Ah, yes.
After several very long and very uncomfortable months of sitting on this broken chair, and after several months of diligently shopping and searching, I finally have a new desk chair.
And quite frankly, I’ve never been so excited, or so in love, with a piece of furniture!
Totally. Swag.
New Year + New Chair + Scented Candles + Coffee + Cold Air = Writing.
And I’ve never been happier.
🙂
Once upon a time, there was a girl named Melody.
She has reddish-brown hair and big brown doe eyes. She lives at home with her loving parents and her teenage son. She spends most of her time inside of her pretty purple paradise, wearing comfy cozy pajamas, reading blogs, working on her novel, smoking Newport 100’s, drinking coffee, and excessively ‘liking’ other people’s updates on Facebook.
Melody is a dedicated mother, daughter, and friend. She enjoys her the role as the Family Historian/Paparazzi, making movies, playing Golf, Words With Friends, and Bejeweled Blitz. Melody also has extensive Food Allergies, Lupus, Sjogren’s, and Crohn’s Disease. But none of her ‘Annoying Medical Conditions’ could have possibly prepared her for the nightmare she was about to face.
One day, out of the clear blue sky, something awful happened to Melody. It was something so terrible she vowed she would never to tell another living soul. However Melody can’t keep a secret to save her fucking life. And she had to tell someone. So, she called her very best friend, otherwise known as Annie The Barber. Melody was fairly certain that she is the only woman on the face of the earth to ever go through such a horrific experience.
But she was wrong.
After speaking with Annie The Barber, Melody was surprised to discover her best friend knew another woman who had gone through the very same thing. Within a matter of days, Melody learned of three other women who had also undergone through this painful ordeal. Melody began to wonder…maybe this situation really isn’t all that uncommon?
However, if it’s never happened to you personally, chances are you’ve never heard about it. And that’s precisely when Melody and Annie The Barber thought about discussing such a Taboo Topic, in a public forum, for several reasons.
At first, Melody resisted. She spent countless nights considering the consequences that might accompany this sort of material. She truly wrestled the pros and cons, because even though she’s been dubbed ‘The Queen of T.M.I.’ she really worried about offending some of her readers.
Eventually, Melody ultimately decided she could and should allow everyone to see behind the proverbial curtain. Because this is the second time it’s happened to her. And, she totally kept her mouth shut the first time around. And, let’s face it. Women have to deal with enough shit alone. Opening a dialog about this subject matter just might help someone else.
WARNING: This post is not for the squeamish. It’s graphic. And it’s gross. Proceed at your own risk, with caution.
One afternoon Melody was happily typing away on her Macbook Pro when she suddenly felt a pinching sensation Down Below. Since Melody ‘manicures’ the Bearded Clam she thought it was probably just an ingrown hair. She applied a small amount of Zinc Oxide and a Band-Aid, before proceeding with the rest of her day.
Much to Melody’s dismay, within twelve hours the pea-sized lump on her Pink Taco lip had swelled up to the size of a hard-boiled egg. And no, that’s not hyperbole.
The welt on her Bejingo became so inflamed she was sure it would burst merely from the pressure. Melody literally wanted to DIE from the excruciating pain. She could not sit. She could not stand. And she definitely could not walk.
With tears streaming down her sweaty face and desperate for relief, Melody begged her mother to take a look at her VaJayJay. And if that wasn’t humiliating enough? After one glance at her Peekachoo, Melody’s mother ran next door to ask the neighbors girlfriend to come look at the wounded area. Said neighbor’s girlfriend had gone through a similar situation a few months back and she might know what to do.
After both women assessed Melody’s Poontang, they realized they had no choice but to go to the Emergency Room. Melody had a high fever and she was vomiting. She never felt so helpless in her whole entire life.
Luckily, the Emergency Room wasn’t too packed and they were able to treat Melody pretty quickly. Of course the OBGYN on-call was a man. But at that point he could have been an alien for all she cared. He promised to stop the agony.
According to the physician, apparently women have what’s called Bartholin Glands. They are located at the entrance to a woman’s vagina, one on each side. They are small and cannot be seen or felt when they are normal. Their function is to secrete fluid onto the mucosal (inner) surface of the labia.
Who knew?
[Seriously, that’s a real question.]
