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unwillingtopost · 6 years ago

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Actual Post from Facebook Which I Just Removed 9 years after posting it

25 Things About Me (Which I Wouldn't Have Written Had I Not Been So Flattered by Being Tagged in Other People's 25 Things)

February 5, 2009 at 11:53 PM

Rules: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you. (To do this, go to “notes” under tabs on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.) 1. I am in love with my iPod. I know lots of people are, but I literally feel I can’t walk to work if I don’t have it. See #7. I depend on it. When I haven’t charged it, or when someone steals it (see #6), I don’t know what to do with myself. (On second thought, maybe this isn’t love. See #4.) 2. At 38, I am not where I thought I'd be. I'm not where either of my parents were. While my landings aren't unusual, my routes are twisty and often involve me backing into parking spaces when it would have been perfectly easy to slide in forwards. It just never occurred to me. 3. I like sports, but I'm a strange and inconsistent spectator. In Chicago, it's a crime not to pledge allegiance to the Cubs or the White Sox, but I truly do not have a preference. And I like watching (in decreasing order of interest) baseball, basketball and football, but only enjoy hearing the banter when someone does something that nobody has done since, say, 1928. (I always secretly want the Yankees to win, even though most of the players I can name are from the late 1970s.) 4. I read advice columns. Without discretion. Regularly. I have since I was a paperboy for the Journal News in 6th grade. I do sometimes wonder how life would have been different if Savage Love was publishing then, instead of Ann Landers. 5. I could eat pizza every day. Even if it’s frozen. Even if it’s from Chicago. 6. Someone stole my iPod from my coat at JoJo Restaurant in New York. When I tried to get a police report the next day, the police told me I should called them from the restaurant so that they could have searched people. (Really.) But when they found out the iPod had been in my coat, they couldn’t stop laughing. It was only my love (see #1, #4) that enabled me to finish writing out the report. The police were still laughing as they drove away. 7. I enjoy taking the train to work every day. Even if we had another car and parking was free, I still wouldn't drive to work. Except on days like today (3 degrees Fahrenheit). 8. Details and roadblocks paralyze me. Fact: My gym supplies all clothes except for underwear. Fact: The lockers are barely large enough to hold my sneakers and water bottle. Problem: I can't figure out how to carry underwear every day to the gym because in order to store the bag in my locker, it would have to be about the same size as the underwear. So I don't work out. 9. I still believe I have at least two books in me. See #26. 10. I decided that if I could become a lawyer in three years, I could learn how to play the guitar in three years. It’s been more than two and a half years, and to say I’m not quite there is a bit of an understatement. 11. I am hoping that by publicly revealing #8, I will shame myself into working out again. 12. Mark Garbett introduced me to skittles in fourth grade. They’re still my favorite candy. He also introduced me to bacon sandwiches. 13. I got my first tattoo in London by an artist named Marc Saint. He was formerly a skier on the British Olympic team. I showed up five minutes past closing, but he let me in. After giving me my tattoo, he said he liked my story and didn’t charge me. 14. The gym is convenient—in my building. And expensive—$89/month. That should help. You know, with the shaming. 15. I once sustained a deep love for musical theatre. My parents took me to a Broadway show every year for my birthday from when I was about seven until I was about fourteen. When I was 13, I auditioned for Oliver! on Broadway. I sang “Consider Yourself” on the stage of the Mark Hellinger Theatre. They let me sing about four lines. (See #19.) But considering the show itself closed after 17 performances, maybe not being called back was a blessing in disguise. 16. I eat meat, after spending several years as a vegetarian. But only if I know where it came from and how it was raised. See #21. 17. I tried to trade my car for a guitar, but it turned out to be less tempting for people than I’d hoped. After a few weeks, I just sold my car the normal way, and used the money to buy a guitar. 18. It takes me more than an hour to get ready for work in the morning. 19. On the first day of tenth grade, I auditioned for the High School for the Performing Arts, entry for which also depended on city residency (I lived in Rockland County). I gave my aunt’s address as my own. At the end of the audition, the man who told me I wasn’t accepted meanly remarked that there were plenty of good acting schools in Long Island. I was determined not to blow my cover. Did he know, I asked, whether there were any in the Bronx? 20. I’m terrible at staying in touch with people. I feel guilty for not calling/writing/emailing and then become overwhelmed and live in denial. See #8. 21. I don't think it's wrong, morally or otherwise, to eat animals. I believe, however, that animals have the right to live their lives according to their nature—including the movement, food and behavior normal to their species. I also think that animals have the right to live free from abuse, torture or pain, and if they are to be killed for food, the killing should be done as quickly and humanely as possible, with the animal shielded from the anticipation of its death. 22. I’m not a big fan of cake or cookies, but I buy thin mints every year when they come around. 23. When I saw Rent in Chicago, I left at the intermission. I thought it would be too rude to walk out during the first act. 24. I am a pack rat, and have a strong desire to keep a record of everything. These traits are probably connected to my trust issues. See #4. 25. It took me a week to write this list, which I edited and reread more times than I care to admit. See http://www.time.com/time/arts/article/0,8599,1877187,00.html.

