I’m not who I am. I am empty.
I was once, but am no more. Something else has taken over, and I am a slave to it. Happiness retreats. Reality floods me. The levies hold then break, crumbling unexpectedly; without warning, I am left with bits and pieces of the sorrow and the loss and the humiliation I have not the courage to face.
I have failed, and refuse to face my mistakes.
I claim to have come to terms with them, but have moved past them so quickly they’re barely acknowledged, never resolved, broken shards in my bleeding side- reflecting what I’ve forgotten, what my laziness has begotten, who I’ve left in the dust of my blazing trail to hell.
My father’s urn, the art for which sit in a drawer nearly completed but untouched. My Air Force Career, which I blame only myself for ruining. I claim to have loyalty and honor, I claim to hold close and sacred the memories of those I’ve lost, and yet I am a fraud. Somehow it is never quite enough. Neglect. To clean my room, my car, my body. I am filthy. I want my outside to reflect my inside, and how my soul is being held hostage by this.
I am a failure in the biggest way.
I have ignored and run from potential for fear that it is too large for me. It will not fit, and will hang off of my insufficient frame like an oversized coat. People will see. Everyone will see.
And I am my own stereotype. Tears lead to shame, shame that I am not stronger. And I am not.
My own weakness induces self-hate, viewed as pity, feeding the cycle as I make my excuses and loathe myself for it. I am stepping outside myself, screaming- “You are pathetic. Hypocritical. You laugh at others who wallow, helpless in their woe. Yet you cradle your self-pity.
"Drown. Just drown so that I, the successful, real you, may live. Because you’ve suppressed and ignored me with such steel intent that I’ve hardly been here, yet I’ve been persevering all along. And I’ve seen the sun. When you surfed and taught, when you were honest with your friends and family, when you played rugby with integrity and honor. That is who I am. And it is my turn. So drown.”
Just die.
So that I may live.
04 October 2008
15 September 2008
Like It Never Happened.
I’m sitting here mere hours after my Uncle, who has lived in my home for the past four years, and more than that, been my Uncle for my entire life and my father’s best friend until his 47 years ran out, and I’m reading blogs and celebrity gossip on the internet with the TV going in the background, like it never happened.
As if I didn’t just lose someone close to me, someone I loved. Brooke, his daughter, the cousin I grew up with who has been the closest thing to a sister I’ve ever had, is upstairs lying in what was her Father’s bed (but ceases to have any ownership now that he’s gone- though I suppose by custom everything that once belonged to him is now hers by right-) probably sleeping the xanax-and-wine-induced sleep of a daughter in mourning who’s lost her father Way Too Soon and I only hope it lasts as long as mercifully possible because that first morning without your Dad is one of the worst of your life. I’ll join her there soon. But first I’m going through the numb motions I’ve almost become accustomed to when readjusting to life without someone who was Just There.
And the family has left, and the hospice nurse has left, and the funeral home people in their black formal attire and nice silk ties have left, taking Uncle Dan’s broken, worn-out, frail and dead body with them. And just like when my stepfather died when I was 18, and when my Father died when I was 19, and when my beautiful, loving, life-living, deserving friend Stephanie died less than 2 months ago at the young age of 23, I’m aching at the thought and the stark realization that the rest of the world is going on, and for them, nothing has changed at all. Only the aching becomes more and more dull each time, almost like I’m actually getting used to it- which is something I never want to do. Because if it weren’t for us, those left behind, with the grief and the memories and the stories and the tears, it would be like the dearly departed never even existed.
Well, good thing for them that we’re here. To make sure someone notices that they’ve gone. To ensure it matters. So here we are with the emptiness, the cursed knowledge that we’ll lever talk to them again in this life, feeling sad for them but possibly feeling even more depressed for ourselves, and we lag behind just a bit with life. Yeah, we’ll go back to our jobs and to our friends and to random people who will all offer the same general condolences with varying amounts of sincerity, emotion, pity or empathy- but for now we’ll stay back from the pack a bit. Because once we rejoin them, and commit to getting on with our lives, it’ll be- almost- like it never happened.
Maybe I’m skipping around in the grieving. So I think I’ll go watch some Gossip Girl.
But this house is empty.
As if I didn’t just lose someone close to me, someone I loved. Brooke, his daughter, the cousin I grew up with who has been the closest thing to a sister I’ve ever had, is upstairs lying in what was her Father’s bed (but ceases to have any ownership now that he’s gone- though I suppose by custom everything that once belonged to him is now hers by right-) probably sleeping the xanax-and-wine-induced sleep of a daughter in mourning who’s lost her father Way Too Soon and I only hope it lasts as long as mercifully possible because that first morning without your Dad is one of the worst of your life. I’ll join her there soon. But first I’m going through the numb motions I’ve almost become accustomed to when readjusting to life without someone who was Just There.
