Part One: Do Intestines Migrate?

As I lay shaking in mind-altering-raging-ready to-blackout-pain, several nurses and doctors whizzed by the open door to ER room 26—oddly my age—, "You're shaking! You must be cold! Do you want a blanket?" Asked nurse #1. Before I could say no, she pivoted on her sneakers and changed course to grab something warm and snugly for me. I wanted morphine.

"No, I'm not cold, I'm in pain!" I wheezed, agony induced sweat dripping down the backs of my legs.

Nurse #2 entered the room, and apologized for making us wait another 35 min to consult with her,"you look so cold! Let me get a blanket!" She spun around and bolted from the room not to be seen again for another 40 min. I turned my head to the right and observed my parents amusement flash in their eyes then become forcibly held back. I turned my head to face the wall.

A few seconds later—Thank God—another nurse appeared with a syringe and a frantic look in her eyes, "I'm here to take a blood sample... wow, you're shaking, you need a blanket..." I winced with pain and mental irritation again stating that I was in nervous-system turmoil, not thermal shock. She nodded in disbelief and drew my blood. She looked even more concerned after she capped off my blood sample.

"Mom and dad, does she look pale to you?" Asked the nurse.

"Usually." Dad said.

"Do her eyes always shake?"

"For the last 26 years. It's nystagmus." My mom chimed in.

"No concussion, here." I said.

The nurse left with my DNA and I re-assumed my state of agony.

A while later, nurse #2, Becky, returned with a blanket... and drugs. I gave up the fight and let her drape the soft apparatus over my legs. Then, she doped me up with anti-nausea meds and some Laudanum. A warmth of physical relief washed over me as the drugs swam through my veins and I stopped shaking. No thanks to you, blanket.

Whoa horsey, let me back up. When we arrived at the Triage center, approximately 11:45 pm Monday, we were the only ones waiting to be seen. We waited an eternity—an hour— to get back to the ER, where all 43 rooms were occupied. Given my delirious desperate state and wild look in my eyes, the triage nurse promised me I'd get the first open room, as she handed me a cup to pee in.

Flash forward to ER room 26 where I lay moderately sedated, yet still in pain, parents looking fervently upon my motionless figure, while nurse Becky desperately scrambled to appease my woes. At least I was drugged for the game of, Wait for The ER Doctor Roulette, because it took him 90 minutes to arrive. Barely enough time for Dad to figure out just how bright the lamp above my head could be.

Eons later, and several attempts at halting Dad's creative urge to play with every other medical instrument in the room, the good doctor entered and took a seat by my bed, "Where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere, my stomach, my lower back... my ora."

He poked and prodded my belly for a bit asking a few question. Then he ordered an ultra-sound and a CT scan.
Still doped on Laudanum, an RN quickly wheeled me over to radiology. The CT scan took all of 5 min. The consultation with the RN and Radiologist took longer—at which point my Laudanum began to wear off. The RN returned, "we don't need an Ultra-Sound," then wheeled me back to the ER.

Now, I know doctors have reasons for canceling other tests, and at that point, I was thinking none of them can be good. Was it my appendix? Did I have a tumor?

This was the most excruciating wait of my life: waiting for my fate. The good doctor entered room 26 once again. And then spoke some of the most terrifying words an ER doc can breathe, "we need to talk to the surgeon." He explained a few things about the CT scan results,"your intestines have twisted together and created a blockage, from what we can tell, we need to get in there and fix it NOW," and then exited the room to fetch the other MD, leaving us to play mental ping-pong with his words.

"You, uh, wanna play with the lamp again?" Asked Dad.

I groaned a half-hearted, "why not."

He flipped  on the lamp. It was bright. All over again.


* Intermission * Go grab some coffee or taffy * End Intermission

The ER doctor returned with some strange implements in hand. He explained that during surgery, I guess surgery was my only option (they didn't really discuss that with me), I needed to have a tube through my nose into my stomach to remove any liquids and junk, or I might choke and die, or something. Needless to say, the thought of said tube was horrifying.

"This is probably the best time to tell you guys that I suffer from panic attacks, and while I don't plan on freaking out while you're fishing in my stomach, it will most likely happen." I said, dryly.

"Do you want some Ativan?" Asked Becky.

"Ativan doesn't work too well on me..." I started to explain my dealings with benzodiazapines, knowing it was fruitless in nature.

"Go grab the Ativan." Said the ER doc. Thanks, man.

Becky inserted a generous amount of Lorazapam (Ativan) into my arm. I began feeling even more sedated, yet still in pain.