Responses:

Abby: Abby: #8...Don't know where to store your panties? Think walk of shame. I know you've done it. And I'm always available to help nice boys with their feelings of shame...(miss you!)

Rachel: SHAME ON YOU. You are a very, very , very bad person for not working out - and for possibly not wearing underwear were you to do so. You are surely going to hell, where there will only be very, very, very out-of-shape, lazy, degenerate, worthless souls just like you, consuming nothing but krispy kremes and pizza and beer for all eternity. Wait, did I just make this sound too appealing... ?

My reply: Hahahah, I WEAR underwear, it's just that I can't toss the work-out pair into the same bin with the gym's clothes and the gym is next to the cafeteria, and........damn, Rachel, you're way too good at this shaming thing. :)

Matt: I think the coolest thing about this whole note is how your writing style is so like what I remember about your speaking style. I was able to read the whole thing imagining you saying it all aloud. Which was really cool, since it has been an age and a half since I last saw you.

Jodi: A tattoo? Now you have me wondering what it is... #19 You didn't make it because you couldn't leave me alone at SHS right? ;) (for the record, I'm sorry you didn't make it) #21 Amen to that #24 I'm a pack rat too, although I prefer to call myself "sentimental". You would laugh at a few of the things I still have although I'm not sure if you would remember. Lori does. :) My daughter and I sold 55 boxes of Girl Scout Cookies last month. 40 of them were Thin Mints. Skittles are my favorite candy too! Nothing here really surprised me...except the tattoo. :) (So glad to see you on Facebook)

Pam: I so disagree with the author of the Time piece. These lists are delightful in their random inconsequence. And I think Cheerios smell a little like piss, too. Greg, I can't believe your gym supplies workout clothes. It's like junior high P.E.

Johan: 26. Auditioned to be an extra in "The Manhattan Project". Sorry, can't remember if you got a part or not but I think you did.

Alice: #4...I love advice columns, too. I don't remember a point in my childhood when I did not read Ann Landers. I typically evaluate the advice in the columns I read, and find it lacking. #21...CA just passed a law that ensures that farm animals will have enough room to do the hokey pokey. They probably won't, but they could if they wanted. After 2012. #13...I am more intrigued by the story than the tattoo. I second what Matt said...I can hear your voice in my head as I read this. Miss you muchly.

Johanna: I love your 25! What is your tatoo? Sebastien just got inot Linclon Park HS in the drama program!

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unwillingtopost · 6 years ago

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Blackout

I drove home drunk last night.

This morning, sitting quietly in my dining room with my breakfast of fruit and yogurt and coffee, feeling like someone who would never drive drunk, I try to rationalize it: I drank a ton of water (I know those Lollapalooza bathrooms intimately) and spaced my drinking over the entire day, but then we left at 9.30 instead of 11 like we planned. I thought I had more time?