Clearly, Melody’s Bartholin Gland wasn’t doing its’ job. Unfortunately for her it became blocked, thus the gland could not secrete whatever it’s supposed to. Which, in turn, lead to an infection, otherwise known as an Abscess Cyst. And that meant Melody would have to endure minor surgery called “Marsupialization.”
Now, even though Melody was never so happy to sit spread eagle, in stirrups, with a huge spotlight shining on her Broken Box, the actual process is equivalent to mid-evil horrific.
[Hang on to your hats and lunches, people. This is where things get really nasty.]
A Bartholin Cyst Abscess needs to be opened a lá kangaroo pouch style, incised and drained, followed by suturing the incised wall to remain in an opened position, in order for the healing to occur by granulation of the tissue formation from the base of the incision. After being drained, they take a sample of the fluid, to send out for cultures.
And if there was ever an appropriate time to dispense Propofol, this would have been that time. For Christ sakes, they knock a person out at the dentist office. And that’s precisely when Melody wished she was having a root canal instead.
Sadly for Melody, the medical professionals would not sedate her. Instead, Melody had a gigantic needle filled with local anesthesia rammed into her Delicate Flower three different times. And that’s when Melody’s Vahgeena acted like a total Pussy. And not just because Melody is terrified of needles, but because that feeling was worse than giving birth. And she was in labor for 42 hours y’all.
Thankfully, the lidocaine worked immediately and Melody did not feel anything else. Melody cried tears of relief while the doctor stitched her lip back together and wrote out her prescriptions.
After Melody came home and resting comfortably in her bed, the anesthesia wore off. The site of her incision and the stitches felt like a million, hot, burning, stinging, knives – and the area was beating like a heart pulsating. She stayed flat on her back, popping Vicodin like tic tacs — for three days in a row.
Four days after the incident, Melody still couldn’t drive, or stand for too long. And she couldn’t walk more than two steps without looking she suffered a mysterious horseback-riding incident. Melody’s mother drove her to the follow-up visit with her regular doctor. They removed the stitches and three feet of gauze packing from the incision, otherwise that could have gotten infected. And that’s when Melody received the results of the cultures they had taken. On top of everything else, she had a rare strain of a Staph Infection.
She remained home for several more days hopped up on heavy-duty antibiotics, and painkillers, completely pant-less. It was probably the most traumatic seven days of her entire life. In fact, Melody is still not on speaking terms with her Nether Region.
And that my friends, is how Melody was forced to climb ‘Broke Box Mountain.’
* Did you throw up yet?
Oh, and now Melody is considering making T-Shirts that say: BOW TO THE BOX.
What…a crazy year I had.
Let’s recap.
Shall we?
January started off with a mean case of writers block that ultimately ended with the purchase of a pair of Pajama Jeans. Followed by ‘The Snowpocalyse’ wherein we received over 20 inches of snow and included a video of my crazy ‘No-Garbage-Neighbor’ shoveling out his car with a dustpan.
When February rolled around, sadly, I was forced to deal with the passing of my beloved Gramma Evelyn. And my son diligently prepared for his Gym Class Mid-Term Exam.
In March we decided to undergo a few home renovations. And one of those renovations resulted in my father sawing a sofa in half. Good times. My son directed his very first movie for history class. And I discovered two very strange products.
During the month of April, I finally wrote about my Totally-Super-Awesome Aunt Bea Who Could Easily Pass for Jane Fonda – for the very first time on my blog. And, I complained about receiving unsolicited advice and too many medical brochures from good ole’ Poppa Sye.
And then, the month of May completely kicked my ass. We celebrated My Mother’s Birthday, Poppa Sye’s Birthday, My Son’s Birthday, and Mother’s day. We also discovered The Honey Badger and all its’ glory. I hosted the Which Dog Is Cuter competition. And, I unloaded some raw emotional honesty.
Unfortunately, in June I got into an accident and my car was totaled. But, as awful as that was, at least I got to drive around this SCOOTER for a few weeks.
* But it was the month of July changed my life, forever. First, I had a wonderful visit from one of my closest blogger friends Nicky. And then, I almost died from eating a salad. Like for real. Who knew lettuce could be deadly?
In August, I survived Hurricane Irene with Poppa Sye. And I learned a new favorite word. The Molestache.
By the time September came around, I was ready for this year to be over. However, a few note worthy occasions happened. I got seriously lost while trying to find a house in the woods. I was forced to face my fear of bridges when meeting up with fellow blogger and author Margaret Andrews and I almost married her. And then my 15 year old son, Justin, wrote his very first Guest Post.