The Surgeon entered room 26. He was a tall, brawny man with Where's Waldo glasses and an incredibly tranquil confidence  in his voice. Perhaps too calm.

"I just wanted to talk to you about the surgery before the Ativan hits you." He began.

It's amazing what the haze of opiates and pain—and the inevitability of a giant tube from your nose into your stomach can do to you. Instincts took over very quickly as the doc explained the possible outcomes of my looming exploratory surgery. My hands kept reaching for the clipboard so I could sign my body away to science and possibly die doing so.

It's different when you're on the slicing end of the scalpel, buddy, I thought to myself, just wanting it all to be over.

Finally, I was handed the clipboard and pen. Becky, bless her sweet heart, had drawn a GIANT X by where I was supposed to sign. I etched my name as best I could—now for the tube.

Becky sat to my left and held a cup of water and a straw. The ER doc sat to my right and held the nose tube and stroked my head. My dad stood at the foot of the bed and massaged my foot. As I swallowed the water, he inserted the tube through my nose. I could feel it going down my throat and into my stomach. I forced myself not to gag. With her free hand Becky squeezed mine.

The whole process took 2 min—a really long 2 min. It was one of the most traumatizing experiences I've ever had. Nose-tube in place, they wheeled me to pre-op.

In pre-op, I met several RN's and the anesthesiologist, who I can only describe as a whimsical old man. We chatted for a few min as I put my hair under a surgical cap and willed my cells to absorb what was left of the Ativan.

"Time to go... you two can wait in the waiting room. It should be about an hour and a half." Said a nurse to my parents.

Off I went in my rocket ship hospital bed, the wheels squealed on the linoleum floor as we turned left into the OR where another bed laid, the bed of exploration. The bed of exploration, however, would not cooperate with the medical staff and was too high above my rocket ship for me to be transferred.

It took 7 people to figure out the surgical bed and bring it down to my level, which in any other circumstance, like, say had I been watching this on Lifetime, would have been amusing.

I was deposited onto the surgical bed, its erie OR green totally clashed with my complexion. I turned my head left and nodded at the jolly nurse anesthetist. He smiled with his eyes, probably with his mouth, too, but it was hidden by a surgical mask. He took my arm with one hand and held a syringe with the other. I felt a prick.

"Now you're going to feel a little ligh-h..."

Everything went black.

To Be Continued...

Infidelity

"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned." 

- William Congreve

PSA to My Male Peers

If ONE more guy tells me that the best song in the world is, "Like My Dog," I'm going to bitch slap him and take his man card. Here's why.

If you really want me to love you like your dog does (we'll debate whether or not sentience exists in animals later), then fine. That's just peachy with me. I never liked brushing my own hair anyways. Oh, I'll love you like your dog does, if you love ME like you love your dog.

This means you feed me everyday—preferably twice a day. You can go ahead and buy me a necklace and take care of all my medical expenses, trim my nails and clean up my shit. Oh, and don't forget about our long walks together and cuddling every night as well as regaling all of your buddies with the cute things I do. Can you say bath time? Remember to get behind my ears. And always kiss me good night.

In exchange for this treatment, I will most certainly let you do whatever the hell you want. Deal? And they say I'm a bitch... doesn't this sound like the perfect relationship?

No. It doesn't. If this is the way you think, male peers of mine, then don't cussing have relationships. Commitment takes balls—balls that ya'll dangle from the back of your virility-shattering-big-ass-red-truck. That's not where they should be, by the way.

Oldie But Goodie: What I Didn't Tell

FROM DECEMBER 2009

"In case you couldn't tell, I'm daddy's girl and I ALWAYS get what I want." Said my new roommie as she unpacked box after box of her wardrobe, what can only be described as the Abercrombie catalogue.

Admittedly, that didn't bother me a lot since I'm kind of a spoiled brat, too. And unfortunately, my curiosity for other people's mental pathology often overshadows the warning bells, resounding a shrill, "RUN AWAY!" So, maybe it was all my fault...

My ex-wife, we'll get to that alias later, also had a puppy. Not just any puppy, no, it was the BEST puppy in the whole WORLD. She had obtained it on the cusp of August, under her parents radar. Puppy turned out to be merely a cog in roommie dearest's plan not have to live in the dorms again, with the, "mean girls."

The puppy was an annoying lab that was incredibly spoiled and if someone didn't like that, well, they were blacklisted, myself included.

