Sorry to post two videos in a row, but I'm obsessed.

I hear "Bon Jovi romance" but I think she's actually saying "want your bad romance." Tomato, tom-ah-to.

I've watched this video four times today. It inspired me to buy some 4.5 inch heels that I'm sure I'll regret.

Whenever I get tired of living in the city, I just listen to this.

[Downer-alert]

When you show up at the Imaging Center, there's no one there. No one. You try calling the operator, no one responds. You spend a half hour sitting alone in an empty room, trying not to freak the hell out. Finally your tech comes for you and you're proud you didn't cry.

Health care is like speed dating. You're transferred from one stranger to the next, repeating the same 10 things over and over again that you just told the last person and the person before that. But with health care you're not selling your looks or personality, rather you're selling your weaknesses, doing your best to prove you need help.

How long have you been having back pain?

- I don't have any back pain. I had surgery.

You had spinal surgery?

- It was abdominal, but on my spinal cord.

What are your symptoms?

- Post-surgical, I guess.

Why aren't you having contrast on this MRI?

- I don't know, my neurosurgeon scheduled it.

Did he say why he didn't want the contrast?

- Nope, and I didn't ask.

You should be having contrast.

- Whatever you say.

The bin in full, but you shove your hour-old scrubs in anyway. It's the end of the day, and the laundry will probably be taken once you leave. You try not to think about the other people--men, women, hopefully not children--who have come into this tiny closet today to strip down and become teal 'property of the Central Hospital Services.' You wonder about the perfume, deodorant, and sweat stains left behind on the scrubs of the sick people who came before you. Did the technician do the 'Guess Your Weight' carnival game for everyone, where she looks at you and then looks at the scrub sizes and hands you what she thinks will fit you? Or did something about me especially scream 'I'm not an adult'? I can pick out my own fucking scrubs. A large? You think I'm a large? These are falling off my hips! (But she's right, usually I am a large. Damn her.)

They'd covered your eyes this time, and you thanked your lucky stars. The tunnel is so small. Surely there are people who would not fit in here, you thought. Wait, I don't fit in here! And even though the Pretenders song that played in your headphones should have been distracting, you suddenly couldn't breath and had to consciously tell your legs not to violently twitch, even though it was all you wanted in the world. Just one kick, that was all. Ok, maybe four or five, just to really get it out of your system. But you couldn't. So you pictured Chrissy Hynde and how much you hate her because you want to move and you can't.

The tech pulled you out to give you an IV for 'contrast', where they flush your body with dye to help define the parts that need to show up in the images. You continued to lie still as the cold tingling trickled through all your veins. If someone shot you with a gun, would purple splat out? Or yellow? Is the dye even a color? Woozy and chilled you were rolled back into the tunnel like a dish on a baking rack for two more sessions, 4.5 minutes each. And then you were done.

Back in your clothes, you leave the closet and turn a corner to say goodnight to the technician. This is the hardest part. You can see the images flashing on a multitude of screens in front of her. Your body. Your spine. Your organs. Photographed into the images you will eventually pay for. You know she's not allowed to tell you what's on them because that's the radiologist's job. But you've seen your other MRI. You know what your cyst looked like, you saw your spine's balloon. To glance at the same image post-surgery could reveal to you--right here and now--if it's gone and not coming back. In the end you remind yourself that's not how it works. It doesn't matter that it's your body and images you'll pay for. You turn and leave the room to walk down the hallway, into the elevator, and out into the rain passing pregnant couples arriving for delivery. You climb into you car, and wonder when your neurosurgeon will find the time to call you with the results.

One more complication should be neither here nor there; I wish I had it in me not to care

I have an MRI scheduled this Monday to make sure that everything is 'as it should be' since the surgery. That would mean that the cyst isn't filling up again, and all my organs have travelled back to their correct corners of my abdomen. I have no reason to be less than 100% hopeful that there won't be anything unexpected on the MRI, but the last time I had one it was a tad earth-shaking, so I can't help but be a little nervous. The process of getting an MRI is painless (for me), but it's still scary and isolating and hideously expensive. You'd think for that price you'd at least get some laughing gas or a movie to watch.

