket. He is so sweet, even in the face of a house fire he thinks about my comfort.
Not even acknowledging that there was another person near me, I realized that the cats were still in the apartment. I ran back in calling their names frantically. I probably scared them as much as the fire itself did. So I SCREAMED their names,
"Anastasia! Siafu! Emily! Where are you kitties?! Time to go outside!"
sob, cry, scream
Then I heard Bobby cough. The appartment was filled, and I mean filled, with smoke. All of a sudden the cats didn't exist. My baby was sick! He couldn't be in a smoke filled apartment! I literally grabbed him by the arm and forced him outside, still calling for our cats.
Somewhere in the maylee, I was able to grab a t- shirt and my glasses. (Of course, it was an ugly t- shirt I'd been meaning to give to good will.) We ran outside and finally had a clear thought. Fire extiguishers! They were all over the complex! I started running to each extinguisher, at the top of each set of stairs and HURLING them off the steps in the general direction of the fire. Bobby was standing, in his boxer briefs, at the site of the fire ready to use the extiguishers. My neighbors started helping and there were fire extiguishers being used by the twos and threes. My feet wer cut and bloody from the broken glass of the fire extiguisher cases. I'm sprinting like a madwoman in purple panties and a pink t- shirt with bed head accross the complex and throwing fire extiguishers at the fire as though if I hit it it will stop hurting us.
Finally, the firemen came. They asked us if there was anyone inside and we told them about our cats. They went in and saved the day. They brought down our cats one by one. First was Anastasia. She was in shock, just lying in my arms limp and afraid. Second was emily. She was terrified and flailing with a kind of panic you only see in this kind of situation. The fireman handed her to Bobby and she bit his thumb right into the joint. I took her, still holding Anastasia, and she scratched my chest trying to run from the flames. Last but not least was Siafu, the youngest of the bunch. He had taken to the cat carier as his hiding spot. The fireman brought the whole set- up down and we put anastasia in with him. A neighbor brought out something to put Emily in.
The fire was out. I noticed my apartment manager was out, fully dressed with her hair done and her make- up on. She was very calm and I thought, 'when did she have time to get dressed? I want to get dressed.' I was cold and just realizing that all of my neighbors and a good number of city employees had seen me in my purple panties. I needed to pee but I didn't have a bathroom anymore. I was hungry and nautious and scared. I was homeless. I've worked since I was 15 years old, I've always had a place to live. Even if I was just barely making it, I always had a place to live until that day. What was I going to do?
A month later, after being told that a cause of fire had to be determined before my deposit could be returned, I got a letter saying that more than half my deposit was being kept by the property management company for 'heavy cleaning' charges. Mind you, the fire was not my fault and the report reflects this information.
I have now sued and won, and am in the process of fighting the appeals of the property management company. The important thing is that I have a place to live. I went to family for help and recieved it. This was the most rediculous experience of my life. When I returened to school, my classmates and I made a cake that showed me in purple panties running toward a giant fire extinguisher. As crappy as all this has been, the image of a chunky woman with short, stubby legs 'sprinting' to fire extinguishers in order to fling them at her boyfriend will always be a funny one.
It was a Monday and I had quit smoking. I made it through the whole day at school without a cigarette and even managed to fall asleep. I was in culinary school, my last semester. In that semester, I was working in the kitchen of the on campus restaurant as part of my training. My now husband had just moved it, his congestive heart failure did not appear to be active, our three cats were getting along. Life was good.
At about 5am I heard a loud banging at the door. I went to the door and shouted through that whoever it was needed to wait for me to get dressed. (I sleep in just underwear. I wouldn't ordinarily divulge that kind of information, but it is pertinent to the story.)
So, I was in my living room searching for a light and a shirt. I didn't have my glasses on and I'm half asleep. The man at the door shouted through "Don't worry about clothes! Your house is on fire!" Meanwhile, Bobby heard the door banging and thought someone was trying to break in. He ran out into the living room with his antique, family heirloom pistol. This gun hasn't been fired in at least a generation, but it was loaded. Who knows what kind of 'protection' it really could have provided.
So, I RAN out of my apartment and down the stairs as is. I was clutching my boobs like they might fall off to prevent them not only from being seen, but to keep them from hitting me in the face as I bounced and ran. (I'm a little chesty)
Bobby ran behind me with a blanket. He is so sweet, even in the face of a house fire he thinks about my comfort.