And the family has left, and the hospice nurse has left, and the funeral home people in their black formal attire and nice silk ties have left, taking Uncle Dan’s broken, worn-out, frail and dead body with them. And just like when my stepfather died when I was 18, and when my Father died when I was 19, and when my beautiful, loving, life-living, deserving friend Stephanie died less than 2 months ago at the young age of 23, I’m aching at the thought and the stark realization that the rest of the world is going on, and for them, nothing has changed at all. Only the aching becomes more and more dull each time, almost like I’m actually getting used to it- which is something I never want to do. Because if it weren’t for us, those left behind, with the grief and the memories and the stories and the tears, it would be like the dearly departed never even existed.
Well, good thing for them that we’re here. To make sure someone notices that they’ve gone. To ensure it matters. So here we are with the emptiness, the cursed knowledge that we’ll lever talk to them again in this life, feeling sad for them but possibly feeling even more depressed for ourselves, and we lag behind just a bit with life. Yeah, we’ll go back to our jobs and to our friends and to random people who will all offer the same general condolences with varying amounts of sincerity, emotion, pity or empathy- but for now we’ll stay back from the pack a bit. Because once we rejoin them, and commit to getting on with our lives, it’ll be- almost- like it never happened.
Maybe I’m skipping around in the grieving. So I think I’ll go watch some Gossip Girl.
But this house is empty.
07 September 2008
It's a lot about me?
So death has come to visit me again. Never quite grabbing hold, but brushing my life in ways that remind me he's there. Chillin'. Busy.
Taking care of my Uncle on hospice is certainly a different experience from when I did it for my stepdad- and please pre-emptive warning: this is not a 'pityme' blog entry. I just gotta get these thought and feelings down and out of me.
I feel angry about my Uncle lying on his death-bed and doing it before I could make enough money or time to take him up and visit his daugther (my cousin) at her new apartment.
I feel detached because I've done this before and I'm so afraid of falling apart or of other people falling apart around me and me being the only one left standing who can handle this.
I feel posessive because I've been taking care of him since he started his decline, and I was the one who said 'it's time to take him to the hospital' when we did that, and I was the one who said 'it's time to call hospice' when we did that, and I was the one who said 'Absolutely not, he is staying at home, no hospice facility, no nursing home' and yet everyone else (mostly Grandma, also Mom and some nurses) jumps in and answers the nurses questions and jumps up to get him food and pushes me aside and tells me I'm being 'bossy' when I tell them how to handle his drink or food or walking or bathing. I was the one who volunteered to care for him without gloved hands- so let me do it. And you're goddamn right I know more about it that you do. I worked in a nursing home. I've been caring for him longer than you have. Let me care for my dying Uncle while I can before classes and work tear me away.
But of course, I just deal with it like an immature child by throwing my hands up in the air and leaving for 2 days to visit his daughter in Orlando, so I can relax, and bitch, and let them take over as they so clearly want to.
I suppose I needed the break anyhow.
And I have some growing up to do. It's shocking the amount of change and growth you undergo while in college, and the massive, life-altering lessons you learn (or at least, I consider myself to have...whether or not they've been fully absorbed is yet to be seen.) But what's been even more of a jolt to me is the amount I'm changing and learning now that I'm out, and- for a while at least- free.
I am actually gaining friends. By gaining I mean both finding new ones and rekindling old friendships- most notably that of Stephanie Rosenblatt- one of the 'trio' of best friends I had in high-school. Much to my surprise, we've grown more alike than apart in the past 4 years, during which we hadn't really spoken at all. Which is awesome, because it's wonderful to find a kindred soul in another that's been waiting there along to help pull you out of your self-pitying, immature slump.
And so she seems to be. Instead of training on my own, which becomes more intermittent as I convince myself I have to be there every second for my Uncle, (you'd be surprised what a great workout excuse that is!) I'm now going to be partnering up with her, and we're planning on beginning training for the half-marathon level and moving up from there...
And about that, I'm excited. Which means something. And that emotion I can go on. :)
Yeah.
Taking care of my Uncle on hospice is certainly a different experience from when I did it for my stepdad- and please pre-emptive warning: this is not a 'pityme' blog entry. I just gotta get these thought and feelings down and out of me.
I feel angry about my Uncle lying on his death-bed and doing it before I could make enough money or time to take him up and visit his daugther (my cousin) at her new apartment.
I feel detached because I've done this before and I'm so afraid of falling apart or of other people falling apart around me and me being the only one left standing who can handle this.
