Sweet Jesus! I feel like a whole new woman today! Just about all the other complications that made me feel horrible are gone, leaving me only with the actual gallbladder removal pain to deal with, which is an incredible relief. So I think I'm going to blog about the whole ordeal.

Day 1:

My family and I went to my favorite Chinese place for dinner, and then we rented a couple movies. In about the middle of the second one, I got really bad heartburn. I'd been having some heartburn problems lately, so it seemed logical. Only now I realize none of the heartburn I'd been having for the last month or so was actually heartburn. I loaded up on antacids, and went to bed in hopes that when I woke up it'd be gone. Only I couldn't sleep. And it wasn't gone in the morning.

Day 2:

We went to the emergency room bright and early that morning. They gave me a huge load of antacids. After that didn't work, they gave me a shot of muscle relaxant. After that didn't work, they said I had heartburn because I hadn't eaten since last night, notwithstanding the fact that it had started a couple hours after dinner. They gave me toast. They told me I had acid reflux, gave me a prescription for more antacids, and sent me home in as much pain as I had come.

After a few more hours I was just dying. It was the weekend, so we couldn't get into a regular doctor's office (which, I and my parents particularly wanted to get me in to see my gastro-intestinal specialist). Finally, we called the hospital and found out there was a guy from my gastro-intestinal specialist's office on call there. We called him, and he got me admitted to the hospital.

I have to say, I love that dude. He took charge. He got me in the hospital, figured I had gallstones, got me a sonogram to prove the gallstone theory, got me drugs for the pain, and lined up a surgeon for me all in a tiny fraction of the time it took the ER doctor to fuck around with me and send me home. And he WAS pissed at the ER for what they did to me. I don't fit the profile for gallstones (overweight women in their 40's are the typical gallstone patient), but I was apparently showing classic symptoms.

I spent the rest of the day drugged up at the hospital.

Day 3:

Surgery. Hurt pretty badly, of course.

Day 4:

Another day at the hospital recovering. Came home that night.

Day 5:

I started throwing up from the vicodin they gave me for the pain (before that I had been getting pain drugs interveniously). As bad as throwing up is in general, throwing up right after abdominal surgery: agony. Especially since you can't take your pain drugs because they're what is making you throw up in the first place. I was also constipated, which somehow had something to do with the throwing up, so I had to take a laxative which burned and I hated. But, all and all, the constipation went away, and the throwing up stopped once the vicodin got out of my system. I probably would've been in the clear if it weren't for my next problem: peeing.

That's right. I couldn't pee. I'd be bursting, and barely get out a drop. We still aren't even sure why this happened, except that maybe the vicodin was the culprit for this too. Finally, we went back to the ER and they put a catheter in me. Which.... actually, almost made me forgive the ER for what they did to me earlier. The relief I felt when the pee started coming out was almost religious.

I spent the night at the hospital. I couldn't get to sleep for hours. And when I finally did, it was less than an hour before some genius decided to wake me up to take my bloodpressure. And I couldn't fall asleep again.

Day 6:

This day was spent at the hospital as well. At this point I had started going crazy from sleep deprivation (I'd been having sleep issues since this whole thing started, not just the night before). I was totally mean to the surgeon (he was who re-admitted me to the hospital after I got the catheter), which I feel bad for now. But honestly.... when I am seriously sleep deprived, I get depressed and psychotic and lash out at everyone around me, and this was no exception. I about attacked him when he said I had to stay the night to make sure I could pee by myself alright.

Which, I hated the hospital by then. I couldn't sleep there, the bed was making my back ache, the IV was on a point in my wrist that made it so I couldn't move my hand at all*, the backache from the bed was making my headache, the food was living up to all the cliches about how bad hospital food was..... I just wanted to go home.

Day 7:

I got to go home! I slept nearly the whole day, but was still worrying about not peeing enough, and was freaking out.

Day 8:

Yesterday. And the peeing was the one count I wasn't sure I was out of the woods on when I posted that morning. But I am, now. So yay. I still felt pretty miserable though, because I'd gotten not much sleep because of freaking out about pee. And I had continous diahrea (multiple times an hour for 7 or 8 hours). And my back and head still hurt.