Not even acknowledging that there was another person near me, I realized that the cats were still in the apartment. I ran back in calling their names frantically. I probably scared them as much as the fire itself did. So I SCREAMED their names,
"Anastasia! Siafu! Emily! Where are you kitties?! Time to go outside!"
sob, cry, scream
Then I heard Bobby cough. The appartment was filled, and I mean filled, with smoke. All of a sudden the cats didn't exist. My baby was sick! He couldn't be in a smoke filled apartment! I literally grabbed him by the arm and forced him outside, still calling for our cats.
Somewhere in the maylee, I was able to grab a t- shirt and my glasses. (Of course, it was an ugly t- shirt I'd been meaning to give to good will.) We ran outside and finally had a clear thought. Fire extiguishers! They were all over the complex! I started running to each extinguisher, at the top of each set of stairs and HURLING them off the steps in the general direction of the fire. Bobby was standing, in his boxer briefs, at the site of the fire ready to use the extiguishers. My neighbors started helping and there were fire extiguishers being used by the twos and threes. My feet wer cut and bloody from the broken glass of the fire extiguisher cases. I'm sprinting like a madwoman in purple panties and a pink t- shirt with bed head accross the complex and throwing fire extiguishers at the fire as though if I hit it it will stop hurting us.
Finally, the firemen came. They asked us if there was anyone inside and we told them about our cats. They went in and saved the day. They brought down our cats one by one. First was Anastasia. She was in shock, just lying in my arms limp and afraid. Second was emily. She was terrified and flailing with a kind of panic you only see in this kind of situation. The fireman handed her to Bobby and she bit his thumb right into the joint. I took her, still holding Anastasia, and she scratched my chest trying to run from the flames. Last but not least was Siafu, the youngest of the bunch. He had taken to the cat carier as his hiding spot. The fireman brought the whole set- up down and we put anastasia in with him. A neighbor brought out something to put Emily in.
The fire was out. I noticed my apartment manager was out, fully dressed with her hair done and her make- up on. She was very calm and I thought, 'when did she have time to get dressed? I want to get dressed.' I was cold and just realizing that all of my neighbors and a good number of city employees had seen me in my purple panties. I needed to pee but I didn't have a bathroom anymore. I was hungry and nautious and scared. I was homeless. I've worked since I was 15 years old, I've always had a place to live. Even if I was just barely making it, I always had a place to live until that day. What was I going to do?
A month later, after being told that a cause of fire had to be determined before my deposit could be returned, I got a letter saying that more than half my deposit was being kept by the property management company for 'heavy cleaning' charges. Mind you, the fire was not my fault and the report reflects this information.
I have now sued and won, and am in the process of fighting the appeals of the property management company. The important thing is that I have a place to live. I went to family for help and recieved it. This was the most rediculous experience of my life. When I returened to school, my classmates and I made a cake that showed me in purple panties running toward a giant fire extinguisher. As crappy as all this has been, the image of a chunky woman with short, stubby legs 'sprinting' to fire extinguishers in order to fling them at her boyfriend will always be a funny one.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Grandmas
My whole life I've grown up with only one grandma, but now that I'm married I have two. I have now come to the conclusion that old women with children are insane, all of them. I have enough experience now to establish a pattern.
My grandma is crazy. There is no question. When I was around 5, my grandma had brain surgery. She had an aneurysm and needed the blood clot removed. She was in a coma and there didn't look like there was much hope, so my family was going to 'pull the plug'.
(Did you know that there isn't really a plug to pull? There might be a feeding tube to get out or something of that sort, but there is no master plug that controls if a person lives or dies.)
Back to the point, my grandma always blames her craziness on the brain surgery, but I have it on good authority that she was crazy well before this happened.
My grandma was raised a good Catholic girl. When I say good Catholic, I mean it. She did whatever she wanted, judged everybody, cussed and sinned with the best of them. Then she confessed and was absolved according to the priest, a very good Catholic. She went into the hospital a loud, liberal Catholic woman and came out of it an equally loud, but now conservative Baptist woman. Weird, huh?
My grandma likes to weird people out. She says things completely out of left field. Her favorite joke is to tell about how her pussy ate Micky Mouse (I know, creepy.) My grandma has hit on every guy I've ever brought to meet her, she lies about the oddest things. She's funny and a nice lady, but she's crazy. No doubt about it. When I got married she pulled me aside and told me that the secret to making it last would be to give a lot of blow jobs. She counseled me to practice on a banana, gagging is bad. The reason she got divorced was because she got sick of doing it, she didn't like the taste. That's my grandma, and I love her.