In October, we celebrated My 37th Birthday. My father got into an argument with a neighbor over a parking space, AND, he channeled his ‘Inner Larry David’ while yelling at a cashier in the grocery store. Oh, and I drove my car, in public, on the highway, while looking like this.
Thankfully, November was much more laid back than any other month. My family celebrated Thanksgiving by dancing our asses off. And speaking of asses, I live through yet another colonoscopy.
And that brings us to December. Quite frankly, this month sucked. I’ve spent most of my time in the hospital with Poppa Sye hoping and praying for a miracle, until he passed away peacefully at home, surrounded by loved ones.
And yet, somehow?
We still managed to celebrate My Father’s Birthday. Christmas. And Hanukkah with style.
But, as far as I’m concerned….
2011 can suck it sideways, filthy whore, shitbag year!
That being said.
I am truly ready for a New Year and New beginnings.
So, Happy F*cking New Year MoFo’s!
* I will be back to blogging after the New Year.
PS:
I am not very good at making or keeping Resolutions. Seriously, I am not joining a gym, nor will I try to quit smoking any time soon. But, I do need to make some changes. And that’s why I like to hear what YOUR resolutions are, because quite frankly? I am fresh out of ideas.
So tell me boys & girls, what are you going to be doing differently in 2012?
I don’t want very much for Christmas/Hanukkah this year. In fact, I really just want the person reading this to be happy. Friends are the fruit cake of life: some nutty, some soaked in alcohol, and some sweet. But mix them together and they’re my friends. And I could not be more blessed.
At Christmas/Hanukkah you always hear people talking about what they want and/or what they bought.
So, I figured I’d do the same.
Dear Santa,
I want people who are sick with no cure to be able to be cured. I want children with no families to be adopted. I want people to never have to worry about food, shelter and heat. I want peace and love for everyone.
But if that’s too much to ask for…can I please just get a new desk chair?
Clearly, this one is broken.
* Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah y’all.
What do YOU want this holiday season?
It is with a very heavy heart I must announce the passing of my beloved grandfather.
Seymour Walter, otherwise known as, Poppa Sye.
I have so many wonderful memories of him and the times we shared together. Whether it was spending the summers with him and Manga in Florida, or getting to be there for him every single day, for the last three years in a row.
And I will cherish those moments, forever.
Like how he used to say:
“One bright day, in the middle of the night,
Two dead boys got up to fight.
Back to back; they faced each other.
Drew their swords and shot each other.
A deaf policeman heard the noise
came and shot those two dead boys.
A blind reporter saw it all,
And wrote the news upon the wall.”
AND
“I used to be behind before. But now, I’m first at last.”
——————-
*As per ‘Family Tradition’ I’d like to share the following story:
The Waterbug Story
Down below the surface of a quiet pond lived a little colony of waterbugs. They were a happy colony, living far away from the sun. For many months they were very busy, scurrying over the soft mud on the bottom of the pond. They did notice that every once in a while one of their colony seemed to lose interest in going about with its friends. Clinging to the stem of a pond lily, it gradually moved out of sight and was seen no more.
“Look!” said one of the waterbugs to another, one of our colony is climbing up the lily stalk. Where do you think she’s going?” Up, up, up it slowly went. Even as they watched, the waterbug disappeared from sight. It’s friends waited and waited but it didn’t return. “That’s funny!” said one waterbug to another,”Wasn’t she happy here?” asked a second, “Where do you suppose she went?” wondered a third.
No one had an answer. They were greatly puzzled. Finally one of the waterbugs gathered its friends together. “I have an idea. The next one of us who climbs up the lily stalk must promise to come back and tell us where he or she went and why.” “We promise,” they said solemnly.
One spring day not long after the very waterbug who had suggested the plan, found himself climbing up the lily stalk. Up, up, up he went. Before he knew what was happening, he had broken through the surface of the water and had fallen into the broad and free lily pad above. When he awoke, he looked about with surprise. He couldn’t believe what he saw. A startling change had come over his old body. His movement revealed four silver wings and a long tail. Even as he struggled, he felt an impulse to move his wings. The warmth of the sun soon dried the moisture from his new body. He moved his wings again and suddenly found himself above the water. He became a dragonfly.