I can’t rationalize this. The truth is that I had been working at Lolla since 9:30 a.m., was now free, and I wanted a buzz. I actively sought intoxication. At 5:19 p.m., when I was on beer #2, I wrote myself a note: “I need a new drug. Beer makes me pee too much.” The other truth is that the only barrier I saw to drinking what I wanted was that drinks were festival-expensive and I didn’t have much money. And my plan to stay in the VIP area for as long as possible (and get free drinks) like on Friday didn’t work because of a specific crackdown on crew drinking for free.

And so over the next six hours, I bought a $10 beer, and then another, and then a $30 bottle of wine (two 375ml cans poured together into one plastic bottle with an easy-drink flip lid) and then another $18 can of wine. I even took a picture of the bottle of wine because it was ingenious (it’s like a water bottle but with wine!) but also an ostentatious display of alcohol. I ignored the outrageous $68 I spent, and way overshot my drinking goals, blowing right through the buzz and into true-blue intoxication. I was drunk. Fail a DUI test, spend the night in jail or cause a horrific accident drunk.

And I was driving my 14 year old son and his friend home. We can stop there for a second. The ending of this story is not tragic. But nor is this story about excessive drinking. This story is about the first time I have ever blacked out.

I remember having the first beer, the second beer, the bottle of wine, and buying the second can of wine. I don’t remember drinking the second can of wine, or whether I drank from the can or poured it into the bottle, which I remember considering. I don’t remember disposing of the bottle or the can. I don’t know whether I finished the wine. I do remember that I bought some ooey-gooey cheese fries after I bought the can of wine, because I remember setting the can on the counter while I paid. I remember eating the fries, refraining from licking my filthy fingers clean and wiping my fingers on the woodchips I think I was sitting on. Although I think I was sitting on cement. Or maybe I was standing. I took some pictures of the band I was watching from clearly a standing position.

I remember my son texting me at 9 pm to ask if we could meet at 9:30 instead of 11:00. I replied, coherently. I even asked a question about whether I was driving anyone else home and told him about the band I was seeing. I remember winding my way out of the crowd. I remember thinking I should pee before I left, but I don’t remember peeing. I don’t remember finding an exit. I don’t remember leaving Lolla at all.

I don’t remember walking down Michigan Ave, although I remember being at the meeting place. I texted my son saying I was there. From my texts, I can see I waited for him for 8 minutes, but I don’t remember that. I remember going down the stairs towards the parking lot with my son and his friend, I remember showing them the picture on my phone showing where I’d parked my car, I remember getting into the car, and pulling up to the gate, inserting the ticket and putting my phone under the scanner. I remember driving up onto Michigan Ave, being careful of the cement walls on either side of the ramp, telling the kids how lucky we were to beat the traffic, turning onto Randolph and then onto Lake Shore Drive. I remember telling my son’s friend that I missed the North Ave exit because it came up too fast and I would take Fullerton instead. I remember asking something about Halsted, turning on Halsted and then on Armitage and then pulling in front of his house. I remember him getting out of the car seemingly very quickly.

I don’t remember pulling away from his house. I don’t remember talking to my son on the way home. I have no memory of which way I drove back to Lake Shore Drive. I have no memory of driving on Lake Shore Drive, exiting Lake Shore Drive, driving to my house, and pulling into my garage. I remember being in the kitchen and asking my son to be quiet so my other child wouldn’t wake up. I remember going upstairs and my child had in fact been woken up. I remember kissing them goodnight. I don’t remember going to bed.

When I woke up in the morning, I experienced the very unfamiliar feeling of disorientation. I knew where I was, but immediately realized all I did not remember, and I felt horrified. Shame, and more than a little terror. My son was asleep. What would he remember? What did I do? What did I say? Was my driving bad? Was it scary? Did he see how drunk I was? Did his friend? Would his friend’s parents be calling me? Was I an alcoholic? How come I didn’t have a hangover? How could I feel fine?

As soon as I was alone, I googled blacking out. Not surprisingly, there were tons of hits. I learned that blacking out currently is seen as a problem of binge drinking, although it used to be thought of as a symptom of advanced alcoholism. While it’s not considered “normal,” it’s definitely widespread. And my drinking last night fell squarely in binge territory.