I have a new grandma now, and she's psycho. Lets make that distinction, crazy vs. psycho. Crazy is an endearing, though sometimes frustrating quality. Psycho is a nerve wracking, sometimes volatile affliction. My new grandma is psycho.
My new grandma is a confused Catholic. Similar description to good Catholic, but not quite. She still does whatever she wants and sins and judges people, but she doesn't cuss. She doesn't go to mass, she watches the bible channel instead. She thinks this is good enough, but I know any priest would tell her she needs to receive communion and confess in order to be absolved. This information is in my secret arsenal of passive aggressive weaponry against her. There is only one problem: she doesn't think she ever does anything wrong, so she doesn't need to be absolved of anything.
Last weekend there was an incident which I like to think epitomizes the psychoness of this woman. I will now commence the telling of the New Family Drama.
Bobby and I went to new grandma's house last weekend. I work near her house and we haven't moved yet, so staying with someone who lives there on the weekends is a good situation for us. Usually we stay with his Aunt Linda (I love that woman, more on her another blog). New Grandma has been bugging us to stay with her on the weekends for weeks. She misses her grandson. So we went there last weekend instead of Linda's.
So, we arrive at her house around 10:30 at night. (We got there late because of my school.) When she opened the door, we knew immediately that there was going to be a problem. She asked if we planned to come there 'every damn weekend to work' because that is just not going to work for her. Bobby told her that if it was problematic, we'd go to Linda's. This really set her off, because she is in competition with her daughters. She doesn't like to think that we like her kids better than her (I know, psycho).
So, New Grandma starts yelling and screaming, telling us we are not going to Linda's. She told us to stay there that night, she would not allow us to go to Linda's. Of course, we left.
Now, the psycho as opposed to crazy comes next. We gather up our stuff and begin to leave. New Grandma follows us around the house and tells us "If you pick up that bag, you're never welcome in my house again!" We picked up the bag.
"If you walk out that door, you're never welcome here again!" We walked out the door.
"If you get in that car...!"
"If you start that car...!"
"If you leave this driveway...!"
Of course we left, and left howling with laughter. New Grandma was trying her best to do what she does, scare us into her control. She likes to think that she is the most important person in the family, and use this as leverage to control every move the family makes. However, I had a hard time being intimidated by this woman. She is 81 years old and 85 pounds, hunched over and almost doubled with back issues. That night in particular, New Grandma was in pink curlers with a ratty blue bathrobe on, standing on her front porch and screaming and shaking her fist at us in the middle of the night. She looked like a comic madwoman. I could be making this up, but I think I saw some warts spring out on her nose as it began to turn green.
That's my new grandma for you. She also called after we left to tell us we couldn't get on the freeway. Now it is as though nothing happened. She didn't apologize, she just didn't recognize the incident at all.
Psycho.
I do appreciate my crazy grandma a bit more now, though.
And remember kids, a good fart is just like a suddenly appearing and slowly dissipating warm spot in a pool, kinda nasty but it feels good.
My grandma is crazy. There is no question. When I was around 5, my grandma had brain surgery. She had an aneurysm and needed the blood clot removed. She was in a coma and there didn't look like there was much hope, so my family was going to 'pull the plug'.
(Did you know that there isn't really a plug to pull? There might be a feeding tube to get out or something of that sort, but there is no master plug that controls if a person lives or dies.)
Back to the point, my grandma always blames her craziness on the brain surgery, but I have it on good authority that she was crazy well before this happened.
My grandma was raised a good Catholic girl. When I say good Catholic, I mean it. She did whatever she wanted, judged everybody, cussed and sinned with the best of them. Then she confessed and was absolved according to the priest, a very good Catholic. She went into the hospital a loud, liberal Catholic woman and came out of it an equally loud, but now conservative Baptist woman. Weird, huh?
My grandma likes to weird people out. She says things completely out of left field. Her favorite joke is to tell about how her pussy ate Micky Mouse (I know, creepy.) My grandma has hit on every guy I've ever brought to meet her, she lies about the oddest things. She's funny and a nice lady, but she's crazy. No doubt about it. When I got married she pulled me aside and told me that the secret to making it last would be to give a lot of blow jobs. She counseled me to practice on a banana, gagging is bad. The reason she got divorced was because she got sick of doing it, she didn't like the taste. That's my grandma, and I love her.
I have a new grandma now, and she's psycho. Lets make that distinction, crazy vs. psycho. Crazy is an endearing, though sometimes frustrating quality. Psycho is a nerve wracking, sometimes volatile affliction. My new grandma is psycho.