"She doesn't like licks, puppy... she doesn't like you..." She is very logical, you know.

Forgive me if I'd rather not indulge in the germ orgy that is a dog's mouth. So sorry, my apologies oh Queen of the Universe... and her little dog, too.

After two weeks of semi-normalcy, as much normalcy as two-English majors co-habitation with a puppy can have, things began to get weird.

"I found this thing in my ear while I was on my run!" Ex-wifey said, bounding through the door, puppy in tow. She held up what looked like a rubber stopper of some sort, far too big to be in someones ear.

"My ear hurts... and my door doesn't lock. Someone must have come into our apartment in the middle of the night and done this!"

Sure. Ok. Let's calm down and think about this.

A few days later, I awoke to find roomie gone on a walk, and the kitchen completely trashed. We were both kind of neat-freakish, so this was disconcerting.

Later that afternoon, I confronted roomie about it.

"Left in a hurry this morning, eh?"

"Why?"

"Well the kitchen was in shambles... I cleaned it up though."

"OH MY GOD! You heard all those noises last night, like someone going through all the pots and pans!!"

"Uh, sure..."

"Wait, the kitchen wasn't a mess when I left at 5:30 this morning."

No puppy is THAT cute, 5:30 am walks?

"Weird, so I got up at 7:45, and in the two some hours you've been absent, someone broke into our place, in daylight, and messed up our kitchen?"

She didn't respond, just looked really creeped out and kept touching her ear.

Were we robbed, I ribbed myself, did they take my fiber bars and the good soups!?!

Actually, I was missing one fiber bar.

Anyway, my mind went to two places; one, our place is haunted and; two, my roommate is batshit crazy.

I went with Option One for about an hour, until I began to reminisce about the three weeks I spent at the apartment prior to my ex-wifey moving in.

The apartment had been peaceful. It had been a very quiet third-floor room with an amazing mountain-view, bereft of dog smells and still lending me the freedom to invite friends over, drink some wine and play my cello.

Logically, option two was the only thing left. Not to allow myself to look too hard for signs of crazy, I remained incredibly objective about roomies behavior and her jealous-possessive baptist boyfriend, Chris.

After a few more, "someone is breaking into our apartment at night! They have cameras everywhere!" outbursts from ex-wifey, as well as ducktaping over all of the crevices that could harbor a Radio-Shack caliber mini-camera and dismissing my suspicions that the FBI wanted me for some reason, I gave in and we went to Home Depot to get a new door-knob.

After several failed attempts at self-installing the apparatus, and wifey, thinking the landlord had purposefully drilled the doorknob hole too skewed for someone to change the locks, ended up getting a chain, and screwing it DIRECTLY into the door-frame. Goodbye security deposit. Ironic?

One night, she "accidentally" locked me out, thinking I had been asleep in my room, at 9pm... on a Friday... I had really been at a coffee place studying for mid-terms. Really.

I finally wrangled one of my guy friends—actually I was his date to a wedding that night—into installing the new doorknob for us. We had just enough time between the ceremony and reception to do some minor home-improvement... and have beers.

So, now roomie and I had absolutely no doubt in our pretty blonde heads that someone could come into our apartment, eat my fiber bars and shove rubber into wifey's ears. Right? Wrong.

The omnipresent, controlling and manipulative father-boyfriend-figure Chris, decided to make a dramatic (probably romantic in his mind) move to buy wifey a rape stick. It was kind that holds the door shut from the inside. He did this instead of, you know, fixing her door lock.

Things began to escalate interpersonally when I wouldn't succumb to wifey's premature need to agree to a new living arrangement. In retro-spect I should've been a wee more decisive, but staying in another state or moving home was a big decision.

So, instead of further talking to me about the issue, we'd only had one chat, mind you, wifey took things into her own gnarled hands.

Roping a mutual friend into living with her, she decided to move out into the apartment directly below our current room, without telling me.

The Monday of finals week, I'd invited a guy friend to sleep on our couch, because he'd been locked out of his temporary residence and it was middle of December in Montana with a balmy wind-chill of 40 below.

I didn't think anything of it. We weren't drunk. He is a decent guy. But I received a knock on my door at about 2am...

I opened the door to find wifey standing there looking like she'd seen a ghost.

"Yes?"

"There's a boy in our living room!" She scream-whispered.

There was almost always a boy in our living room. Her boyfriend would stay over almost every weekend... use our toilet paper, electricity and no doubt eat my fiber bars.

"I know, " I replied smartly, "I put him there."

"Is he drunk?"