I feel posessive because I've been taking care of him since he started his decline, and I was the one who said 'it's time to take him to the hospital' when we did that, and I was the one who said 'it's time to call hospice' when we did that, and I was the one who said 'Absolutely not, he is staying at home, no hospice facility, no nursing home' and yet everyone else (mostly Grandma, also Mom and some nurses) jumps in and answers the nurses questions and jumps up to get him food and pushes me aside and tells me I'm being 'bossy' when I tell them how to handle his drink or food or walking or bathing. I was the one who volunteered to care for him without gloved hands- so let me do it. And you're goddamn right I know more about it that you do. I worked in a nursing home. I've been caring for him longer than you have. Let me care for my dying Uncle while I can before classes and work tear me away.
But of course, I just deal with it like an immature child by throwing my hands up in the air and leaving for 2 days to visit his daughter in Orlando, so I can relax, and bitch, and let them take over as they so clearly want to.
I suppose I needed the break anyhow.
And I have some growing up to do. It's shocking the amount of change and growth you undergo while in college, and the massive, life-altering lessons you learn (or at least, I consider myself to have...whether or not they've been fully absorbed is yet to be seen.) But what's been even more of a jolt to me is the amount I'm changing and learning now that I'm out, and- for a while at least- free.
I am actually gaining friends. By gaining I mean both finding new ones and rekindling old friendships- most notably that of Stephanie Rosenblatt- one of the 'trio' of best friends I had in high-school. Much to my surprise, we've grown more alike than apart in the past 4 years, during which we hadn't really spoken at all. Which is awesome, because it's wonderful to find a kindred soul in another that's been waiting there along to help pull you out of your self-pitying, immature slump.
And so she seems to be. Instead of training on my own, which becomes more intermittent as I convince myself I have to be there every second for my Uncle, (you'd be surprised what a great workout excuse that is!) I'm now going to be partnering up with her, and we're planning on beginning training for the half-marathon level and moving up from there...
And about that, I'm excited. Which means something. And that emotion I can go on. :)
Yeah.
28 August 2008
When all that is left of me is love, give me away...
Well. Stephanie Hurley, my friend, my peer, my role-model, my captain, but most of all my Rugby Sister, is gone.
Another Rugby girl called me up. "Steph's dead."
...huh? What? My brain didn't take it all in. Couldn't.
Shock. That's all I felt. I distanced myself from it and felt ...shock.
And then a whirlwind of things- back to work and the everyday, schedule a ticket to attend the funeral, pack up, arrive, and stay at Cassie's house. Meet up with other Rugby Sisters and Norwich-ers one by one. We talked. We ate. We reminisced a bit.
I didn't cry, not once, I couldn't remember my Hurley yet. The Harley-Lee as she was to us, to each of us. I'd lose it. I blocked memories- memories of practice, of scrummaging with my head next to her ass, of hangin' in her room, of borrowing her microwave, of borrowing her perfume (I always do a lot of borrowing with friends...), of having talks with her about everything from the team to boys to my Dad to what was wrong with Norwich...that girl who I knew, who I looked up to, who I loved, could not be dead.
There was time aplenty for tears later. And they came. First at the wake, which was gorgeous, emotional, hilarious, and all the same upsetting and disturbing; I could never fathom the strength it took for Steph's family, especially her Mother and Father, to stand next to the open casket of their daughter for three hours and accept the condolences of so many people. It blows my mind. And seeing her there, like I saw my father 3 years ago... I had to remind myself we were paying tribute to her flesh, but that while the body in that casket housed her spirit for a short 23 years, that was no longer Stephanie.
Of course, all of us rugby girls got a real kick out of the Northeast Championship trophy among her personal NUWRFC (Norwich Univ Women's Rugby Football Club) collection-- because technically, she did kind of 'steal it' from the school, but hell! She was our captain who led us to that victory, she deserved it...oh, and we had all taken shots out of it, haha...
That was the first round of tears. We hit a bar, got a little boozy, and then rested up to prepare for the final goodbye, but I think (know damn well) none of us were ever ready for the funeral the next day.
There is a different kind of sorrow when someone so young and so beloved dies suddenly and seemingly without explanation. I would imagine that, had she died at a later age, her continuous accumulation of friends would have mandated a larger chapel, or perhaps an outdoor funeral.
As it was, we pulled up to a street lined with towering maple trees, grabbed our pocket packs, smoked our last smokes, and packed in to St. Mary's Church in Brookfield, Mass on the 8th of August, a Friday. It was sunny and mild, and the light in the church filtering through the stained glass windows was gorgeous. It was fitting. There was standing room only by the time they invited us to join them in the opening hymn, Amazing Grace. That was when the tears and emotions really started- you can't imagine. The few of those in attendance who were still managing a (remotely convincing) guise of composure attempted to squeeze out some steady strings of syllables to the acoustic accompaniment...