My new grandma is a confused Catholic. Similar description to good Catholic, but not quite. She still does whatever she wants and sins and judges people, but she doesn't cuss. She doesn't go to mass, she watches the bible channel instead. She thinks this is good enough, but I know any priest would tell her she needs to receive communion and confess in order to be absolved. This information is in my secret arsenal of passive aggressive weaponry against her. There is only one problem: she doesn't think she ever does anything wrong, so she doesn't need to be absolved of anything.
Last weekend there was an incident which I like to think epitomizes the psychoness of this woman. I will now commence the telling of the New Family Drama.
Bobby and I went to new grandma's house last weekend. I work near her house and we haven't moved yet, so staying with someone who lives there on the weekends is a good situation for us. Usually we stay with his Aunt Linda (I love that woman, more on her another blog). New Grandma has been bugging us to stay with her on the weekends for weeks. She misses her grandson. So we went there last weekend instead of Linda's.
So, we arrive at her house around 10:30 at night. (We got there late because of my school.) When she opened the door, we knew immediately that there was going to be a problem. She asked if we planned to come there 'every damn weekend to work' because that is just not going to work for her. Bobby told her that if it was problematic, we'd go to Linda's. This really set her off, because she is in competition with her daughters. She doesn't like to think that we like her kids better than her (I know, psycho).
So, New Grandma starts yelling and screaming, telling us we are not going to Linda's. She told us to stay there that night, she would not allow us to go to Linda's. Of course, we left.
Now, the psycho as opposed to crazy comes next. We gather up our stuff and begin to leave. New Grandma follows us around the house and tells us "If you pick up that bag, you're never welcome in my house again!" We picked up the bag.
"If you walk out that door, you're never welcome here again!" We walked out the door.
"If you get in that car...!"
"If you start that car...!"
"If you leave this driveway...!"
Of course we left, and left howling with laughter. New Grandma was trying her best to do what she does, scare us into her control. She likes to think that she is the most important person in the family, and use this as leverage to control every move the family makes. However, I had a hard time being intimidated by this woman. She is 81 years old and 85 pounds, hunched over and almost doubled with back issues. That night in particular, New Grandma was in pink curlers with a ratty blue bathrobe on, standing on her front porch and screaming and shaking her fist at us in the middle of the night. She looked like a comic madwoman. I could be making this up, but I think I saw some warts spring out on her nose as it began to turn green.
That's my new grandma for you. She also called after we left to tell us we couldn't get on the freeway. Now it is as though nothing happened. She didn't apologize, she just didn't recognize the incident at all.
Psycho.
I do appreciate my crazy grandma a bit more now, though.
And remember kids, a good fart is just like a suddenly appearing and slowly dissipating warm spot in a pool, kinda nasty but it feels good.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The Day I Met The Infamous Bobby
I met Bobby, my now husband, through some mutual friends.
Cheryl is one of my best friends and also has known Bobby for some time. She had a crush on him but then got bored of chasing him and moved on, never forgetting the unrequited love she had for him. This eventually turned into a more sibling oriented love, becoming somewhat creepy when analyzed to deeply.
Kindra is another one of my best friends. She met Bobby through Cheryl. Kindra is one of these girls who is out to enjoy life at any cost. She plays hard and works not at all. She flirts with anything that moves, male or female, human or not. This is just her way, she makes each individual she meets feel special, even if only for the few moments at climax. (Most people achieve climax within one week of meeting her.)
We were all at school one day. I needed an oil change. Kindra was flirting with Bobby (poor guy didn't know he wasn't the only one.) Cheryl had a break between classes. Bobby needed a smog check. We all went to the mechanic's together.
Now, let me just tell you that I am a loud and colorful woman, before I go any further. It is very difficult to overshadow me. That being said:
While waiting for our cars, the four of us decided to go for a walk. I attempted to get to know Bobby a bit. At this point, seeing his interest in Kindra, I had no interest in him. I don't like guys that like girls that like guys too much. This, however, was not to be done on that day. Kindra had other plans.
Kindra in her ever charming way, began yelling at cars and mooning them as we walked. She was wearing a rather skimpy dress, so this was not difficult to do. I must say, if I had a tiny little butt like hers with perky little boobs, I might show them off, too.
She hitchhiked and then ran away when cars pulled over, she flashed her panties and just a bit of crack, she ran into the street and had to be pulled back. She monopolized our attention in the captivating manner that only she can possess. We laughed so hard we thought we were going to pee.
