post-op decisions
(Alt text: Jonathan Adler's "Full Dose Ornament Set" - four tree ornaments that look like prescription pills in bright colors.)
Eight or ten or twelve years ago, a friend was doing a happy hour DJ gig at a bar on 16th Street in the Mission. It was either Delirium or Dalva, I always get those places mixed up. A mutual friend was there, and we had a brief conversation where he mentioned his age. I was shocked that he was so much older than me. Maybe I wasn't yet 40 and he was well over 40 and that milestone seemed significant? I said something to the effect of "Wow I didn't realize you were that old" (in what I hope was a nice way). He smiled, looked down at something he was holding in his hands, shook his head, and said, "The older you get, the faster it goes."
He wasn't kidding.
Three days after I came home from the hospital with instructions not to lift more than 20 pounds, I decided to sell my San Francisco apartment and head east. Since then I have packed up the last 21 years of my life (a friend flew out to help me and that's the only reason I haven't had a mental health crisis) and watched it get loaded onto a moving truck. I'm couch surfing and/or staying at my grandmother's house until mid-December, triaging to-do lists by the hour. So much is happening I barely know what day it is.
The plan is to go back to the Washington, DC area and rent an apartment for one year while I travel and figure out what's next. DC has friends, family, and Kaiser. That last part is critically important, since I don't know which organ is going to fail next.
Why now? Feeling trapped, wanting to start over, meeting some real estate agents who know their shit, and it being a so-called seller's market.
What about grandma? December 1 will be one year since she had her stroke. She is declining cognitively, is really only awake maybe 4 hours a day total, I've done what I can, and it's time for the rest of the family to step the fuck up. I can and will still come out periodically to visit her and friends in the city.
The next few weeks will be nuts as I try to wrap up what feels like a lifetime on the left coast, sell my apartment, ship my car, find a new place to live, do my holiday shopping, keep up with work, and a hundred other things I'm forgetting. But the hardest stuff is over, right?
Ending this with a drug-addled memory of waking up after surgery. It was dark and the surgeon and a nurse or two were standing off to the side, at the edge of my peripheral vision. It didn't occur to me that I could turn my head to the right or left. I hadn’t eaten since the day before. Someone was holding a bowl with a whole chicken breast and some sauce. No one had cut it up, and it also didn’t occur to me that I had two hands, so when the bowl came into view, I grabbed the fork, stabbed the chicken, lifted the whole thing to my face, and took a huge bite – completely forgetting that I don’t eat meat. I heard someone laugh and say, “Wow, I guess she’s hungry!” The chicken kept disappearing off to the right, and then coming back into my field of vision. After a few more chomps, I passed out again.
LINKS
Is HR ever really your friend? TL;DR: Nope!! (BBC)
Muppets cover ELO's "Mr. Blue Sky.” (Boing Boing)
This entire interview with Steve Albini. (Mel Magazine)
A friend made a non-vegan version of this quesadilla recipe for me last night and it's my new favorite thing ever. (The Garden Grazer)
LOLOL: Hiring managers are enraged at job seekers “ghosting” them. As we used to say in the band, “Shoe’s on the other foot now, bitch!” (Slate)
Rush hour at the animal rescue center. (Digg)
Macka B x The Kiffness: Cucumba! (YouTube)
Fuck you, I’m on a bike. (McSweeney’s)