I learned there are two kinds of black outs: partial and total. Because I can remember some of the events, mine was partial. Total blackouts are when people remember absolutely nothing from one point forwards. And in partial blackouts, some memories can be refreshed or recovered, while in total blackouts, memory is gone. In fact, it was never there: blackouts affect the part of the brain which creates memory by transferring short term memory to long term memory. In a blackout, that process is affected, and the events of a time period may never be recoverable, even though the person was awake, interacting, talking, and DRIVING.

All of the information included warnings about the dangers of blacking out, like unsafe sex and violence, but the one I was particularly interested in was driving. Because I have no memory of driving after dropping off my son’s friend, that memory might be gone forever. Yet at the time, I was awake, I was talking to my son, I obviously successfully navigated home and caused no accidents, but HOW?

Now, a couple of days later, I’ve decided to take a break from alcohol. For a week? A month? (How will I handle my vacation coming up?) I don’t think I’m an alcoholic because I don’t need alcohol and I will not have trouble taking this break. (Could I quit? I think so. But I don’t want to. Does that make me an alcoholic?) But I drink a lot -- does that make me alcoholic? I read today that 60% of Americans have less than one drink per week, which seems low to me. Does that make me an alcoholic? The fact that I’m asking definitely means I should watch my drinking. I’m fearful -- without any evidence -- that this blackout has triggered something deeper, that it’s not just a result of one night of extremely heavy drinking. I’m afraid that I might black out if I have one drink. I read that that could happen.

But so far, there have been no consequences. I have seen my son’s friend and nothing was abnormal. My interactions with my son have been the same as ever. Although the next day, when I asked him what he ate at Lolla and he said, Dad, I told you last night. We had a whole conversation about it.

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unwillingtopost · 7 years ago

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From 2015. I brought it to a writing group that was focused on a novel writer, a memoir writer, and a children’s writer. Dana was a playwright but she had to leave before we discussed my play and the discussion was so horrible that I put it aside for a year, never went back to the group, and then showed it to a friend maybe a year later, who had some good constructive feedback, but I thought I should go back to the novel and do the play later. I don’t even know about what I just wrote. I don’t know why I never went back to the play. It was too hard?

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unwillingtopost · 7 years ago

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November 8, 2018

This is a post to the future me.

Dear Greg,

You are closer than you have ever been to finishing your novel, and being Greg, your head is already filled with fantasies about finishing your novel such as:

* your amazing success

* getting paid a lot of money

* selling the novel and getting a contract for another, which you start right away totally successfully and suddenly you are a real writer and you’re finishing a second book and claiming your identity as a writer and somehow you’re different from all the people who are finishing and publishing novels every day and who DON’T get contracts and money and success

* (but who do get published and have their books in bookstores and on Amazon, and in the library, and on GoodReads and available in a Google search)

* quitting your lawyer job and only having to write, or do things related to writing, like maybe even teaching, for the rest of your life

* BEING RESPECTED AND ACKNOWLEDGED AS A WRITER BY EVERYONE ESPECIALLY YOURSELF AND YOUR FAMILY

All of those things could happen, but these things could also happen:

*You could finish the novel and nobody likes it

*You could finish the novel and people are meh about it

*You could finish the novel and your family hates it but other people like it or other people hate it and your family likes it but then you think they’re lying to you because they don’t want to hurt your feelings

*You could finish the novel and people are like it’s really good, but maybe you should think about changing. . . the beginning, the ending, the theme, the characters, the whole book

*You could finish the novel and people say this has been your dream for the last 25 years? This? This is what you’ve been thinking about? And you know that everyone has suspended judgment about you and thought maybe you were a good writer if you ever got it together to write, and now you have, and they’ve read it, and they’re like, nope, you just suck.

*You could finish the novel and people can all like it but you can’t get it published

*You could finish the novel and people can like it and you can get it published but nothing else happens

Any of those things could happen but here’s the message:

* You’re 47 years old and you’ve wanted to write ever since Ms. Dedrick in 10th grade said you could be a writer. You did a bunch of stuff in high school and college and took some classes after college and wrote but never finished and half did an MFA program and wrote but never finished and wrote some plays that you never rewrote BUT NOW YOU ACTUALLY WROTE AND FINISHED A NOVEL AND YOU SHOULD BE HAPPY AND FULFILLED AND SATISFIED ABOUT THAT AND PROUD OF YOURSELF.