Class was going to start before Bobby's car was ready, so I drove him back to school and Kindra stayed to take his car back.
Halfway through class, Bobby got a call and left. He and Kindra went on their first date that night. They had sushi and smoked a doobie. They told us they were gone so long from class because his car had issues.
One week later, Kindra was bored and Bobby was still calling her. He asked me what the deal was, seeing as I was her best friend. I told him I wasn't going to play junior high middle man and he needed to grow a pair and talk to her himself.
That night, I invited him over to watch a 'Sex in the City' marathon. Kindra was spending the night. I wanted to force her to talk to him, poor guy was so confused. Instead, we completely ignored her and talked the night away. I made him put the seat down on the toilet when he left it up, he promised to find me a kitten to keep me company, he told me about his health and his hopes and dreams and disappointments. I told him about my exes, which will be another two or three books by themselves.
This is the night that I asked Kindra if it was OK to hit on him.
14 months later, we got married.
AWWWW; smarmy sentiments
Kindra was my bridesmaid.
I told this story at the alter.
Picture her face.
Until another blog, America, laugh well.
Cheryl is one of my best friends and also has known Bobby for some time. She had a crush on him but then got bored of chasing him and moved on, never forgetting the unrequited love she had for him. This eventually turned into a more sibling oriented love, becoming somewhat creepy when analyzed to deeply.
Kindra is another one of my best friends. She met Bobby through Cheryl. Kindra is one of these girls who is out to enjoy life at any cost. She plays hard and works not at all. She flirts with anything that moves, male or female, human or not. This is just her way, she makes each individual she meets feel special, even if only for the few moments at climax. (Most people achieve climax within one week of meeting her.)
We were all at school one day. I needed an oil change. Kindra was flirting with Bobby (poor guy didn't know he wasn't the only one.) Cheryl had a break between classes. Bobby needed a smog check. We all went to the mechanic's together.
Now, let me just tell you that I am a loud and colorful woman, before I go any further. It is very difficult to overshadow me. That being said:
While waiting for our cars, the four of us decided to go for a walk. I attempted to get to know Bobby a bit. At this point, seeing his interest in Kindra, I had no interest in him. I don't like guys that like girls that like guys too much. This, however, was not to be done on that day. Kindra had other plans.
Kindra in her ever charming way, began yelling at cars and mooning them as we walked. She was wearing a rather skimpy dress, so this was not difficult to do. I must say, if I had a tiny little butt like hers with perky little boobs, I might show them off, too.
She hitchhiked and then ran away when cars pulled over, she flashed her panties and just a bit of crack, she ran into the street and had to be pulled back. She monopolized our attention in the captivating manner that only she can possess. We laughed so hard we thought we were going to pee.
Class was going to start before Bobby's car was ready, so I drove him back to school and Kindra stayed to take his car back.
Halfway through class, Bobby got a call and left. He and Kindra went on their first date that night. They had sushi and smoked a doobie. They told us they were gone so long from class because his car had issues.
One week later, Kindra was bored and Bobby was still calling her. He asked me what the deal was, seeing as I was her best friend. I told him I wasn't going to play junior high middle man and he needed to grow a pair and talk to her himself.
That night, I invited him over to watch a 'Sex in the City' marathon. Kindra was spending the night. I wanted to force her to talk to him, poor guy was so confused. Instead, we completely ignored her and talked the night away. I made him put the seat down on the toilet when he left it up, he promised to find me a kitten to keep me company, he told me about his health and his hopes and dreams and disappointments. I told him about my exes, which will be another two or three books by themselves.
This is the night that I asked Kindra if it was OK to hit on him.
14 months later, we got married.
AWWWW; smarmy sentiments
Kindra was my bridesmaid.
I told this story at the alter.
Picture her face.
Until another blog, America, laugh well.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Adventures in Education
So, I find myself overwhelmed in my educational career and life in general and I thought perhaps I might cyber bitch about it.
You see, America, I wear many hats. I'm a student, a wife, an employee, a daughter, a feminist, an activist, a cook, a baker and a candlestick maker. Just kidding about the candle sticks, but the rest is true.
Lets start with my most newly acquired status as a wife. I'm the wife of a man with congestive heart failure, and it is a full time job all by itself. I'll tell you, if you ever want to know what the truly fail safe birth control method is, become intimately involved with a chronically ill man. You will find that you have so little time for yourself even with an adult in the house you can't even wrap your head around the idea of changing a small person's diaper.