But today.... like I said, I feel much better. About the only thing I have to worry about now aside from the actual surgery pain is a lingering headache. And the surgery pain, while not fun, is a lot better than it started out. So things are looking up.

___________
* They really hadn't wanted to put it there, but at that point I had no good places left for an IV. I have horrible veins, and this was about the fourth IV I'd had at this point. The first IV they gave me for the pain drugs before the surger wasn't big enough to put the anesthesia in for surgery, the second one they had to take out because the antibiotics they give you burned out the veins around it, and the third they took out when I went home the first time. On top of this, there were several failed attempts to start an IV on me before they got the ones that actually went in properly. And also they'd taken blood about 3 times and failed at least once each time for that. Basically, I look like a heroin addict now.

On top of this, I really really really hate needles. I had a panic attack the last time before this someone had tried to get my blood. This whole incident has obviously desensitized me a bit, but it still freaked me out a whole lot every time they went at me with a needle. Especially since EVERY time they'd not just stick me, but dig around in there and go, "oh, your veins roll," like it's a big surprise even though I warned them of that before they went in.

I'm not dead..... I just feel like it.

I've not been posting because I went to the hospital to get my gallbladder removed. On top of that, I had some complications afterwards. I'm still not out of the woods yet on one count, even (nothing life threatening, though, so don't worry about that). I'll go into it later, probably, but for now I feel too shitty.

Wow. I got a new light fixture for my room AND a nephew today. Very exciting.

It actually took longer for my dad and I to install the light fixture than it took my sister to give birth. We actually made a mistake with the fixture, took it back to the store, and came back home to put it in. Whereas my sister, even though this is her first baby, had it in less than 2 hours. I'm hoping that if I ever have a kid (though I don't really plan to), that I can pop it out like that. She was a lot more peppy and happy than most women after they give birth, according to all the grandparents that came over to visit.

It was strange for me when I first saw him. I've never seen a baby that young up close before. And I've never held any baby at all. They told me to support his neck, but he kept moving his neck around and stuff, and I was deathly afraid of doing something wrong and messing him up. He seemed to like me, though, as well as any newborn baby likes anyone. He started opening his eyes (which he hadn't much up until then) and looking right at me after they gave him to me. I could just imagine him going, "mmm, I like Aunt Phoe. She smells like twizzlers. Even though I don't even know what those are yet." I didn't hold him too long, because it was so intense from the constant worry, but it was cool.


When you dream,
what do you dream about?
Are they colour or black and white,
Yiddish or English
or languages not yet conceived?
Are they silent or boisterous?
Do you hear noises just
loud enough to be perceived?
Do you hear Del Shannon's "Runaway" playing
on transistor radio waves?
With so little experience,
your mind not yet cognizant
Are you wise beyond your few days?

--"When You Dream," Barenaked Ladies

Last night, I had this strange dream that I found out that my grandpa's middle name came from this mountain I'd never heard of, Mt. Eugene (which, my grandpa's middle name is Eugene, obviously). Then, I found out that Mt. Eugene was the setting for a Weezer video for a song from the Pinkerton album.

...I don't know what led me to combine Weezer and my Grandpa. I hadn't really thought of either yesterday.

My dad said this to me today:  "We didn't know a baby could throw up that far until you!"
 
All the more funnier because he wasn't meaning to be funny.

Boy on a Stick:  It's hard for me to talk to people.
Boas:  I can't express exactly what I'm feeling.
Boas:  Heck!  Half the time I don't even know what I'm talking about.
Slither:  And yet, you continue to talk.
 
--Boy on a Stick and Slither

So I was walking by my Dad when he was on the phone:

Dad: (into the phone)...well, you never know with Colitis. Sometimes she's on the toilet the whole day.
Me: My ears are burning!
Dad: What?
Me: Nevermind.