Swooping and dipping in great curves, he flew through the air. He felt exhilarated in the new atmosphere. By and by the new dragonfly landed happily on a lily pad to rest. That was when he chanced to look below to the bottom of the pond. Why, he was right above his old friends, the waterbugs! There they were scurrying around, just as he had been doing sometime before.
Then the dragonfly remembered the promise. Without thinking, the dragonfly darted down. Suddenly he hit the surface of the water and bounced away. Now that he was a dragonfly, he could no longer go into the water…. “I can’t return” he said in dismay. “At least I tried. But I can’t keep my promise. Even if I could go back, not one of the water bugs would know me in my new body. I guess I’ll just have to wait until they become dragonflies too. Then they’ll understand what has happened to me, and where I went.” And the dragonfly winged off happily into a wonderful new world of sun and air.
Poppa Sye became a dragonfly on December 12, 2011 at 10:40am and I’m so glad. Because now he can soar as high as he wants to, along with his wife Dorothy and still watch us through the pond which separates us. I feel a great peace in knowing that one day we’ll be together on the same lily pad, soaking up the warm rays of the sun.
*Most of you have come to know, and love my Poppa Sye, simply through this blog. You’ve seen his photos and you’ve read his stories. He was an extraordinary man. I am blessed to have had him in my life. I will never forget the life lessons he taught me.
I would like to believe he’s in heaven, dancing once again, with his only True Love.
The following Video Tribute is how I will always remember him….
PS: These are my favorite Poppa Sye blog posts:
—————
I will miss you, Poppa Sye.
I love you.
* First and foremost, I would sincerely like to thank all of YOU for your kind words, never-ending support, and loving prayers. Also, the jokes have been a fabulous distraction.
For those of you who follow me on Facebook, you may already know what I am about to say. But, for those of you who don’t follow me, or for those of you who may have missed this particular ‘Status Update’ – Here’s the scoop.
Friday afternoon, just as I was sitting down for lunch with a girlfriend I received a phone call from my son. He told me that my grandfather, Poppa Sye, had fallen down. And even though my mother was with him, she was scared, so could I please come home. Without any hesitation I raced to my house only to find my mother lying on the kitchen floor next Poppa Sye. He was shaking as though he was having some kind of seizure. My mother looked terrified while stroking his head and saying, “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”
I immediately grabbed the phone and dialed 911. I informed them Poppa Sye appeared to be having a stroke and to please hurry. Much to my surprise, they showed up within fifteen minuets. And then every thing happened so quickly as if we were in a movie and someone pressed fast-forward.
Luckily we had a list of my grandfather’s medications along with his ‘Living Will’ conveniently hanging on the refrigerator. Which came in very handy while being questioned by the EMT. They were absolutely wonderful with Poppa Sye. Truly. I could not have asked for a better team. Once they put him in the ambulance, my mother and I followed them to the hospital.
Inside the hospital a million different doctors came into the room asking a million different questions. Poppa Sye answered them to the best of his ability. But, considering half of his face was drooping, most of his words were slurred. They took Poppa Sye in and out of the room for cat-scans and x-rays to make sure none of his bones were broken from the fall. Thankfully, he did NOT break any bones. And taking into account how frail he is – that is nothing short of a miracle.
The doctors cleared out after Poppa Sye was hooked up to all kinds of machines monitoring all kinds of things. And then something happened that I will never forget.
My mother was sitting next to him and he started twitching involuntary, badly. She grabbed his hand and he squeezed it with all of his might. He opened his left eye and I could see it bouncing back and forth, violently. My mother said, “It’s okay, daddy. I’m right here.” And he very slowly replied like he was speaking in cursive, “I don’t know what’s going to happen next. But I am staying HERE with YOU.” I didn’t want my mother to see my cry, so I exited the room to collect myself. When I came back, he was kissing her hand. I never saw my grandfather kiss his daughter like that.
We wrapped him up like a burrito with the blanket I brought from our house. His black and blue hands were ice cold. And then we just sat with him until he fell asleep. By the time my brother made it to the hospital from Pennsylvania Poppa Sye was out cold.
My father entertained us while trying to learn how to send a photo as a text message. And I kid you not it took him at least 45 minutes. But that’s another story entirely. After a few hours of doing absolutely nothing other than listening to blips and beeps on monitors, my parents told my brother and I to go back home.