"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me..."
The procession entered. Sniffles all around. I'm in anguish. Did they really have to choose this song?
"I once was lost, but now I'm found..."
Stephanie's casket was cerimoniously carried in, all pallbearers in full dress uniform. Seeing the flag draped over her casket was... I don't know- honestly, the only word that comes to mind is 'numbing.'
"Was blind, but now I see..."
Her family entered just behind her. Seeing their faces broke my heart. People in attendance tried to hold in sniffles and sobs out of respect.
The speeches and readings were wonderful, even if I must admit to getting lost in my thoughts of Steph once or twice, and to regularly fishing for tissue, and even to looking around to make sure I wan't the only rugby girl absolutely losing her fucking mind over this.
A few standouts- I believe it was an Aunt of Steph's who read a few verses, the takeaway of which was: Once one of God's children on Earth has learned all of their lessons, has reached perfection, and has fulfilled their purpose, it is then that he takes them from us, to join him in everlasting peace.
If anyone I know was likely to have learnt and fulfilled thus, it was Steph. I only wished the reward were different.
Also, her sisters and brother went to the podium. Her sister Jennifer read this touching, heart-breaking poem about her sister... you could hear her struggling against tears to keep her voice strong, which of course was making everyone there cry even harder. I admire her bravery for making it a far as she did.
I'm unsure of whether or not she finished it, because at one point, she looked down at her sister's casket, and I could kind of see the realization hit her. She walked down the steps towards the casket and started to cry, really cry. Then she hit her knees and buried her face in the floor, and screamed. And I recognized it. I remembered that grief. I remembered being so torn apart that I was numb, then sad, but sometimes the whole reality of my loss would hit me all at once and I'd feel so absolutely swallowed by the terror of it that I thought the tragedy of it all would rip me apart, it felt so unimaginably painful that I thought it might literally kill me.
But that was my Father. This was her sister, and I imagine it was magnified.
We took Holy Communion, exited the Church after the Family and Stephanie, and gathered outside for the 21 gun-salute and Taps. If you've never been to a full Military Funeral, I'm not sure I can accurately describe this part. I'll try.
It is dead silent. You hear one faint voice, calling the commands: Detail, atten-hut... Ready. Metal snaps on metal as the weapons are cocked. Aim. The sharp rustle of a unified movement. Fire! And the shots go off. Twice more. Seven riflemen firing three vollies.
And then Taps.
Day is done,
Gone the sun,
From the hills,
From the lake,
From the skies.
All is well,
safely rest,
God is nigh.
Go to sleep,
Peaceful sleep.
May the soldier
or sailor, God keep.
On the land
or the deep,
Safe in sleep.
Love, good night,
Must thou go?
When the Day
and the Night
Need thee so?
All is well.
Speedeth all
To their rest...
Thanks and praise,
For our days,
'Neath the sun,
'Neath the stars,
'Neath the sky,
As we go,
This we know,
God is nigh.
And Stephanie is gone. So we all just cried.
And I know that no matter how horribly, heart-wrenchingly sad I was, or am, or will be, I'll never understand what Steph's family is battling everyday when they wake up. I don't dare imagine that how I feel even begins to approach what any member of her family is feeling...especially her sisters. And all I can do, all any of us can do- is try and be there for them.
And remember Stephanie.
I wrote this so I'll never forget those days, but I know I'll never forget her.
Who could?
Another Rugby girl called me up. "Steph's dead."
...huh? What? My brain didn't take it all in. Couldn't.
Shock. That's all I felt. I distanced myself from it and felt ...shock.
And then a whirlwind of things- back to work and the everyday, schedule a ticket to attend the funeral, pack up, arrive, and stay at Cassie's house. Meet up with other Rugby Sisters and Norwich-ers one by one. We talked. We ate. We reminisced a bit.
I didn't cry, not once, I couldn't remember my Hurley yet. The Harley-Lee as she was to us, to each of us. I'd lose it. I blocked memories- memories of practice, of scrummaging with my head next to her ass, of hangin' in her room, of borrowing her microwave, of borrowing her perfume (I always do a lot of borrowing with friends...), of having talks with her about everything from the team to boys to my Dad to what was wrong with Norwich...that girl who I knew, who I looked up to, who I loved, could not be dead.