And on an unrelated note, I was sure I had some weird degenerative achy leg disease, because my legs have been hurting lately, and I really couldn't fathom why. But today, when my Mom woke me up (yeah, I know I'm a loser, but she insists on waking me up if I don't get up early enough on my own, which I never do), I was laying in a crazy position.

Basically, it's like sitting indian style, and then bending over, so I'm curled into a bizarre ball, kind of. This has happened before, though not overly frequently. I never set out to be in that position, but I'll end up that way in my sleep.

Anyway, I was especially sore today, and I can see why what with that position. So I'm thinking some of the other soreness might be I had been sleeping like that for awhile, and then changed back to normal before I got up.

So I'm relieved not to be having a disease or something. But on the other hand, how do I stop doing something in my sleep? It's not like I was trying to sleep like a freak to begin with. Also, could this have a long term effect? Could I be all old and have arthritis and be talking to the other people?

Old dude: Yeah, I got my arthritis from playing too much basketball when I was younger.
Old dude2: Mine's from a football injury! How did you get yours?
Me: From sleeping. Yeah, that's right. I eXtreme sleep, bitch!
Old people: No need to call us bitches!
Me: Sorry. The eXtreme sleep makes me a little cranky.

Old man on the back porch
Old man on the back porch
Old man on the back porch
...and that old man is me

--"Old Man on the Back Porch," Presidents of the United States of America

Wow, I never realized how completely awkward it is to have two people looming over you and yelling their lungs out about something. Well... one person doing the yelling, and the other listening. But still. My mom is going whacko again about my grandpa and his girlfriend to my Dad, and since I'm sitting on the ground with my laptop next to her on the family computer (so that I can reach the internet jack) I'm in between. And feeling rather sorry for myself. That is all.

He's forgotten but not yet gone

--"Fred Jones Pt. 2," Ben Folds

Since I find it hard to access my school webspace from home, and I am not going to live in the dorm next semester, I am moving my comics to keenspace. Since it's a pain in the ass to move them all, and some are certainly sub-par, I'm thinking of getting rid of some. So if you would do me a favor, go thru them and mention to me the ones you think are particularly un-funny.

Also, I'm going to list the ones that I personally find least funny, and if you think I should save any of those, please speak up.

Least funny: bukkake, bogus, door, wax, the eternal struggle, chia, fall into the gap, alfalfa, Sousaphone4, Sousaphone2, coat2, ACS3, coke, coke2, coke3, eyes.

My mom can play the accordion. Or so she says. She's probably so out of practice that she can't anymore. But it still blows my mind that technically, my mom can play the accordion.

I've never actually heard her do it, though. She actually hates it, because her mother made her take accordion lessons when she didn't want to. And, obviously, because it's such a dorky instrument, though for me the dorkiness is a plus because I think it's hilarious. I'm always telling people that my mom can play the accordion. I wish she actually did. I would really get a kick out of being able to elaborate. "Man, my mom can belt out Roll Out the Barrel like nothin'! She's a polka maniac on the accordion!"

But anyway, I heard the BEST thing yesterday. My grandma also badgered my uncle into playing... the banjo. The banjo! I can understand maybe having a weird love of the accordion, or a weird love of the banjo, but both? This is insane! I wonder if she just did it as a punishment to make Mom & my uncle as dorky as possible, there seems to be no way that someone would just straight out choose both of those instruments to make their kid learn.

But the best part? My mom said she made her and my uncle play them together for company! Seriously, I have to build a time machine to go back and hear that. What song would you even play? I would spend every nickel I have to hear someone play the banjo & accordion together. Seriously.

10 to 1 if my Mom had another sibling, he or she would've learnt the bagpipes.


He may not have a clue
and he may not have style
but everything he lacks,
well, he makes up in denial!

--"Pretty Fly for a White Guy," Offspring

Pointless in-gossip, but I felt like posting it.