When I left my parents at the hospital Poppa Sye was still sleeping. They came home a few hours later and told me he was the same as when I had left.
Saturday morning, my parents went back to the hospital. Poppa Sye was semi-responsive to commands (lift your right arm) but he still couldn’t open his eyes, or speak. But when they went back to the hospital Saturday afternoon, he was not so responsive to commands. He wouldn’t squeeze anyone’s hands. He wouldn’t move any body parts. He won’t open his eyes or speak. It’s as if he’s in a very deep sleep. But you can’t wake him up. However the doctors said he’s NOT in a coma. So I don’t know WHAT this is.
Later that evening, my father and I headed back to the hospital. Looking at him laying in the bed so helpless and lifeless, broke my heart into a thousand pieces. We tried to talking to him, but he didn’t answer. He was flailing around like you do when you’re having a bad dream and the cozy blanket slid down off his shoulders. My father went over to cover him back up.
“Sye, are you cold?” My father shouted.
And then, I could literally see Poppa Sye struggling to speak. He turned his head and the words, “A little” floated out of his mouth like a small child singing a song.
I sprung up from my chair and raced over to him. “Poppa Sye, do you know that we love you?” He nodded yes.
My father told him he was in the hospital, that he was safe, and that people were taking good care of him. And then he faded right back into unconsciousness.
As of right now, We don’t know how long he’s going to be in the hospital. We don’t know if he had a stroke or if it was some kind of seizure. They are still running tests. And I don’t know if he will recover because we do not have a prognosis at this time. It’s way too soon to tell.
But, I do know one thing. I know that Poppa Sye is a fighter and one stubborn SOB.
Even at 91 years old he will not simply give up.
*The photo above was taken in the summer of 2009. And no, that’s not Sye’s motorcycle.
I don’t know when I will be available online. And I don’t know when I’ll be able to answer emails, phone calls, or text messages. Everything in my world has come to a screeching halt. All I can do is wait. And I don’t do ‘waiting’ very well. I’ve been pacing around my house [and hospital hallways] cleaning everything in sight. Seriously. I even Windexed our washer and dryer. Inside and out.
For a split second, I expected to see Poppa Sye walking down the hallway with a fist full of mail, huge yellow glasses, suspenders, handkerchief, and metal cane. Until I remembered he’s in the hospital. And suddenly I realized my house feels extremely different without him in it.
So, I am going to ask all of you for a favor. Please keep us in your prayers. And please keep sending funny jokes. Because even if I can’t respond, know that I am reading them.
And laughter is essential right now.
* The photo above was taken at the DeSordi Family BBQ, on August 2007
I will be in the hospital today, tomorrow, and for how ever many days Poppa Sye is there. But I will try my very best to update Facebook as often as I can.
Thanks again, everyone.
I am blessed to have such an amazing circle of friends.
————————————————
UPDATE 12/7/2011
We just received The Phone Call. It’s time to make Poppa Sye ‘As Comfortable As Possible.’ Helping my mother make the arrangements for Hospice to bring him home.
UPDATE 12/9/2011
Hospital Bed Delivered [x] Medical Supplies & Machines Hooked Up [x] Oxygen Tank Warnings on Front Door [x] Hospice People On The Way [x] Poppa Sye arrived home via ambulance [x] Feeling sick to my stomach [x]
UPDATE 12/12/2011
Poppa Sye is still hanging in. Although, now it’s really only a matter of time.
Ever since I was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease back in ’06, I am subjected to an annual colonoscopy. However, just because I’ve had this procedure done before, doesn’t make the experience any easier, or any fun. Oh, no.
Let’s start with ‘Prepping For A Colonoscopy’ – Shall we?
The day before the procedure, you have to fast for 24 hours and attempt to survive on a diet of clear liquids. You will also have to fill a prescription for a very special kind of laxative. And by special kind of laxative, I mean the kind of laxative that is so powerful, it actually makes a person beg for mercy. And by special kind of laxative, I don’t mean some tiny, little, pill that you can swallow and forget about. No. Because that would be far too easy. And there is NOTHING easy about a colonoscopy, my friends.
This special kind of laxative is the kind of laxative you have to drink. And without getting into graphic detail; let’s just say, I’d rather drink battery acid. Because gagging down an entire gallon of cherry-flavored mucus, is really not my idea of a good time. You may never be able to get that distinguished taste out of your mouth.