Yes, I've changed big people's diapers. No, they did not belong to my husband.
But I digress.
So, Bobby (the husband) and I started dating early last year. I've been unlucky my entire life, and so has he, as I'm sure you could imagine a 25 year old with heart failure would be. Earlier this month, we decided to legally combine the giant crap storms that are eachother's lives, until death do we part. He has been in and out of the hospital since last semester, when our apartment burned down ( a story for another blog) and has been deteriorating more rapidly ever since.
I've missed at least 6 days of school this semester to be with him in the hospital. Nothing I do seems to be good enough, you see. He's working with a special cardiology team in the bay area, so I decided we could move there for his care. He can't work, so I started hunting for a job in the neighborhood. He went to the ER for having such low blood pressure they could barely draw blood 2 days before I had my interview. We weren't near his special doctors in the good hospital and he could have died because of it. I wasn't quick enough to get the job and move.
After he got out of the hospital, he seemed to be feeling better. We proceeded with our wedding. Oh, didn't I mention that this happened one week before our wedding? We thought he might be an absentee groom. Anyways, we got married, beautiful ceremony. It was on a baseball field, I wore blue, he wore an 80's tux with sneakers, and his Italian Catholic grandma wore a frown.
We went on our honeymoon and were in wedded bliss, for a few days. Then we went on a whale watching trip and, oddly enough, I got sick! That's new for us. When we returned to the condo (on loan from a friend's boss) we discovered we had been robbed! See, almost missing our wedding because of almost dying wasn't good enough, because it was just almost. Life likes to give me stories to tell where I can say, "this really happened", not almost.
The very next day, we were back in the hospital. What fun! This time we had lights and sirens and a big show of it (and we honeymooned close to his special doctors in the good hospital). Bobby convinced them to wait to admit him until the honeymoon was over, and they did.
I went back to school, he seemed to feel better, again, and life went on for about a week. Then he had his follow up and his kidney's failed. They admitted him and now we are scheduling open heart surgery.
How does this relate to the title? As I said, I've missed at least 6 days of school this semester. My classes are only 2 days per week, that means a total of 3 weeks of school missed. I missed an entire week this last time in the hospital, and the timing of the surgery puts him coming home during finals week.
You see, my faithful readers, all four of you, I don't know what to do? I have pulled 'A's in all my classes, on the work I've done, but I can't get attendance points if I'm not there, and I can't make up in class activities. I am being a crappy student in order to be a mediocre wife. I still haven't been able to secure a place for us to live near his doctors and we will have to spend his recovery at his grandma's house. (The one who wore the frown. More on her soon.)
I promise to try to keep this correspondence to all you random strangers out there light and funny, but today it's just not in me. I'm stretched to thin, like so many of my fellow egg carriers out there, and I'm floundering. I never thought I'd identify myself as a good wife, I'm not big on gender stereotyping, but I at least want to be a good friend. I am supposed to be my husband's best friend, and I will be leaving him alone as he gets his sternum cracked open and his most important life giving organ artificially manipulated on a large steel table. And if I don't leave him alone, I will be giving up my education, abandoning all that I held dear before I met him, and sacrificing (or at least delaying) a future of higher earning potential that could provide for, you guessed it, the husband.
Post comments if you have any advice, world. I hope that my experiences will be inspiring for the most part, but tonight I just need to get the words out of my head.
You see, America, I wear many hats. I'm a student, a wife, an employee, a daughter, a feminist, an activist, a cook, a baker and a candlestick maker. Just kidding about the candle sticks, but the rest is true.
Lets start with my most newly acquired status as a wife. I'm the wife of a man with congestive heart failure, and it is a full time job all by itself. I'll tell you, if you ever want to know what the truly fail safe birth control method is, become intimately involved with a chronically ill man. You will find that you have so little time for yourself even with an adult in the house you can't even wrap your head around the idea of changing a small person's diaper.
Yes, I've changed big people's diapers. No, they did not belong to my husband.
But I digress.
So, Bobby (the husband) and I started dating early last year. I've been unlucky my entire life, and so has he, as I'm sure you could imagine a 25 year old with heart failure would be. Earlier this month, we decided to legally combine the giant crap storms that are eachother's lives, until death do we part. He has been in and out of the hospital since last semester, when our apartment burned down ( a story for another blog) and has been deteriorating more rapidly ever since.