"Nooo." I said, fearing that the pink fuzzy rock she grew up under was whispering to her that she was about to be murdered and raped. In that order.

Chris showed up four hours later, coming from about 400 miles away. I discovered this on my way to the bathroom to find a tampon.

He never said a word to me, and wifey was presumably already gone to campus for finals.

My friend, Doug, sat on the couch, playing on his iBook. I facebook chatted him from my bedroom to find out what in tarnation had happened.

"Her boyfriend showed up about an hour ago... he walked up to the couch and forcibly introduced himself. It wasn't what he said, it was how he said it. She didn't say a word to me. He also told me I had to be off the couch by 2, because they are moving your roommate out."

I grabbed my bag, car keys and Doug and we galloped off to a coffee shop near campus for some java and conversation to make sense of everything.

I then spent a few more hours in the library frantically trying to finish my play about unicorns. Really.

My phone suddenly began to vibrate in my sweatshirt pocket. I looked at the caller ID, it was the boy I'd been kinda-sorta-seeing-made-out-with two days ago yet hadn't really heard from.

"Hey." I mustered, typing with my right hand about ontological questioning and unicorn etiquette.

"Hi, so I need to talk to you..."

Yep, REJECTED. He blamed his youthful horny indiscretion on adrenaline. Points for creativity!

Needing some down-time and a whisky, I listened to the message Adrenaline Boy had left before he mustered up the balls, to actually call me in person and drove back to the apartment only to discover that everything had been moved out, everything except for Chris, who only smiled at me and continued to move boxes and the little dog, too.

Fuck this, I thought and promptly drove to Doug's, where he fed me Evan Williams lower-shelf bourbon, string cheese and let me watch, "Die Hard," on the big screen.

We listened to Adrenaline Boy's voicemail about 20 times, laughed, cried and then forwarded it to everyone we'd ever met.

I soon discovered that my now ex-wife, had moved into a hotel for a few days, because she couldn't live with me until Thursday, when she had actually planned on moving out.

She still lives with our mutual friend, and guess what, they both have puppies! (The best puppies in the world!)

As I think about those two days sitting on the living room floor—she took the couch, TV, dog and half the kitchen suppluies—eating a fiber bar and drinking whisky, I find myself humming the Wicked-witch theme from,"The Wizard of Oz," da-du-da-du da-da-DA...

Dating Is An Ocean

Is it just safer for men when I'm in a relationship? I tend to cause a lot of trouble when I'm single. I tend to cause or get into a lot of trouble when I'm bored, too. I like stirring the pot, like Lorelei likes diamonds. I can't help but flirt with good-looking interested men—usually to my eventual non-interest and their detriment.

I've never dated. I've had cuddle buddies, make-out buddies and boyfriends. Maybe the trouble stems from not effectively navigating the oceans of dating. I mean, I could avoid the attachment icebergs by not being so insistent and empathetic—not being myself. I could avoid being anchored by keeping cool and not getting too attached myself, but how does one go from the stability, romance and sometimes confines of a committed relationship, to surfing the high swells of date after date after date? Furthermore, how does one continue to date oodles of men without turning into a serial dater and thus never revive one's hope in love?

One thing I miss about living in Montana, is my friends. I had a great group of friends to go out with. No pressure, no awkwardness and always a fun—often trouble causing—time. I no longer have that social construct. Can I replace it with copious amounts of dates?

I haven't figured it out. Maybe there isn't just one strategy. Or maybe the strategy is just simply not to strategize at all—that would be both preferred and also a challenge. Go with the, uh, flow? I suppose it is a good way to temporarily rendezvous with a lot of men and enjoy great conversations and similar interests without sexual encounters, or relationship-esqu feelings of possession. Free food is nice. Free drinks are nice, too.

I am resisting the urge to strategize in the game-playing sense, but I need my mental frameworks in order to function. There has to be some structure. It is possible I'm just in analysis paralysis due to my need to figure it all out.

I am not convinced that this lifestyle is for me. Then again, it could just be an adjustment period. It could also potentially work in my favor: my mom was dating three different people when she met my dad. She had three different people to compare him to and she chose him.

Here's hoping...

Live and Let, Meow

The other night, my friend Eric and I watched Milo and Otis, mostly for posterity's' sake, but also because Netflix was not functioning on Playstation. I'm glad we decided to watch this movie, because now that we're semi-responsible adults, we noticed several indescrepencies rather peculiar in nature—you know, something a 3rd grader wouldn't have picked up on.