When I saw my neurosurgeon last week and told him I was still having headaches on occasion, he wasn't sure if they were spinal headaches. I can't begin to think of what I would do if the MRI showed the sutures hadn't held or the cyst was growing again (so soon!). The idea of going under the knife again is one I can't currently entertain to its full implications. I have to believe that everything has been fixed and I can now go back to my normal life again.

Before my mom left she made a list of all the people I should write thank-you notes to. The thought of writing them is overwhelming. People I see a few times a year were praying for me and sending me cards and gifts. I don't know what to say to them. I've always been one of those people who wants to 'write a book' when I send cards to people, but I can't this time. I don't know what to say other than 'thank you.' I'm tempted to just sign my name. That sounds awful. Here are people who spent time and energy and money to make me feel comforted and loved. They deserve heartfelt words of appreciation and gratitude. It'd be one thing if they were in need and I could help them, to return the sentiment and concern.

But before the surgery I was irrational, self-pitying, and scared shitless. After the surgery I was vulnerable beyond belief, incapable of taking care of myself. I truly believe that people's prayers and displays of affection made a huge difference--but trying to speak out of that personal darkness to people who only heard about it secondhand through my parents...

I'm a terrible person. I feel I have to say, 'I couldn't have done this without you,' when I truly feel 'I barely made it out of this alive.'

I guess my point is, if I ever do something for you in your hour of need, please don't send me a thank you note. You were in need.

I think I'll just thank people as I see them.

I haven't seen these commercials, but wow. Just...wow.

My greatest urges to blog come in the middle of the night.

I have a love/hate relationship with this haircut. Sometimes I see it and think, "Hell yes, I look fine" and other times, not so much. For instance, when I saw myself in the mirror at trivia tonight, I thought, "Wearing make-up with this haircut makes it look a lot less manish." But after going to the bathroom just now I thought, "Nope, when I wear make-up I look like a drag queen without her wig."

Too long I've been afraid of losing love I guess I've lost; well if that's love, it comes at much too high a cost

Guess what song is on Glee this Wednesday? Apparently the episode, entitled "Wheels" (Arty!), is a tearjerker. I can't wait.

In other TV news, I'm quickly becoming addicted to Big Love and Weeds. So much good television out there right now.

I believe in love (what else can I do?)

My scar is healing nicely. It's so big. 6 inches. I'm shocked by its size every time I see it in the mirror. Anyone who asked me before the surgery will tell you I wanted it to be big. To be as huge and drastic externally as it felt internally. To leave a mark--something to remember this whole ordeal by. Well, I got my wish.

My abdomen has never been a favorite part of my body, so I'm not terribly grieved by its mutilation. My main problem was how horrified I was in the hospital by the staples. I expected it to look like a zipper running down my stomach, but instead it literally looked like I'd been attacked by an office stapler. If I wasn't disgusted enough by the look and feel of it, people constantly checked on it, informing me how 'great' the incision looked.

I have a weird desire to show it to everyone. I want to see if it grosses them out or they think it's cool. It's not very polite to put people in that position, so I've been keeping my shirt down for the most part. I wonder if it's a desire to prove to people that I had the surgery. "See? I didn't make it all up! Look at the size of that scar! It was all real and not some fever dream!"

Growing up I remember my mom telling me about a couple we knew. The wife had disfigured legs--I don't know from what. And my mom told me that once she overheard the husband say matter-of-factly in reference to his wife, "I'm not a legs man." I've always thought that the moral of this story was that no one is perfect, and you find someone who appreciates your best features, and doesn't care about the rest. My abdomen doesn't really apply to this logic anyway, because a 'stomach man' wouldn't have cared much for its state pre-surgery, but now that I have this new mark on my body, I can't help but think of what it would look like or mean to a lover. As this whole saga is over and ended (or ending), any person I might meet or be with will only see the scar, and not have witnessed the journey that led to it. That will be mine alone.

Raise your hand if you're obsessed with the White House flickr page.

(with his niece.)






So, so many more here.

One month ago today.

A winter wind blows in from the north,

scratches your spine, cold like the fourth.
But you're a long way from home,
through the dark we tiptoe.
The hospital looms as we walk fleet road.

- "Fleet Road" by The Editors

Stop grabbing your belt!

Here is Kurt Russell's audition for Han Solo. Love to Kurt (who among us can resist a viewing of Overboard?), but good grief, bullet DODGED. It's also good this wasn't the final script. "She knows the art of mind control!" And the 'Luke' calls Artoo a 'robot'! The insanity!