*Even if it doesn’t get published, even if people say it sucks, even if you don’t make any money, or receive any recognition

*You should feel proud that you wrote something and finished it.

AND

*Don’t give up trying. Do it again. Don’t accept failure when you’ve come this far. Don’t let ANYONE tell you not to continue. Continue. Continue. Continue.

*DO NOT GIVE UP. EVER.

Love,

Greg from the recent past

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unwillingtopost · 7 years ago

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5/30/1997

The work will not be known unless it is produced

The work will not be produced unless it is sold

The work will not be sold unless it is completed

The work will not be completed unless it is written

The work will not be written unless I sit down, stay seated, do it, and make the words.

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unwillingtopost · 7 years ago

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July 1999

Wavering Opinion: My writing in general is not honest. I censor myself. I should write about growing up and childhood and sex. For real. I should write about all the things which have happened to me. Maybe these aren’t the stories I try to publish, but they certainly are stories I should write. My life is more interesting than anything I can make up. Maybe that’s not true. But everybody tells me that.

I just dated this whatever this is. For the past hour or two, I’ve been reading my old journals and picking out important things such as times when I acknowledge that I’m not writing about what is really happening in my life—wait, I need to scream—

I HAVE WASTED TWENTY EIGHT YEARS TRYING TO MAKE MYSELF LOOK GOOD INSTEAD OF LOOKING AT MYSELF AS I REALLY AM AND NEVER LOOKING CLOSELY AND CLEARLY AT THE WORLD WHICH PRODUCED ME

—and times when I’m actually insightful about my life (journal writing is never a waste—at least not at this stage in my life—maybe some other time. i think i’ve dismissed journal writing while it was still useful. I need to use capitals. Even I don’t like to read things all in lower-case.) and times when I speak about my father or parents honestly, not sarcastically or the hundreds of pages in which they are conspicuously absent, except as vague references. Until my last year in college, I am still concerned about treating them nicely on paper, concerned with betraying them by speaking badly (or honestly) about them.

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unwillingtopost · 7 years ago

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Men Arrested in Murder of L.I. Woman Bookkeeper

Special to the New York Times

Mineola, L.I., Feb. 3—The Nassau County police said today they had arrested three men on charges of murdering a woman bookkeeper in the robbery of a Lynbrook lamp company on Dec. 29.

At least 1,000 persons were questioned during the five-week investigation that led to the arrests this weekend.

The suspects were identified as Melvin H. Johnson, 21 years old, of 167-11 142d Avenue, Jamaica, Queens; Kenneth Coram, 19, of 167-19 142d Avenue, also Jamaica, and David R. Glover, 23, of 334 Kingsland Avenue, the Bronx. They were said to be unemployed.

The victim was Mrs. Gertrude Kaplan, 48, of 106 Morris Parkway, Valley Stream, who was shot to death during the robbery.

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unwillingtopost · 7 years ago

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Today’s Worries

This is my first post in forever. That’s an actual date.

It seemed a small thing (which I suppose by definition isn’t, or at least is not easily attainable, or omg, is this going to be boring to read later, or what) to commit to writing every day JUST WHAT I DID so I could remember. How hard could that be? I did that for a while while I rode the train to and from work. So the date is July 1, 2018. This has been my week.

1. Last Monday, June 25, I was scheduled for THD, or transanal hemorrhoidal dearterialization surgery to get rid of the hemorrhoids I have been suffering from since approximately 2001 and which I decided I wanted to get rid of in preparation for my backpacking adventure with Miles in the Grant Tetons in approximately four weeks.

2. Last Monday, June 25, I arrived at Glenbrook Hospital at 8 am, unprepared for the pain and misery to come. At 9.15 or so, Dr. Spitz walked in just as I was about to walk into the bathroom and said he’d come back, but I said, no, I want to tell you that I have a possible abscess in my tooth and my dentist prescribed antibiotics which I haven’t taken yet, and is that okay? Can we still do the surgery? Also, I’m in a terrible amount of pain. He said it was fine.