Within a matter of seconds, I started writhing in pain. Intense cramps took over my entire body, that can only be compared to child-birth-back-labor. Beads of sweat formed a perfect line on my forehead. I raced into my bathroom and unleashed the immense pressure, also known as ‘Firewater From Hell.’ My stomach morphed into a blender and it was stuck on the ‘Puree’ cycle.
Luckily, I had these lovely *HOLY SHIT HANDLES* to grasp onto.
[Honestly, I never thought I’d be grateful for Poppa Sye’s medical toilet set-up.]
And then, I was trapped in the bathroom for the next 8-12 hours. My rectum convulsed violently, performing multiple seizures, as I expelled everything I had ever eaten over the past year of my life. And I silently prayed to the bathroom gods to ‘please make it stop’ right quick.
Thankfully, Poppa Sye’s ‘Shower Chair’ doubled as a ‘Portable Desk’ and I managed to find endless distractions, on the internet, while abusing: Baby Wipes, Fabreeze, and Facebook.
People will tell you that prepping for a colonoscopy is the worst part of the process. And they would be correct. But sadly, that wasn’t the case for me.
And here’s why…
The next morning, I woke up feeling extremely weak and literally depleted. I took a cold shower, in order to revive myself, in lieu of drinking coffee. I threw my hair in bun, and put on a fresh pair of cozy pajamas. Because if I was going to be forcibly Ass-Raped, then by-god, I was going to be comfortable.
The drive to the Surgi-Center wasn’t all that terrible. The whore of a highway, also known as ‘The New Jersey Turnpike’ was rather forgiving, with little to no traffic. And, I arrived on time for my 11:30am appointment. I filled out all of the necessary paperwork. I charged my $100.00 co-pay. I designated my mother as the ‘In Case Of Emergency Person’. And then I took a seat.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
FOR AN HOUR AND A HALF. [Otherwise known as eternity.]
Here’s the thing about waiting. It provides just enough time to imagine every single worst-case-scenario, and induce a full-blown anxiety attack.
What if something goes wrong? What if I don’t wake up from the anesthesia? What if my intestines explode? What if I have colon cancer? What if they find a tumor? Who’s going to raise my son? Good lord, I’m starving. Why is the doctor taking so long? Did someone die back there? Why would they give me an 11 o’clock appointment, if they are just going to make me wait? I could be sleeping right now. But, no. Instead, I am stuck here, sitting on the worlds most uncomfortable chair, with what feels like extra large hemorrhoids. Wait, I don’t remember my hemorrhoids ever feeling this gigantic. Oh well, at least I’m in the right place to have that checked out. I’d seriously kill for a cup of coffee right now. But, why am I still in the damn waiting area? Hello! Can anyone see me? Are you kidding? Wasn’t the prep enough torture? I really can’t take much more. Fuck. This. Maybe I’ll just walk out. Can I sneak in a quick cigarette? How can I be so cold and sweating at the same time?
I glanced around the waiting area, several times, trying to assess how much longer I’d have to wait. I even asked the front desk receptionist when she thought I’d be able to get back to see the doctor. She told me, “Oh, five – ten minutes.” Fine. I thought. I can handle another ten minutes. So, I sat back down.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
FOR ANOTHER HOUR AND A HALF.
Suddenly, I realized people who had come into the waiting area AFTER me, were getting called back BEFORE me. For a split second, I thought I was in the middle of the Seinfeld episode where they wait for a table at a Chinese restaurant. And that? Was more than enough to shove me, right over the proverbial edge. By the time the nurse finally called for me, I was ready to kill people.
“And how are you, today?” The nurse politely asked.
To which I nastily replied, “How am I? Really, lady? I’m scared. I’m starving. I’m freezing. And I have the worst headache ever. I am clearly suffering from caffeine withdrawal, and I’m also having a nicotine fit. Plus, on top of everything, I have my fucking period with horribly painful cramps. And I’m terrified of needles. Oh, and y’all left me in the waiting room for three goddamned hours. So how am I? WELL, I’M NOT VERY GOOD!”
I immediately felt terrible for spewing my emotional vomit all over this poor unsuspecting nurse. Uncontrollable tears streamed down my pale, white, face. I became completely hysterical as I changed into the dreaded paper gown. When I came out of the locker room, the nurse I screamed at, had assigned me to a different nurse. Probably a good idea.