There was time aplenty for tears later. And they came. First at the wake, which was gorgeous, emotional, hilarious, and all the same upsetting and disturbing; I could never fathom the strength it took for Steph's family, especially her Mother and Father, to stand next to the open casket of their daughter for three hours and accept the condolences of so many people. It blows my mind. And seeing her there, like I saw my father 3 years ago... I had to remind myself we were paying tribute to her flesh, but that while the body in that casket housed her spirit for a short 23 years, that was no longer Stephanie.
Of course, all of us rugby girls got a real kick out of the Northeast Championship trophy among her personal NUWRFC (Norwich Univ Women's Rugby Football Club) collection-- because technically, she did kind of 'steal it' from the school, but hell! She was our captain who led us to that victory, she deserved it...oh, and we had all taken shots out of it, haha...
That was the first round of tears. We hit a bar, got a little boozy, and then rested up to prepare for the final goodbye, but I think (know damn well) none of us were ever ready for the funeral the next day.
There is a different kind of sorrow when someone so young and so beloved dies suddenly and seemingly without explanation. I would imagine that, had she died at a later age, her continuous accumulation of friends would have mandated a larger chapel, or perhaps an outdoor funeral.
As it was, we pulled up to a street lined with towering maple trees, grabbed our pocket packs, smoked our last smokes, and packed in to St. Mary's Church in Brookfield, Mass on the 8th of August, a Friday. It was sunny and mild, and the light in the church filtering through the stained glass windows was gorgeous. It was fitting. There was standing room only by the time they invited us to join them in the opening hymn, Amazing Grace. That was when the tears and emotions really started- you can't imagine. The few of those in attendance who were still managing a (remotely convincing) guise of composure attempted to squeeze out some steady strings of syllables to the acoustic accompaniment...
"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me..."
The procession entered. Sniffles all around. I'm in anguish. Did they really have to choose this song?
"I once was lost, but now I'm found..."
Stephanie's casket was cerimoniously carried in, all pallbearers in full dress uniform. Seeing the flag draped over her casket was... I don't know- honestly, the only word that comes to mind is 'numbing.'
"Was blind, but now I see..."
Her family entered just behind her. Seeing their faces broke my heart. People in attendance tried to hold in sniffles and sobs out of respect.
The speeches and readings were wonderful, even if I must admit to getting lost in my thoughts of Steph once or twice, and to regularly fishing for tissue, and even to looking around to make sure I wan't the only rugby girl absolutely losing her fucking mind over this.
A few standouts- I believe it was an Aunt of Steph's who read a few verses, the takeaway of which was: Once one of God's children on Earth has learned all of their lessons, has reached perfection, and has fulfilled their purpose, it is then that he takes them from us, to join him in everlasting peace.
If anyone I know was likely to have learnt and fulfilled thus, it was Steph. I only wished the reward were different.
Also, her sisters and brother went to the podium. Her sister Jennifer read this touching, heart-breaking poem about her sister... you could hear her struggling against tears to keep her voice strong, which of course was making everyone there cry even harder. I admire her bravery for making it a far as she did.
I'm unsure of whether or not she finished it, because at one point, she looked down at her sister's casket, and I could kind of see the realization hit her. She walked down the steps towards the casket and started to cry, really cry. Then she hit her knees and buried her face in the floor, and screamed. And I recognized it. I remembered that grief. I remembered being so torn apart that I was numb, then sad, but sometimes the whole reality of my loss would hit me all at once and I'd feel so absolutely swallowed by the terror of it that I thought the tragedy of it all would rip me apart, it felt so unimaginably painful that I thought it might literally kill me.
But that was my Father. This was her sister, and I imagine it was magnified.
We took Holy Communion, exited the Church after the Family and Stephanie, and gathered outside for the 21 gun-salute and Taps. If you've never been to a full Military Funeral, I'm not sure I can accurately describe this part. I'll try.
It is dead silent. You hear one faint voice, calling the commands: Detail, atten-hut... Ready. Metal snaps on metal as the weapons are cocked. Aim. The sharp rustle of a unified movement. Fire! And the shots go off. Twice more. Seven riflemen firing three vollies.
And then Taps.
Day is done,
Gone the sun,
From the hills,
From the lake,
From the skies.
All is well,
safely rest,
God is nigh.
Go to sleep,
Peaceful sleep.
May the soldier
or sailor, God keep.
On the land
or the deep,
Safe in sleep.
Love, good night,
Must thou go?
When the Day
and the Night
Need thee so?
All is well.
Speedeth all
To their rest...
Thanks and praise,
For our days,
'Neath the sun,
'Neath the stars,
'Neath the sky,
As we go,
This we know,
God is nigh.
And Stephanie is gone. So we all just cried.