I've missed at least 6 days of school this semester to be with him in the hospital. Nothing I do seems to be good enough, you see. He's working with a special cardiology team in the bay area, so I decided we could move there for his care. He can't work, so I started hunting for a job in the neighborhood. He went to the ER for having such low blood pressure they could barely draw blood 2 days before I had my interview. We weren't near his special doctors in the good hospital and he could have died because of it. I wasn't quick enough to get the job and move.
After he got out of the hospital, he seemed to be feeling better. We proceeded with our wedding. Oh, didn't I mention that this happened one week before our wedding? We thought he might be an absentee groom. Anyways, we got married, beautiful ceremony. It was on a baseball field, I wore blue, he wore an 80's tux with sneakers, and his Italian Catholic grandma wore a frown.
We went on our honeymoon and were in wedded bliss, for a few days. Then we went on a whale watching trip and, oddly enough, I got sick! That's new for us. When we returned to the condo (on loan from a friend's boss) we discovered we had been robbed! See, almost missing our wedding because of almost dying wasn't good enough, because it was just almost. Life likes to give me stories to tell where I can say, "this really happened", not almost.
The very next day, we were back in the hospital. What fun! This time we had lights and sirens and a big show of it (and we honeymooned close to his special doctors in the good hospital). Bobby convinced them to wait to admit him until the honeymoon was over, and they did.
I went back to school, he seemed to feel better, again, and life went on for about a week. Then he had his follow up and his kidney's failed. They admitted him and now we are scheduling open heart surgery.
How does this relate to the title? As I said, I've missed at least 6 days of school this semester. My classes are only 2 days per week, that means a total of 3 weeks of school missed. I missed an entire week this last time in the hospital, and the timing of the surgery puts him coming home during finals week.
You see, my faithful readers, all four of you, I don't know what to do? I have pulled 'A's in all my classes, on the work I've done, but I can't get attendance points if I'm not there, and I can't make up in class activities. I am being a crappy student in order to be a mediocre wife. I still haven't been able to secure a place for us to live near his doctors and we will have to spend his recovery at his grandma's house. (The one who wore the frown. More on her soon.)
I promise to try to keep this correspondence to all you random strangers out there light and funny, but today it's just not in me. I'm stretched to thin, like so many of my fellow egg carriers out there, and I'm floundering. I never thought I'd identify myself as a good wife, I'm not big on gender stereotyping, but I at least want to be a good friend. I am supposed to be my husband's best friend, and I will be leaving him alone as he gets his sternum cracked open and his most important life giving organ artificially manipulated on a large steel table. And if I don't leave him alone, I will be giving up my education, abandoning all that I held dear before I met him, and sacrificing (or at least delaying) a future of higher earning potential that could provide for, you guessed it, the husband.
Post comments if you have any advice, world. I hope that my experiences will be inspiring for the most part, but tonight I just need to get the words out of my head.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
My First Valentine's Day
This past Valentine's Day was the first ever I got to spend with my now husband, Bobby. I say the first I got to spend with him because, though we new each other the previous year, he spent it on a date with my best friend and future bridesmaid, a story for another blog.
So, being as this was a special day, we made plans with another couple we know to go to a romantic Italian dinner. Let me set the mood.
We are driving to our friend's house and I begin to notice that Bobby's talking a little funny. I ask him if he's feeling ok, but his response is a bit slurred. I begin asking the standard questions, did you drink anything? smoke anything? what day is it? year is it? whose the president? Bobby got quite angry with me for giving him the '3rd degree'. I told him I'd stop asking questions as soon as he got one right!
After informing me it was Wednesday, February 13, 2008, the president was Sarah Palin who ran against Joe Biden and that we were on our way home, we discovered that he had mixed up his heart medication with his sleeping medication. Oh yeah, he has heart problems.
So, we continue on and figure he'll just be a little sleepy at dinner. If only this were true!
We picked up our friends, Kevin and Devin (yes, their names rhyme, no, they are not both men). Bobby got a little more tired on the way to the restaurant until we got inside, and needed some help reading the menu and ordering.
Here's where the real fun begins.
The waitress informed us when Kevin and Devin each ordered a beer that she was not allowed to serve alcohol to people already intoxicated, referring to Bobby. On five separate occasions, he said he was going to the bathroom and, a number of minutes later, we found him wandering around outside or just staring at the streetlamp. A few times, he didn't say anything at all, just got up and wandered around. He tried to eat, he really did, but his fork just couldn't find his tired little mouth. After repeatedly stabbing the table next to his plate, attempting to acquire food, he finally got an entire piece of veal on it. After this massive piece of meat fell into his lap, he continued to shove the empty fork into his mouth, completely unaware that the rest of us are scrambling to hold napkins under him and avoid peeing ourselves with laughter. We asked if he'd like to leave, but he said he was feeling fine, and I'd have to say he was probably feeling pretty good.
