Heavy with the Weight of God's Damnation

I (finally) finished Lamb. It's wonderful. I want everyone to read it and love it as I do.

Can't Sleep

I can't sleep (as is evident by the title of this post. I felt the need to emphasize.). I miss my boyfriend. I miss my cat. I miss my bed. I don't particularly miss our loud upstairs neighbors who apparently think that moving furniture while wearing tap shoes is a grand idea, but the other stuff makes up for this one. Alack, alas.

Why is it that since I got out of the hospital everyone feels the need to tell me "don't do that again"? I can't tell you how many times I've heard "You really scared me/us. Don't do that again." I mean, I get it. I'm loved, everyone was worried and scared. But guys, it's not like I thought that getting my blood sugar over 700 would allow me to travel through time. If that was the case, then no, I wouldn't do that again. This was an accident; it was a weird combination of random events that caused me to get very very sick. Can't promise that's not going to happen again. Sorry, but it's true.

Ok, I'm done.

I'm sorry. I know you guys love me. I'm just venting. After all, it is 3 am. I'm officially allowed. Look it up. I dare you.

I Think You Should Be Aware of This Stuff

Cool video for those of us who dig Gmail.
Brave women defying custom. More here.
Very moving story by Anderson Cooper.
Travel advisory from the Miami Herald.
"Puritan Politics." This shit just makes me angry.

If You Haven't Already

See Rent.

Do it. You'll love it.

La Vie Boheme

Too Much?

The problem with getting sick is that it messes up all your plans. I am supposed to be done with my first semester of grad school by now. I'm supposed to have all of that under my belt and be concentrating on what to get whom for Christmas. Instead, I'm worrying about make-up work and finals and when/how I'm going to get this done. I also have the cute little quirk of trying to do everything at once all by myself. I'm a horrible judge of "realistically, can I do this?" That's my conundrum now. I feel able to jump back into things, but my gut is nagging me not to. I don't like this. I want to be 100%. I should be back into it. I just feel like I'm laying around all day doing nothing and failing everything.

Being sick sucks.

And Now, As They Say, the Rest of the Story

Well, if you haven't heard by now, you're probably living in a cave stealing internet service and don't really know what a "blog" is.

If that's true - welcome, welcome to my blog.

If not - I've been a little sick. And by a little, I mean I'm typing this from my hospital bed.

Let's back up.

I was moderately sick almost all of last week. One of those "it's getting cold and it's finals time, so I'd better get sick" things. I didn't have to go in to school on Monday and I stayed home on Tuesday because I was still feeling sick. Wednesday I felt much better. I went to school, felt a little dizzy walking to my office, but I figured it was just because I hadn't gotten out and about for a few days. Thursday comes around and I feel worse than ever. So I stayed home - and puked my guts out all day. Ok, I know what you're thinking "come on, puking all day? Right." No really. No one has ever spoken this statement and meant it more than I do right now. I counted. I threw up 6 times on Thursday. I couldn't keep anything down; I was afraid to brush my teeth because I thought some of the toothpaste would trickle down my gullet and cause me to projectile vomit all over the bathroom mirror. I threw up three times because I drank a bottle of water. By time 4 I knew I was getting dehydrated. Sam was at work, so when he called to check on me I had a laundry list of dehydration-preventing supplies - gatorade, ginger ale, popsicles, etc. By the time he got home, I had passed the 5 vomit mark. I think my exact words when I got off the phone with him were "I have to let you go now - I need to throw up again." And I did. By this time, my throat and teeth were rotting away because of all the stomach acid I was pushing through them (not really, but it felt like it). The rest of the evening went relatively smoothly; I was able to drink quite a bit of gatorade and water and only reach a cool half dozen trips to the toilet. (Side note - I got so tired of going back and forth to the bathroom that I made myself a sad little pallet on the bathroom floor and bonded with a hand towel that became my pillow for quite a while. I even made a special place on the floor under the other towels for easy reachability when I was lying on the floor. And I named him Hank.)