Phoemeister: when I'm graduated and have a real job and get vacation days I'm totally going to visit and rock your world
Phoemeister: in a non-sexual manner.
Talia: :: LAUGHS:: I was going to say :-P
Phoemeister: I knew you would take it that way, guttermind, which is why I added the extra bit :P
Talia: I'll have to hide you from X* and his buddies before they try to brain wash you into their cult
Phoemeister: I thought they never came around anymore anyway
Talia: if they found out you were here, they would... although they might not, considering A let X know how I felt about him hehe
Talia: which by the way, X says the reason he hasn't gone back to Mareks is because of me :-P I had no cause to jump on him publicly so he doesn't go there anymore
Talia: nice of him to tell you that after he recruited you to do that webpage
Phoemeister: That bastard! He never EVER told me, this is the first I've heard of it, I just thought he was dragging his heals like usual.
Phoemeister: I hate him so much. Actually, you should probably keep him away from me to protect him, not me. If I ever see him in person, I swear I'm going to kick him in the nutsack
Phoemeister: Maybe even hard enough to stop the flow of poorly named spawn
Talia: ::l aughs:: I just might pay you to do that
Talia: actually the second little girl hasn't got a bad name but I can never remember it
Phoemeister: I would do it for free, believe me.
Phoemeister: Yeah, I know. But the first kid's name still gets me.

Incidently, who else that reads this wants to meet me? I'm kind of fishing for invitations to capitalize on some day when I want to take a wacky roadtrip that I can record in my memoirs. And if you invite me, and I never do come, don't feel bad. I probably just think you're a psycho.

_____
* X being a mutual internet aquaintaince. Who has a child with an absolutely ludicrous name.

Gift giving, at least in my family, has gotten kind of sad. We all make a list, we all get exactly what's on it, and that's that. Not that it's not better than certain other alternatives, and not that I make a huge effort myself to do otherwise.... But anyway, registries are the worse. They certainly are convenient, but it's rather boring stuff to be buying. Wastebaskets? Flatware? Whatever. You need that stuff, but who cares? And then I realized today, when I was buying a present for a friend who's getting hitched soon, that I actually try and get myself worked up over these sorts of things, like my choice of cutlery or small appliances reveals something profound about my own character to the happy couple.

So a few months ago when I looked at the registry for the wedding shower, instantly I decided that I was all about getting a toaster. I was like, "It must be a toaster, nothing else will do!" I don't even really like toast that well, personally. But still, to myself, I was all, "A house isn't a home without a toaster! Your roof could leak, you might not have a kitchen table, but dammit! you WILL have freshly toasted bread products at the touch of a lever, my blissfully wedded friends! That, my friend, is what we're fighting for abroad! Long live democracy, freedom, and toast!" But I couldn't find the proper one, and had to get this cheesecake pan instead. Even I couldn't muster much excitement out of that one.

So today, I was shopping for a present for the wedding proper (girls are totally gypped, we have to give twice as many presents for weddings because of the shower), and bam! I became overwhelmingly convinced that the spice rack on there was the choice for me. Again, not something I'd use myself, probably. Even if I did cook, I have very bland, unimaginative tastes. But I got this image in my head of a spice rack as some sort of exotic James Bond-esque miracle gadget. BAM! Cumen, any time you want it, baby! Need some taragon? RIGHT THERE. Oh no! That sauce is too bland! Basil to the rescue! All in a day's work for the spice rack. Ah-thank you.

Yeah, I'm like an old lady who all loves to talk about her medical problems. So if you don't like hearing about my bowels, you might want to skip this post.

Colitis really screws with your values. Because of it, I actually LIKE being constipated. Not the type of constipated where you feel like you have to go but can't, but the type of constipated where you don't go for a really long time but don't feel like it anyway. It's like, a stay of execution. I know I'm going to have to pay the piper sooner or later. That I'm going to have two, three times the poo to deal with at some point later on, but it's usually worth it.

Another distorted value: the value of knowing where the restrooms are. You go to any place I've been before and ask me where the toilet is, odds are, I know. Hell, I'll give you horrifyingly detailed instructions if it's a place I go often. You need the bathroom at my local barnes and noble? No problem. Go up the aisle between the sci-fi and mystery shelves until you get to the children's section. Hang a left. Go until you get to the biographies, and you'll find it between the shelf with the books on Sartre and the shelf with Shakespeare. There is a convenient shelf right outside for you to put any unpurchased books on while you're in there.