Bobby insisted on ordering dessert, so we extended the show. He put an entire ice cream sundae, whipped cream and all, on a spoon and in and around his mouth. Really more around seeing as he forgot to open his mouth.
Upon taking our friends back home, I told them that we should probably be going to get Bobby to bed. Of course, Bobby was quite frustrated that I made this decision for him, promptly forgot what we were talking about and leaned in for a kiss, missed, and drooled on my shoulder.
When we arrived home, I put Bobby to bed. I took off his shoes and his pants and his coat and put the covers on him and reflect on the day. I think about how much I love him and how interesting this chapter will be in the book I write one day, and then I feel something in his coat pocket.
Inside Bobby's jacket pocket is a piece of pizza.
We did not order pizza at the restaurant, but they do serve it. I sat in awe and wonder, knowing he took it off someones table. My questions go unanswered to this day, because he does not remember the nights events. Was there someone sitting at the table he took it from? Were they done with their meal? Was this the only item, or just the only one he saved? Was it from the restaurant we were eating at, or the pizza place across the parking lot? Answers we'll never know, but I will laugh every time I see him eat pizza.
Stay tuned for the next story, maybe tragic, maybe ironic, maybe just weird, but always funny and true.
So, being as this was a special day, we made plans with another couple we know to go to a romantic Italian dinner. Let me set the mood.
We are driving to our friend's house and I begin to notice that Bobby's talking a little funny. I ask him if he's feeling ok, but his response is a bit slurred. I begin asking the standard questions, did you drink anything? smoke anything? what day is it? year is it? whose the president? Bobby got quite angry with me for giving him the '3rd degree'. I told him I'd stop asking questions as soon as he got one right!
After informing me it was Wednesday, February 13, 2008, the president was Sarah Palin who ran against Joe Biden and that we were on our way home, we discovered that he had mixed up his heart medication with his sleeping medication. Oh yeah, he has heart problems.
So, we continue on and figure he'll just be a little sleepy at dinner. If only this were true!
We picked up our friends, Kevin and Devin (yes, their names rhyme, no, they are not both men). Bobby got a little more tired on the way to the restaurant until we got inside, and needed some help reading the menu and ordering.
Here's where the real fun begins.
The waitress informed us when Kevin and Devin each ordered a beer that she was not allowed to serve alcohol to people already intoxicated, referring to Bobby. On five separate occasions, he said he was going to the bathroom and, a number of minutes later, we found him wandering around outside or just staring at the streetlamp. A few times, he didn't say anything at all, just got up and wandered around. He tried to eat, he really did, but his fork just couldn't find his tired little mouth. After repeatedly stabbing the table next to his plate, attempting to acquire food, he finally got an entire piece of veal on it. After this massive piece of meat fell into his lap, he continued to shove the empty fork into his mouth, completely unaware that the rest of us are scrambling to hold napkins under him and avoid peeing ourselves with laughter. We asked if he'd like to leave, but he said he was feeling fine, and I'd have to say he was probably feeling pretty good.
Bobby insisted on ordering dessert, so we extended the show. He put an entire ice cream sundae, whipped cream and all, on a spoon and in and around his mouth. Really more around seeing as he forgot to open his mouth.
Upon taking our friends back home, I told them that we should probably be going to get Bobby to bed. Of course, Bobby was quite frustrated that I made this decision for him, promptly forgot what we were talking about and leaned in for a kiss, missed, and drooled on my shoulder.
When we arrived home, I put Bobby to bed. I took off his shoes and his pants and his coat and put the covers on him and reflect on the day. I think about how much I love him and how interesting this chapter will be in the book I write one day, and then I feel something in his coat pocket.
Inside Bobby's jacket pocket is a piece of pizza.
We did not order pizza at the restaurant, but they do serve it. I sat in awe and wonder, knowing he took it off someones table. My questions go unanswered to this day, because he does not remember the nights events. Was there someone sitting at the table he took it from? Were they done with their meal? Was this the only item, or just the only one he saved? Was it from the restaurant we were eating at, or the pizza place across the parking lot? Answers we'll never know, but I will laugh every time I see him eat pizza.
Stay tuned for the next story, maybe tragic, maybe ironic, maybe just weird, but always funny and true.
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