Currents, November 1

Current time-stealer: Twitter

Current book: Even Cowgirls Get the Blues by Tom Robbins

Current fashion: Nothing but leggings. All Leggings, All the Time. It's just like being in elementary school again when I considered jeans uncomfortable beyond comprehension. This time it's all button-closing bottoms.

Current food: Chocolate cupcakes with white mint frosting at El Diablo.

Current album: Strict Joy by the Swell Season.

Current TV shows: Rome, Mad Men (season 2), Modern Family

Current celebrity crush: Josh Groban. (He was a courageous banana.)

Current hulu favorite: This mother!



"Individually, I love you all with affection unspeakable. But collectively, I look upon you with a disgust that amounts to absolute detestation."

"Who has ventured to approach our all-but-inaccessible lair?"

preserve your memories, they're all that's left you.

The seven days I spent at the hospital seem to run together for me now. I can barely recall the first day, much less distinguish it from any of the others. I remember moments, but not sequentially. Especially the three days I spent on my back, flat as a board. How many times did I hit that morphine button? I don't remember conversations I had, just that people came by. I feel robbed of the memories, but then, do I even want them?

The worst, at least towards the end, was at night. Sleeping intermittently throughout the day, I had no hope of falling asleep easily when the time came in the evening. My mom would move to her side of the room, ready to help if I asked, but otherwise trying to sleep herself. Despite the heavy curtain, the room was never dark--the hallways being lit brightly as possible. I usually had at least 5 pillows in the bed with me, one or two under my legs, one propped up by my stomach to keep the incision undisturbed by gravity, others by my head. If the bed was lowered too much, I felt dizzy and upside down, but too far up and I'd start a headache. Finding the balance was a constant struggle.

In the dark hours I spent dozing or daydreaming, my mind was relentless. At home I would read a book, watch a late show, or simply relax into the luxury of my bed before slipping off to sleep. In the hospital I had my ipod, books, and a television, but in these wee hours I didn't touch them. I don't know why. My mind was like a prison. I conceived whole episodes of favorite television shows and staged original musicals. The sound of the machines working away at my IV became the basis for showtunes and childhood ditties. My stream of consciousness was active and sporadic in a way that it's never been before.

When I would finally fall asleep, it was never for long. Every night a new nurse would come by to check on me as they began their evening shift (except for one generous soul who told me he didn't see the need to disturb me). It was always a variation on a theme. Check my blood pressure, check my pulse, check my temperature. Sometimes that was all, but too often they wanted to see my incision, so we pull off the covers and pull up the gown. Then they'd want to see my back (after reading about the lumbar drain, or my blood patch, or the rash I had begun), so a flip over to my side. Then they'd ask questions. How are you feeling? Do you need anything? What's your pain level? I'd try to stay in my slumber-state, but after each inspection by a new stranger it was never a simple slip back. In the hospital sleep was the best way to pass the time--unaware of pain or boredom or fragility--but the hardest thing to reach.

I despised my hospital bed and yet whenever I was out of it I longed to be in it like nothing else. In the last few days my mom would try to have me sit in a chair for meals, but in no time I'd beg to be back in the bed again. Before the blood patch (a story for another post), I had a headache whenever I sat up. That was part of why I had to stay so long--it might have meant the patch they'd sewn hadn't held. It got so bad that I couldn't remember what it felt like to not have a headache. Or feel weak. How had I ever functioned before? And if I did, why did I have this stupid surgery? Fortunately my mom would remind me why in these moments, which helped.

Throughout our stay in the hospital, my mom read to me from only one book (I read nothing on my own). It's called Girls Like Us, about Joni Mitchell, Carole King, and Carly Simon. I can't tell you how strange it was to read about these women and their lives while I lay in my hospital bed. Their talent and travel and trysts--meeting new men around every corner--some staying for a night, others for years. Multiple husbands between each of them, lovers to give them endless inspiration for their craft. As a patient, I felt completely sexless (more so than usual) and useless. Completely infantile. Not producing or creating anything, nor fulfilling anyone's needs or desires. Totally helpless and practically indistinguishable as a woman. Which is maybe why I cut my hair off. I don't know. But coming out on the other side of that...it changed me, I think.

It's going to be like Rocky. But replace the physical training with napping.