And I know that no matter how horribly, heart-wrenchingly sad I was, or am, or will be, I'll never understand what Steph's family is battling everyday when they wake up. I don't dare imagine that how I feel even begins to approach what any member of her family is feeling...especially her sisters. And all I can do, all any of us can do- is try and be there for them.
And remember Stephanie.
I wrote this so I'll never forget those days, but I know I'll never forget her.
Who could?
31 July 2008
Take it- to the limit- one more tiiiime...
Okay. So, admittedly, when things were really bad and my health was crap and I felt like everything was happening to me...I may have overreacted a bit. The MRSA issue is cleared up, and while my veins are still hardened and painful in my arms from 12 days of heavy-duty IV antibiotics, there are no lingering effects to be seen (that I know of YET) and I'm back on my feet.
And with that comes an astronomical amount of work-teaching, tutoring, prepping, and even learning physics again -not only so I can teach it, but for my own good because I'm re-taking my MCATs in January. And I have a score goal in mind. And it is quite high. And I will get there.
To say I'm working a lot might imply that I'm unhappy, but quite the opposite is true. I love my job, and I love thinking and solving problem and helping students- it just never gets old (or hasn't yet anyhow...). I'm quite happy. I'm using skills I'm proud of and have worked hard at, and I never stop striving to be better and better at it-- oddly enough, never being satisfied is what keeps me satisfied. :)
No time for a long entry now, I'm proctoring a PCAT test- but I'll update more later. I've been remarkably busy, so the updates have been and will be less frequent...but I'll do my best. There is certainly plenty more to write about...mostly good, but some decidedly not so.
Ciao.
And with that comes an astronomical amount of work-teaching, tutoring, prepping, and even learning physics again -not only so I can teach it, but for my own good because I'm re-taking my MCATs in January. And I have a score goal in mind. And it is quite high. And I will get there.
To say I'm working a lot might imply that I'm unhappy, but quite the opposite is true. I love my job, and I love thinking and solving problem and helping students- it just never gets old (or hasn't yet anyhow...). I'm quite happy. I'm using skills I'm proud of and have worked hard at, and I never stop striving to be better and better at it-- oddly enough, never being satisfied is what keeps me satisfied. :)
No time for a long entry now, I'm proctoring a PCAT test- but I'll update more later. I've been remarkably busy, so the updates have been and will be less frequent...but I'll do my best. There is certainly plenty more to write about...mostly good, but some decidedly not so.
Ciao.
03 July 2008
All I can say is that my life is pretty plain.
I must have done something truly horrible to deserve the past week or so of my life.
I have a nurse come to my house twice a day to give me the antibiotics..I think I mentioned that...and besides the fact that it stings like all hell, makes me itch unless I get an infusion of benadryl which literally feels like acid and has to be prefaced by an ice-pack sitting on my arm, there's also the added discomfort of the infection barely reacting to the heavy-duty antibiotics, and OH YEAH- the drug is fucking with everything from my digestive system to my sleeping habits to my thermoregulation- sweats, shivers, nightmares...
It's not even worth it. I'd almost rather die of MRSA.
Oh, did I mention that because I'm "only" getting the vancomycin for ten days, my doctor decided NOT to give me a pic line, but a peripheral line. This means the needle and catheter are in my arm, or my hand, or my wrist..well, all of the above because my veins are so intolerant that EVERY fucking line we start gives out on me in the matter of two or three days, so I currently have SEVEN, count 'em, 7 needle sticks in my arm.
Once the line gets clogged, it leaves a nasty bruise and triggers an inflammatory reaction so that the area becomes swollen and red and numb. I have dealt with this. Seven times over. There is only one remaining spot on my arm where it's not so swollen that we can start a new IV (which we'll have to today).
It's in my hand, which I'm dreading, because the last time we even attempted to start a hand line I was in tears because it hurt. So. Fucking. Bad. And then it moves and aches when I'm teaching or tutoring, which I've actually had to cancel twice because of my fever spiking more than once (which makes no sense...)and it's embarassing and I have to cover it up with this cotton fucking sleeve thingy in goddamn 90 plus degrees with humidity so bad I'm sweating even without the thing on.
And I haven't been able to run, swim, or rollerblade in over a week because if I sweat into it it can...get this...get infected.
Fucking A.
And I've been shut-off and out of the life of someone I care about. Which I keep trying to convince myself is minor, because I have my own life here, and my own friends, and my own future. But when I can't even turn on the FUCKING radio without some stupid song coming on that freakishly keeps following me (see title of entry), it reminds me that rejection on this scale smarts no matter how far away I run or how I swear to myself that it's "for the best."