With tears still streaming down my cheeks, I walked over to the gurney filled with more anxiety than ever. It was time for them to place the IV in my arm. And just for the record, Meleah + Needles = MASSIVE PANIC ATTACK. The nurse tried her very best to stick one of my superficial rolling veins. But, when I nearly fainted, she had to stop. Hyperventilating, I laid down on the bed.
“Sweetie, you need to calm down.” She quietly tried soothing me.
“I know. I’m just really bad with needles. Like seriously, I am terrified.”
“Well, I have to get this into your arm, otherwise you can’t have the procedure, okay?”
The mere thought of having to go through the prep all over again, was enough to get me to try and focus.
“Alright,” I stammered, “but I’m going to have to sing, while you try again.”
“Go right ahead.” She smiled.
The instant I felt the cold alcohol wipe on my once already pricked arm, I belted out the alphabet, on the top of my lungs.
“A. B. C. D. E. F. G.”
My voice trailed off and I thought I was going to faint, again.
And of course, she was unsuccessful.
“We are going to have to try using your other arm.”
Fuck. Me. Dead.
The nurse tried two more times in my left arm, all to no avail. And every single time she pricked me, I sang the alphabet, on the top of my lungs.
“A. B. C. D. E. F. G.” “FUCK!” “H. I. J. K. L. M. N. O. P.” “PLEASE STOP! IT HURTS!” “Q. R. S. T. U. V.” “JUST SO YOU KNOW I SEE BLACK & WHITE SPOTS – EVEN WITH MY EYELIDS CLOSED!” “W. X. Y. And Z.”
Eventually, after busting up all of my veins, the nurse gave up.
And she decided to call in ‘The Big Guns.’
Janet.
Janet, a short and hefty lady, sporting Hawaiian themed scrubs walked over to me. She has wild, curly, dark-brown hair, and wears silver rimmed glasses. And she’s the master of placing an IV. Quite frankly, I don’t know why they didn’t get her sooner.
[Oh, how I *heart* me some, Janet.]
“Okay, Meleah. I’m Janet. I am going to place this IV in your hand. But you have to do me one favor.”
“What’s that?” I nervously asked.
“Can you please stop singing the alphabet?”
With that, I finally stopped crying and started laughing. “Okay. But I have to sing something.”
“Well, what’s your favorite song?”
My mind went blank. “I don’t know. I can’t think of anything right now. I am so scared of needles, and I’ve already been stabbed four times. And, apparently I revert back to the age of five when anyone comes near me, wielding something sharp.”
I continued babbling, “And I have this terrible headache, from caffeine withdrawal *sob* and I’m having a nicotine fit *sniff* plus I have my period *sob* and, I was really, really, really mean to another nurse, and I feel absolutely horrible about that…” *sniff, sniff*
“Okay, okay…” Janet interrupted my ramblings, “Oh, honey. You’re really having a bad day.”
“Yes! Yes, I am. And, thank you for validating me.”
Now feeling as though I’d bonded with Janet, I trusted her a lot more to stick my hand. I took a deep breath and said, “I think I’m ready for you to try again.”
Janet smiled, “Take another deep breath, and look away.”
So I did.
But as soon as I felt that cold alcohol wipe, like an instant reflex, I started singing the alphabet.
Janet, cut me off at the letter A. “How about we sing, ‘The Wheels On The Bus’ instead? Do you know the words to that?”
“YUP!” I shouted.
Janet acted like a Pre-K schoolteacher, and I acted like the obedient student, while the two of us sang in unison.
“The wheels on the bus, go round and round. Round and round. Round and round. The wheels on the bus, go round and round. All through the town.”
I could feel the weight of the eyes from the entire staff, and every single patient. Staring at me, like I had just escaped from a mental institute. And I did not give two flying shits.
“The wipers on the bus, go swish, swish, swish. Swish, swish, swish. Swish, swish, swish. The wipers on the bus, go swish, swish, swish. All through the town.”
Before I knew it, the IV was properly placed.
When it was all said and done, Janet leaned over my bed. At first, I truly thought she was going to smother me with her enormous breasts. ‘Death By Suffocation’ was the newspaper headline that raced through my mind. But then Janet did something I’ll never forget. Instead of stifling the air to my lungs, she hugged me.
She hugged me.
And she told me I was going to be okay.