Very sad.

Anyway, today's making me question the bit about constipation being good. Usually it's a pain to deal with after, but today I went 8 times, at least. I wanted to die. Stupid friggin' colitis.

Man. I have some bizarre dreams sometimes, but usually only once a night. Last night I had three.

The first one was a little less strange than the other two. I was at the pool (which I don't go much anymore. It's not so fun when you don't have anyone to hang out with out there, and it's getting way over crowded), only I'd skipped school to be there. And for some reason my Dad was there, so I kept having to hide from him. And then the professor from my london trip was there for some reason, and I stopped to talk to him, and my dad caught me.

The second dream was with my roommate last semester. I forget why, but she proposed marriage to me, and I said yes, because I was so lonely and I figured it was the best I could do. And things got tenser and tenser, because neither of us were lesbians and secretly wanted to not get married, but we didn't want to hurt the other one's feelings. Finally I just left without saying anything.

The third one, I was at this dance recital given by this lady who used to teach my sister and I how to dance. But instead of having people do the numbers she'd picked out for each class this year, she was calling up old students and making them do some of their old routines. Mostly she only called up students who were good (like my sister), but (even though I was not so good) she also called me up to do a dance with my sister because whoever had originally danced with her pulled out. I didn't know any of the steps, so I sort of had to watch what my sister was doing and improvise. Then, after I was done, I went into the audience and watched the other performers. At one point, I glimpsed my best friend from high school, but wasn't able to get her attention. I ended up sitting next to Dr. Cox from Scrubs, and in his gruff but lovable manner, he gave me dating advice.

Come, Mr. Tally Man, tally me banana

--Day-O, Henry Belafonte

Sometimes I'm surprised at how little I blog in the summer compared to during school. But then I realize that I do nothing during summer. Or rather, the same things every day. That's why I'm bummed that I can't even get a crappy summer job, because then at least I'd get paid to be bored. And I probably would be less bored anyway. Something bizarre always happens to you if you've got the type of job where you have to deal with other people, giving you a new interesting story to go and irritate your friends & loved ones with for awhile, which I enjoy. And I feel kind of like I'm wasting my life, just doing nothing every day. But, I don't think the same things every day. I DO have musings I could've put up here. So the answer basically is:

I am lazy. Being lazy probably edits out half the dumb crap I would put up here if I were energetic enough. But being at home, where I sometimes have to wait for the computer, and wait for it to dial up (had cable at school) is double the editor, for better or worse. So I think I'll just let drop a whole lot at once now that I've mustered the energy to get on here.

I guess one thing I've been thinking about a lot lately is about how old my parents are. They waited way late to have my sister and I, so they're much older than most people my age's parents. And, pretty unhealthy, they both have all these strange medical problems no one can solve. So anyway, I worry about them.

Worse, however, is the fact that an uncle on my dad's side (I don't really know Dad's side of the family so well, so I don't feel hugely directly devasted about this) is showing signs of Alzheimers. This is on top of one of Dad's other siblings having it, and one of his parents. Maybe both. My grandma had straight-up alzheimers, but my grandpa was more like Drew Barrymore's character in "50 First Dates," where she can remember everything up to a specific date in her life where she had a brain injury, but her short term memory's shot and she is stuck in this loop that repeats itself over and over. My grandpa had a head injury, and that IS what they thought caused it, but it got worse and worse over time, which is why it's not as much of a straight up case as it could be.

So... I'm a little shook up. No, I don't relish having the same genes as someone who might have alzheimers, but what really freaks me out is the prospect of watching Dad get worse day by day and remembering him like that, instead of like he is now.

Also, a good while ago I'd meant to blog this, he actually said something about me getting his books when he's dead awhile ago. I can see the logic: I'm the only one in the family who reads his books, or even really the same genre (SF). But just... out of the blue, him bringing it up after I'd asked to borrow one of them... disturbing.

I've got the pistols
so I'll take the pesos
yeah, that seems fair

--Banditos, The Refreshments