My neurosurgeon gave me three weeks as the projected timeline of recovery, and while I like to be optimistic, that's just not happening. I need another week off work. I haven't tried driving yet, I have to lie down after showering (an event that takes place ON A CHAIR), I get a headache whenever I sneeze, and eating is still a bore-chore. My mom is leaving tomorrow, and I need to make sure I can still function on my own. Can I still heat food? Pick things up off the floor? Remember to comb my hair before I leave the apartment? Feel I am loved and cared for? Only time will tell. Which is what I need--more time.

It won't be easy. I will be tempted to stay in bed. Forever. And to eat nothing but...well, nothing. But no. I must learn to live on my own again. To walk faster than a very small dog. To carry...anything. I should also work on overcoming my fear of being kicked in the stomach. Or touched on the stomach. Or my incision spontaneously ripping open on its own accord. Basically I'm very protective of my abdomen right now (even more so than when I was a prude Christian middle schooler--zing!).

For the past three weeks I've been in complete daughter mode. Age, based on responsibilities and capabilities, about 11. So I need to mature 13 years in the next week, and we're good.

Apparently television is the only thing compelling me to blog.

I finished reading Tess of the D'Ubervilles last night, finally. More like Tess of the D'Uber-Depressing. (It took me a good solid hour of brainstorming before bed to come up with that last night. My other one was Depress of the D'Uber-sad). Here are the following names--in order--that I called Angel Clare in the margins of my copy:

- Son of a bitch

- Bastard

- Motherf***er

- Ass-hat

- Idiot

- Jerkface

- F***wit

In hugely exciting news, JOSS WHEDON is going to direct an episode of GLEE. Any time the man gets his hands on musical material, I am born anew in his genius. So...much...awesome...

In regards to my recovery, all is going fairly well. I can now tolerate holding plates or laptops on my lap as long as I have a huge down comforter between them. Also, I didn't take any pain meds today. Not a one! I still can't walk very far, or stand up for very long, and I eat like a bird (more like a seagull now than say, a hummingbird), but we're getting there.

But seriously.

Did you see last night's Glee? Seriously. This show must never end. Never ever. The final song? In the black and white? With the meaningful glances? If I wasn't so energy-depleted that my mom stays next to me to make sure I can pop open a can of soda, I would have re-created the whole dance in my living room.

Today I had three co-workers including my boss come over for lunch. I'm so lucky to work with the people I do. Now my mom and I are venturing out for a walk, which basically means using everything in me (and a cane) to move my body up one street block and back before collapsing. Progress!

What? I have a blog?

This may be the longest I've gone without blogging in the last two years. Frankly, ever since the surgery it has sounded exhausting. Typing and forming sentences? You ask too much! I'm currently recovering at home with my mom and lots of visitors. If I never have to go to a hospital again, that'd be ok with me.

I'm sure I'll be writing about this experience for the rest of my young adult life, but for now all I can give you is objective stuff.

The facts:

- Hours my neurosurgeon figured the surgery would take: 2

- Actual hours it took: 5.5

- Number of people in my surgery: 9

- Unexpected parts of surgery: 1, the ovarian cyst was actually on one of my fallopian tubes. They managed to keep both ovaries, but only one is viable because the other is now missing part of its fallopian tube.

- Days I recovered in the hospital: 7

- Number of showers I took: 2

- Number of staples in my stomach: "More than a dozen" - my mom

- Days on oxygen and IV: 5

- Number of times I wanted to eat: 0

- Places where I developed a rash: 5

- Blood patches made from injecting 20 CCs of my arm's blood into my spine through a needle with nothing but a bit of local anesthetic: 1

- Times I felt the worst: When I sat upright for the first time, took a deep breath, threw up all over myself, and had to be changed like a baby between two nurses and didn't get a shower until two days later

- Times I wondered why I ever had the surgery in the first place: 4

- Times I couldn't believe there had ever been a time in my life where I had energy, no headache, and an appetite: 3

See you on the other side.

what's broken can always be fixed, and what's fixed will always be broken

Missing verse from this rendition:

I must have passed out on the porch

Dreamt I was carried in a kangaroo's pouch

when I wake up in the waiting room

on a dirty hospital couch

my hand is wrapped in toilet paper

and my body's wrapped in debris

you're sitting next to me reading the paper

and put your arm around me

Usually I love being single. Not right now.