3. Last Monday, June 25, while I was driving to Glenbrook Hospital, I was distracted by periodic waves of blinding pain alternately emanating from my upper left tooth and my lower left tooth which started out with a yawning acknowledgement of eerie feeling, widened into a small storm brewing and spreading over an unsuspecting piece of airy geography, and then swallowed me whole in a fracturing starbust of pulsating, scorching and piercing pain which stretched across my upper and lower teeth and up along my jawbone, into my ear and finally wisped out over my scalp and into my brain just as I was about to lose my grip on the steering wheel while traveling 50 mph in rush hour traffic.

4. Last Monday, June 25, At about 9.30, Dr. Cochran, the anesthesiologist, walked in and said you have two choices, and I recommend the first one, but I’ll tell you about the second one because people want to know it. So I recommend you get a spinal. We put a needle in your spine and your body under your waist will go to sleep. The alternative, which a guy yesterday just next door took, and I don’t know, because I don’t recommend it, is for me to intubate you and shove a tube down your throat and put you under total general anesthesia, which I don’t recommend.

5. Last Monday, June 25, a nurse came in and said she was the pre-op nurse and asked me some questions that I don’t remember. Maybe all the same things about my medical history. Oh, and everyone who walked into the room asked me my first and last name and my date of birth. Every single person. Every single time. Then she left, and she appears in a strange spot later. Hold on.

6. Last Monday, June 25, another nurse came in and said she was the surgical nurse and would be taking me back to the operating room. Her name was Kelsey and she said people stayed away from her because she was a bad driver, a story she told me as she guided my bed down the hall. (It hadn’t occurred to me yet that I would be wheeled into the operating room at all, let alone on my bed, which I hadn’t realized was mobile). She was also wearing a sweater because she said it was freezing in the operating room, which she also remarked was a good thing because bacteria bred in warm, wet places, and we definitely didn’t want any bacteria breeding in the operating room, did we?

7. Last Monday, June 25, Kelsey brought me into the operating room where Dr. Cochran was waiting, and the pre-op nurse, and they asked me to sit on the side of the bed with my legs hanging over and the pre-op nurse got into front of me and put her hands on my chest (to keep me from falling over? I’m not sure, but it was a very intimate position.) while Kelsey and Dr. Cochran lifted the back of my gown to give me the spinal, which felt exactly like someone inserting a needle into your spine, from the popping sound of the needle piercing the skin and then the force it takes for someone to push the needle into your spine. Kelsey guided the needle into my spine with the help of her sharp fingernails, which she used as pencil lines to mark where she wanted to put the needle into my spine. I wasn’t sure if I was receiving four injections or just one injection four times, but I felt approximately four needles enter my spine. At one point, I heard Dr. Cochran say, well, that would have been difficult for anyone.

8. Last Monday, June 25, Kelsey also said something about putting something in my IV to make me sleepy and then Dr. Spitz was there, and they said they were ready, and then I was waking up with my head on my hands and I was flat on my stomach, and they wheeled me out of the operating room back into my room and I came in, and Laura was there, and her mom, and they rolled me into the new bed. (The old bed? Was I on a stretcher? Maybe I ruined my first bed with operation detritus.)

9. Last Monday, June 25, I’m not really sure if Laura and her mom were there when I got back into the room or not. I think maybe the nurse called them. I had another nurse then, who spent the rest of the day with me, and she was great, but I can’t remember her name right now. She had a white woman’s name. Not Tiffany or Fiona or Jessica or Lisa or Lindsay? Maybe Lindsay? I don’t remember.

10. I’m still on Monday, June 25, and she brought me applesauce (I of course couldn’t eat anything else they were offering -- why is food in hospitals SO BAD?) which I devoured and water (did I mention I couldn’t eat or drink anything from 10 pm the night before) and coffee.