So, it turns out they had used real cats for the stuns, stunts consisting of: ejecting a cat in a box over a waterfall (I wonder how many takes—or cats that cost them?), dropping a cat off of a cliff, pairing a kitten up with a black bear for a brutal game of, "Guess What Drawer Kitty Is In?!?" And last but not least, letting a python loose in a tree with the kitten in some sort of mortal combat scene.

This movie was made in 1986, so I'm thinking that the idiots over at PETA weren't quiet a threat to film-making yet. But, come on, throwing a cat(s) off of a cliff? Really? This movie took four years to complete which not only leads me to speculate that perhaps there was some sort of Kitten v. California suit, but also to question the gestation of orange tabbies. As cruel as these stunts may seem, I had an 8th grade math teacher that used to fish for muskies using cats as bait...

That being said, I have a few more questions for the makers of this film, and I have to get this one off my chest first; where the hell did this movie takes place? Narnia?

The movie begins with a quiet country scene showing kitties and puppies playing near an equally tranquil stream. That stream suddenly turns into The Grand Canyon Class X rapids which then flow over a waterfall and into the Amazon Jungle only to emerge in the Alaskan wilderness. The only explanation I have for this is to suggest that LSD was popular in the 80s as well as the 90s.

And another thing, on what planet do North American black bears and pythons co-exist? Did the creators of Jumanji plagiarize this screen play?? Who knows.

I know I'm not the first person to bring up these issues, and I'm certainly not a card-carrying PETA member, but, to all the Milos and Otises that died in the making of this film, R.I.P.

I Don't Feel Bad That You're Dumb, I Feel Judgmental

Retail-hell beckons a Cornucopia (festive, right?) of dire size situations, coupons that work on less than 16% of our inventory (and subsequent rants, cuss words and storm-offs) and last but not least, stupidity. I and I do mean stupidity, as in dumbness, inanity, idiocy, as in that light bulb never turned on in the first place and the hamster’s wheel is egg-shaped. Am I mean? Yes. Am I accurate, even more so yes.

I’ll begin with some clueless customers, “here’s my coupon does it work with these?” She said as she slung 6 slightly different onesies onto the counter and waved a coupon in my face.

“No…” I began.

“NOTHING works with these coupons! Why even give them out!” She pontificated and with much accuracy, the coupons do not work on a whole lot in our store, but that’s not my fault, nor is it my fault that most customers neglect to read the back of the coupon detailing all of the exemptions and instead prefer the rush of anger/surprise when I tell them the coupon will not work… aaaand I do this for nine hours a day.

“Well, this coupon isn’t for our store…” I said as politely as I could, slightly relieved that I wasn't dealing with yet another neglectful store customer....

“It’s not? Hey ma, what store're we at?”

“Do you still want your items?”

“No! Not without the coupon!” They stormed off to JC Penney’s, where the coupon had come from…

I am SO judging you right now. You drove all the way up here from Wyoming and in those 2-3 hours, neglected to read the entire coupon—specifically which store it belonged to. You’re an idiot. You don’t deserve the coupon. In fact, I want the coupon back so I can give it to a third grader, because at least they still maintain the ability to follow directions!

Another situation I frequently encounter is the Wrong Size-Coup, “what do you mean this doesn’t come in a 48 inch waist?!?” I merely shake my head at you. It’s difficult to refrain from jeering that the FDA banned 6X clothing due to the rampant obesity in the US, if only it were true.

I’ve gotten over working in the plus-sized section, even if the nastier customer specimens manifest there. As one co-worker once whispered to me, “they take their anger out on us because they’re too fat to do anything about it. They have to channel that anger somewhere…” Spot on!

There are also the self-important folks that insist on grabbing my attention while I’m clearly ringing up a transaction with several more waiting patiently in line, “Can I ask you a quick question? What price is this? Where is the bathroom? Have you seen my lost credit card??”

No. I don’t know. Follow the freaking signs. Call customer service.

Trust me, Seemingly Urgent Question Holder, you’re no more important to me than the lady in line with three screaming kids and a handful of coupons I already know won’t work on sale priced items. Get your cuss in cussing line or find an associate that isn’t waist deep in business!

Some customers—on the selling floor—randomly hand me items and ask, “is this on sale? I mean it says it’s this price, but is it really?”

Funny, as much time as I spend here, I have not yet installed a price check device into my wrist nor am I Lt. Commander Data, furthermore, not three feet behind you is the Customer Price Check module. Helpless idiots. All of you!