But other than that. Enlistment's going well. I'm teaching and tutoring quite a bit, and slowly climbing out of debt, the weather is nice when it's not shitty, and I'm averaging 2 books per week. And I've been getting hit on a lot. So at least I know I don't look like complete shit, even if it's how I feel. Bleh. My arms are killing me and my fever's 101, so I think I'll go nap now.
I have a nurse come to my house twice a day to give me the antibiotics..I think I mentioned that...and besides the fact that it stings like all hell, makes me itch unless I get an infusion of benadryl which literally feels like acid and has to be prefaced by an ice-pack sitting on my arm, there's also the added discomfort of the infection barely reacting to the heavy-duty antibiotics, and OH YEAH- the drug is fucking with everything from my digestive system to my sleeping habits to my thermoregulation- sweats, shivers, nightmares...
It's not even worth it. I'd almost rather die of MRSA.
Oh, did I mention that because I'm "only" getting the vancomycin for ten days, my doctor decided NOT to give me a pic line, but a peripheral line. This means the needle and catheter are in my arm, or my hand, or my wrist..well, all of the above because my veins are so intolerant that EVERY fucking line we start gives out on me in the matter of two or three days, so I currently have SEVEN, count 'em, 7 needle sticks in my arm.
Once the line gets clogged, it leaves a nasty bruise and triggers an inflammatory reaction so that the area becomes swollen and red and numb. I have dealt with this. Seven times over. There is only one remaining spot on my arm where it's not so swollen that we can start a new IV (which we'll have to today).
It's in my hand, which I'm dreading, because the last time we even attempted to start a hand line I was in tears because it hurt. So. Fucking. Bad. And then it moves and aches when I'm teaching or tutoring, which I've actually had to cancel twice because of my fever spiking more than once (which makes no sense...)and it's embarassing and I have to cover it up with this cotton fucking sleeve thingy in goddamn 90 plus degrees with humidity so bad I'm sweating even without the thing on.
And I haven't been able to run, swim, or rollerblade in over a week because if I sweat into it it can...get this...get infected.
Fucking A.
And I've been shut-off and out of the life of someone I care about. Which I keep trying to convince myself is minor, because I have my own life here, and my own friends, and my own future. But when I can't even turn on the FUCKING radio without some stupid song coming on that freakishly keeps following me (see title of entry), it reminds me that rejection on this scale smarts no matter how far away I run or how I swear to myself that it's "for the best."
But other than that. Enlistment's going well. I'm teaching and tutoring quite a bit, and slowly climbing out of debt, the weather is nice when it's not shitty, and I'm averaging 2 books per week. And I've been getting hit on a lot. So at least I know I don't look like complete shit, even if it's how I feel. Bleh. My arms are killing me and my fever's 101, so I think I'll go nap now.
24 June 2008
IVs and Awkwardly Long Hugs
Wellll this has been interesting...
Some thoughts- the idea of a New Year, turning over a 'new leaf' and making resolutions, all of that tomfoolery I don't really buy into that occurs on Jan 1st every year-- it's kind of off schedule. I mean, unless you were brought into the world on Jan 1st, your new year isn't really then... of course chronologically speaking it's the day the new calendar begins, but in terms of each individual's life, the start of your New Year is your birthday.
I am now on my 22nd year, and so this is my New Year. And I'm really embracing it this time, because this one is mine alone (well... not totally alone, I know, but stay with me.) I've started Dance classes as my birthday gift to myself, it's cool 'cause they're close to my job and have a flexible schedule. I'm surprisingly coordinated and feel lighter on my feet already (mostly just in my head, but I like to think I look gracefull, lol) I'm having so much fun, and it breaks the monotony of my workout routines. Speaking of which, I have to stop swimming for 2 weeks because my "New Year" started off to a less-than-desirable start. :(
My fever spiked and I had to go to a specialist in infectious diseases (an "ID Doc" if you will, the specialty I'm interested in,) because the medications I've been on weren't fighting my infection well enough. They decided they needed to give me IV vancomyocin, which is the BIG GUN in the fight against MRSA (what I regrettably recently found out was the cause of this whole mess, it's a good thing I insisted on a culture!) So NOW I have an IV line in my right arm for the next 10 days and a Nurse has to come to my house twice a day to give me the medication.