And I believed her.
Janet stayed with me, for the rest of the day. She even accompanied me to the room where they would perform the colonoscopy.
And just before I went under the ever-so-wonderful ‘Propofol Coma’ – she sang ‘The Wheels On The Bus’ with me, again. The last thing I remember is hearing my Gastrointestinal Doctor say, “Great. Now I’ll never be able to get that song out of my head.”
When I woke up, I was greeted with a large cup of coffee. And I’ll be damned if it wasn’t the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had. Fortunately, I was released very quickly and sent home to rest. My mother drove, while I yammered on incoherently, about what a wonderful woman Janet is. I may have even confessed my undying love for All Things Janet Related.
The second I got home I immediately climbed into bed and pulled the covers over my head. But, just as I was about to pass out, I heard a knock on my door. My mother had a ‘Special Delivery’ for me.
Much to my surprise, my very dear friend Monique [author of the blog: MoRae and owner of Renáe Rashael Photography] had gone above and beyond the call of duty.
She sent the most beautiful flower arrangement, complete with a ‘Bear Nurse’ and a ‘Three Musketeers’ candy bar.
[*Yes, I am crying in that blurry picture, which is probably why I look totally possessed.]
Overall, it was probably the most exhausting 48 hours, of my whole entire life.
Good thing I don’t have to go through this again.
At least, not for another year.
Okay, people!
I can’t even begin to tell you what a fantastic Thanksgiving I had.
So, instead, I’ll just show you.
Enjoy!
I like to think I spend a lot of time reflecting on all of the things I have to be grateful for. And I do. But, it’s not all that often that I write those things down. So, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I’d like to share my gratitude list.
The Top 43 Things I Am Grateful For:
1. My 15 year old son, Justin. For he is truly the light of my life, even when he drives me nuts.
2. My Mother and My Father. Their undying love and support forever amazes me. And, for providing a roof over my head, food in my stomach, and the never-ending supply of toilet paper and laundry detergent. No, seriously. Thank you for that.
3. My whole entire family. Both sides. We may be crazy, and slightly dysfunctional, but I’d be nothing without each and every one of you. And we sure know how to have a fun time together.
4. My Best Friends. You all know who you are.
5. The Written Word.
6. My Blog.
7. Your Blogs: Because each and every one of you [at one time or another] have made me laugh, made me cry, held my hand, inspired me, and taught me so very much.
8. My Apple Computer and my iPhone.
9. The Internet. Including Facebook and Twitter.
10. My Journals.
11. My Camera.
12. Television.
13. Music.
14. Sleeping-In.
15. Starbucks Coffee.
16. Newport 100’s.
17. Hard Rain and Thunderstorms.
18. Golf.
19. New Socks.
20. Fresh Linens
21. Fabreeze and other assorted Cleaning Products.
22. Mason Jars and Bendy Straws.
23. Scented Candles.
24. A Great Book.
25. Pajamas. And Pajama Jeans.
26. Good Food.
27. Art, Museums, and Theater.
28. The ‘Essential PMS Kit‘.
29. My Sense Of Humor.
30. My Brains.
31. Heated Debates.
32. Love.
33. Fireplaces.
34. Change.
35. My Past.
36. My Present.
37. My Future.
38. Laughter.
39. Tears.
40. Baby Wipes.
41. KHCC.
42. My Monday Night Posse.
And lastly…
* 43. BEING ALIVE. Yanno. Especially since I almost died, back in July.
I hope everyone has a safe, fun-filled, and wonderful Thanksgiving. Enjoy this fabulous holiday week!
THANKSGIVING 2011 FAMILY PHOTOS
*What are some of the things YOU are grateful for this year?
The other day while driving my car, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rear-view mirror. Now, I don’t know if it was the way the sunlight hit my face, or the fact that I’ve been up all night, almost every night, writing. But whatever the case, the wrinkles around my eyes looked much deeper than they normally do. And I could pack a week’s worth of luggage, complete with hot-rollers and hairdryers, in the bags under my eyes. And, I made the mistake of mentioning this to my 15-year-old son, Justin.
Here’s how that conversation went down:
Me: “Wow. I really look old today. Don’t I?”
JCH: “I have two words for you, mom.”
[insert pause]
JCH: “Olay Regenerist.”
Lovely.
* Does anyone else have suggestions for under-eye wrinkles and bags?