11. My legs were numb, like dead, like no feeling, like trippy, and I could kind of move by lifting my butt but I couldn’t feel my butt and it seemed like I was wearing a lot of stuff on my butt. (This post is largely going to be about my butt from here onwards, FYI). At some point, with everyone in my room, I lifted my sheet to figure out what that thing was on my leg, and it was my penis, which I couldn’t feel. “My penis is numb,” I said, and Laura said, you said that in front of my mother, and I said, but it is. I can’t feel it. My penis is totally numb.

12. Then there was the recovery time, which on the phone the day before with Nurse Nancy (I think) said would be 1-2 hours after surgery. But the day went on and on and on and on and I was in the room with Laura and her mother and they got me crudite and almonds from the hospital cafeteria and coffee and I ate and drank as much as I could, but I was just killing time. I even tried to put the TV on at some point, and I was SO TIRED. There was this whole thing where they said I couldn’t leave until I could walk AND pee. Apparently, my body had peed some in my bed, but that didn’t count as I couldn’t feel it, and it wasn’t measurable, and they had to measure it, because we were in a hospital and it had to be recorded.

13. I decided to try to walk and they said I had to be able to swing both my legs over to the side of the bed without holding them up with my hands, but I could only really do my left one, and they said the left side often recovered more quickly than the right side, but they didn’t know why. Anyway, nurse lady Lindsay (not her real name) brought in another nurse lady (Laura wasn’t allowed to help, for professional liability reasons, I imagine, Northshore Hospital thank you very much) and apparently, even though I really wanted to be able to swing my legs over to the side, wanting was not enough, and I cheated by lifting my right leg with my hand and they said fine, okay, and brought a walker over and said can you put your feet on the floor and I could kind of (but not really) and I tried to stand up, but there was no way, so they said I had to get back into bed and they gave me a container to try and pee into. Which is so hard to do at all, but especially in bed, and especially apparently when your penis is numb, or mostly.

14. It’s still Monday, June 25, and I finally was able to walk with help and made it to the bathroom where both nurses helped me sit on the toilet and then stood there and I was like, I can’t pee if you’re watching, and they were like, we’ve seen it all, and I was like, I’m sure, but this is MINE, and I sat and I could feel how fucked up my body was and I peed into the container 100 ml and then 200 ml and I had to really strain, but they finally were satisfied and let me get up and let me stand at the toilet, where I was finally able to pee more, and they let me wash my hands, and finally said I could go home. We were only there for like 8-9 hours (they said it would be 4-5). They took me out in a wheelchair and Laura went and got the car and the nurse stood with me, but wouldn’t let Laura take a picture of us.

15. Driving home was torture. Every bump hurt. Laura had gotten my opiod and stool softener prescriptions from the hospital pharmacy, and I did my best to hold my breath, even though the painkillers were kicking in and I still had a lot of numbness, and I think when we finally got home, Laura helped me into the house, and up the stairs and I got into bed. I also peed in my pants a little on the way home and could only tell because my pants were wet.

Okay, that was Monday. I must have fallen asleep. Laura skipped her meeting because they said I shouldn’t be alone.

Tuesday.

I took a lot of pills and maybe watched some movies. I still had about 8 hours of CLE to finish before Friday, so I watched some CLE videos. My teeth were still rocking the pain out of my whole being, so the painkillers were serving double duty for my teeth and my butt. I tried to heat up some leftovers of soft food and I dropped it all over the kitchen floor, which I then had to clean because we have a mouse and an ant problem, both of which increased in my week of being inept and unconscious.

Wait, now I remember. I woke up really early and went downstairs to the basement and watched Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Later I watched Heat. When Abe got home, I watched Moana with them.

NOTE: ALL I THOUGHT ABOUT THIS WHOLE WEEK WAS PEEING AND POOPING, i.e., CAN I PEE? CAN I POOP? CAN I DO EITHER WITHOUT IT HURTING LIKE A MOTHERFUCKING RAZOR RASH PIZZA CHEESE? IN MY BUTT?