And today, during the first infusion I was like "Oh, I'll be fine, I never get any side effects..." Sure enough, right as the infusion wrapped up, I got this horrible redness and flushing all the way from my abdomen up my neck and face! I felt like I was being attacked by tiny ants under my skin and I burned everywhere and turned bright red...so THEN they had to shoot me up with IV benadryl, and lemme tell ya, that shit packs a PUNCH. I was woozy and acting really high, apparently. But I had this awesome Nurse Kim, and she sat with me while we talked about how much we loved our Microbiology classes in college and also had an awesome conversation on the development of drug resistant bugs around the world. There was some malaria discussion in there as well, and the doctor (who gave me more than one awkwardly long hug, over by like 2 seconds- hence the title of this entry) joined in. So all in all it was pretty cool, and just reaffirmed my decision on Med School.
More on that later- but suffice to say that I'm on the right track, be it a roundabout one. It involves enlistment, but I'm really excited about it! I can only teach (and have this much time on my hands) for so long before I get antsy and, for fear of stagnation, get back on the course I'm passionate about. Can't wait for boot camp, to be perfectly honest.
Aaand most everything else is going smoothly. Making friends down here is easy, but I've stuck mostly to Catrina, Karla, Jesse and Brooke because they've been there through everything (and know how to have fun.) I suppose I am really enjoying being home and reading books and visiting my old haunts, mainly the Barnes and Noble across the street (where a manager I know gives me his employee discount on the books I buy-shweeet!), the movie theater, and some local sushi bars. Mmm. Sushi.
Until next time...read this book: Too Soon Old, Too Late Smart by Dr. Gordon Livingston. I finished it, it's awesome, and I'm now on My Sister's Keeper, which I heard was great.
And to those of you who e-mailed me, I really appreciate the encouragement. :P
Ciao Bella!
Some thoughts- the idea of a New Year, turning over a 'new leaf' and making resolutions, all of that tomfoolery I don't really buy into that occurs on Jan 1st every year-- it's kind of off schedule. I mean, unless you were brought into the world on Jan 1st, your new year isn't really then... of course chronologically speaking it's the day the new calendar begins, but in terms of each individual's life, the start of your New Year is your birthday.
I am now on my 22nd year, and so this is my New Year. And I'm really embracing it this time, because this one is mine alone (well... not totally alone, I know, but stay with me.) I've started Dance classes as my birthday gift to myself, it's cool 'cause they're close to my job and have a flexible schedule. I'm surprisingly coordinated and feel lighter on my feet already (mostly just in my head, but I like to think I look gracefull, lol) I'm having so much fun, and it breaks the monotony of my workout routines. Speaking of which, I have to stop swimming for 2 weeks because my "New Year" started off to a less-than-desirable start. :(
My fever spiked and I had to go to a specialist in infectious diseases (an "ID Doc" if you will, the specialty I'm interested in,) because the medications I've been on weren't fighting my infection well enough. They decided they needed to give me IV vancomyocin, which is the BIG GUN in the fight against MRSA (what I regrettably recently found out was the cause of this whole mess, it's a good thing I insisted on a culture!) So NOW I have an IV line in my right arm for the next 10 days and a Nurse has to come to my house twice a day to give me the medication.
And today, during the first infusion I was like "Oh, I'll be fine, I never get any side effects..." Sure enough, right as the infusion wrapped up, I got this horrible redness and flushing all the way from my abdomen up my neck and face! I felt like I was being attacked by tiny ants under my skin and I burned everywhere and turned bright red...so THEN they had to shoot me up with IV benadryl, and lemme tell ya, that shit packs a PUNCH. I was woozy and acting really high, apparently. But I had this awesome Nurse Kim, and she sat with me while we talked about how much we loved our Microbiology classes in college and also had an awesome conversation on the development of drug resistant bugs around the world. There was some malaria discussion in there as well, and the doctor (who gave me more than one awkwardly long hug, over by like 2 seconds- hence the title of this entry) joined in. So all in all it was pretty cool, and just reaffirmed my decision on Med School.
More on that later- but suffice to say that I'm on the right track, be it a roundabout one. It involves enlistment, but I'm really excited about it! I can only teach (and have this much time on my hands) for so long before I get antsy and, for fear of stagnation, get back on the course I'm passionate about. Can't wait for boot camp, to be perfectly honest.
Aaand most everything else is going smoothly. Making friends down here is easy, but I've stuck mostly to Catrina, Karla, Jesse and Brooke because they've been there through everything (and know how to have fun.) I suppose I am really enjoying being home and reading books and visiting my old haunts, mainly the Barnes and Noble across the street (where a manager I know gives me his employee discount on the books I buy-shweeet!), the movie theater, and some local sushi bars. Mmm. Sushi.
Until next time...read this book: Too Soon Old, Too Late Smart by Dr. Gordon Livingston. I finished it, it's awesome, and I'm now on My Sister's Keeper, which I heard was great.
And to those of you who e-mailed me, I really appreciate the encouragement. :P
Ciao Bella!
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