So, it becomes night time and I'm exhausted, what with all the heaving, so I go to bed. This is when it really starts to get interesting folks. Sam stays up for a while, because it's probably only about 9:30 and decides to make a pallet for himself on the floor so it'll wake him up when I (inevitably) stumble out of bed in need of fluids or the toilet or something. Two things he fails to take into consideration: 1. The man has slept through gunfire and didn't even roll over. No joke - ask him about it. 2. Almost the minute I fell asleep I started hallucinating. Hard core, psychedelic, I have no idea what's real and what's not hallucinations. Now, for those of you who don't know - I am a dream believer. I've had many mornings where I woke up and it took about 15 minutes for me to realize that I didn't win the lotto and buy everything I wanted. That happens a lot. These weren't dreams. I think there was something about minions or a crew and I'm pretty sure I thought I was Elphaba for most of the night (if you don't know -SHAME! Look it up.)

Once the hallucinations started, my memory goes fuzzy as the next events. I do remember several things happening: I got up several times for the bathroom and wound up falling asleep on the floor with my feet in the tub and my head on Hank (see above reference). And, I think this happened last, I ran out of water and decided I could get it myself. Turns out I couldn't and wound up passing out on the kitchen floor for about 30 minutes. After I woke up, I yelled for Sam and he, looking very panicked and confused and to how/why I was in the kitchen on the floor, helped me get water and got me back to bed.

After this, it was Saturday. I have no remembrance of Friday. I lost Friday. For an account of Friday, see Sam's posts.

The next thing I remember is waking up with tubes coming out every which way and being asked hard questions like "where are you?" and "what day is it?" (I got the first one right, at the next one, I apparently looked at the person asking and replied in my best 'I-just-woke-up-from-a-coma-you-jackass' tone "I don't know." I'm pretty sure that if I had been able to move, I would have done the Dane Cook "Ohmygod *snif* I'm late!" move, except mine wouldn't have been ohmygod, I slept through work, it would have gone something like "Ohmygod! *Snif* I slept through Friday!" What kind of excuse do you have for sleeping through an entire day?? I can't even try to pull off an excuse. I should skip right to dumping on his chest. (Again, if you don't know - SHAME!!)

So, I stayed in ICU until Sunday when they rolled me up to the regular ward where I met my new roomie the incredible farting, snoring, gotta-watch-four-hours-of-soaps-and-informercials-all day 91 year old woman who has the incredibly endearing quirk of yelling "BATHROOM" everytime she needs a nurse to help her use the bathroom. Which, don't get me wrong, isn't actually in the bathroom where you can shut the door - nay friend. Her personal toilet is 2 feet from my bed. Literally, if (god forbid) I drew back the curtain I would be face to freaking face with her poop pot. (Elaine, I don't think I've told you lately that you were a joy to live with. Thank you for not pooping near my bed.)

Now, I'm all set and ready to go home (which they should let me do tomorrow). The only reason I had to stay today, is that I've had a low to moderate grade fever since I got here (which probably had something to do with the fact that my white blood cells were inside my body going "what?!? Are you kidding us here? Let's just watch - let's see what happens here, guys.")

I finally got my sense of humor back today. I've heard it's the last to give up and the last to return. (I just made that up, but it's pretty good, right? Ah, screw you.) If they don't let me go tomorrow, I'm gonna have to resort to some hard core charming. I've been periodically making mental notes of witty things to say:

"No, it's not a fever - I'm just this hot!"

That's all I've got. I think of others while waiting for the vampires to come steal my blood away at all crazy hours of the night.

UPDATE: I just realized I referenced something that I didn't actually post about, but emailed Amanda about. The last two nights I haven't slept much at all (probably about 3 hours each) and I think it has something to do with the fact that the nurses and orderlies think 2-4:30 is the optimal time to draw blood. So I just sit here, waiting, knowing they're going to come in, flip the overhead light on, and sing-song that familiar "time to take some blood Ms. Jackson!" as soon as I close my eyes.