I was sent home from the hospital with a sitz bath, which is a plastic bowl which fits over the toilet and it comes with a IV-like bag with plastic tubing, and you’re supposed to fill the bowl with warm water and fill the bag with warm water so it replenishes the warm water in the bowl (while of course hanging it from your suddenly-present IV rack in your bathroom), and then sit on it on the toilet and the water spills into the toilet and you feel relief. Except that’s a giant big watery mess and the tube sprays water everywhere when you can’t figure out how to clamp it correctly. I tried with no luck and then remembered how nurse with no name said one of her patients said it worked better in the bath (and I admit at first I was wondering if I was supposed to be pooping in this, but the answer to that is no) so I set it up in the bath and it DID bring relief although it FUCKING HURTS the rest of your butt to sit with your butthole in a plastic bowl of hot water because the sides of the plastic bowl are sharp and you have to hold yourself up on the sides of the bathtub. So yes, relief, and what a big pain in the ass, literally, figuratively and every other way. That’s my review.

ALSO don’t forget how much my teeth still hurt.

I didn’t go to the site meeting or to band, my regular Tuesday night haunts.

Wednesday

Oh, we were supposed to host a party on Wednesday. We were going to weed the backyard and clean the house. And I couldn’t walk and I was on massive painkillers. But intrepid Laura went on anyway. She stayed home from school and worked and cooked (and I had the strength and energy to cut up a shit load of crudite and also pack most of the kids’ lunches.) I mostly stayed in the basement sleeping and watching stuff and doing CLE and then people came over and I took a shower (after possibly the first successful sitz bath) and went outside (WALKED!) and took an extra pain pill and tried to be as social as possible, but ended up sitting on the couches with everyone at the end of the night and falling asleep (well, fighting falling asleep which everyone noticed) so everyone went home, and that ended up the only time I saw Cullen and Jason on their big trip here on Searah’s birthday to make up for leaving her on her birthday two years ago, and there was also a lot of kid drama (really, Daphne said he gender identity was a cat, SIGH). And jumping on my couches. And drinking. And lots of pizza.

I didn’t go to the board meeting. I didn’t go because of my pain and recovery. I don’t know if I would have gone if it was just the party. I didn’t have the luxury of choice.

Thursday.

I drove Miles to the bus in the morning, which was crazy because I hadn’t driven in days, and hadn’t sat in a car seat in days AND was still on painkillers (AND MY TEETH STILL WERE KILLING ME) and then went home and tried to poop for hours until I went to a CM design meeting and brought a pillow and sat on a chair and talked for 2-3 hours with architects and designers.

Then I went to the store and picked up stuff for dinner and then went home and collapsed. Finished watching CLE videos.

Friday.

I went in for my root canal. I told the dentist that I had been taking the antibiotic since Monday, and I was on painkillers, and my pain was off the charts, but I wasn’t convinced that it was coming from my top or bottom or both OR that the pain was entirely in my head, and he said it wasn’t in my head at all and it sounded like I had an abscess. I was able to sit in the chair for an hour while he and his assistant tortured my teeth because of the painkillers plus the local novocaine anesthetic that he shot me full of.

THIS WAS MY WEEK FOR ANESTHETIC! I forgot to talk about the phone call I had with Dr. Spitze’s nurse about my progress, and I said I was still kind of numb in my perenium area (this was Wednesday, I think) and she said that might have been the lidocaine they injected you with. AREN’T THEY SUPPOSED TO TELL ME THAT BEFORE THEY DO IT?

Laura arranged for her mother to pick me up after my root canal because I didn’t plan for how I would get home (Laura drove me) in my condition. She dropped me off at home. That night, Miles had a sleepover and Abe and Laura went to the beach with Jason and Cullen and Searah and the gang, and I stayed home by my lonesome.

(New theme -- I stayed home by my lonesome A LOT this week. I usually don’t mind that, but this week was particularly difficult.)

I had been going to bed at about 9, which was easy with the painkillers. Tonight Miles kept texting me wanting me to send money to someone on Paypal and then Abe and Laura came home from the beach, but I finally fell asleep.

It’s also been wicked hot here. Like 100 degrees, blazing, oppressive, exhausting heat. In all of this heat, Laura came home with the dogs and a 50 lb bag of dog food, so now the dogs were here too.

Saturday.

My mornings this week, after my excellent opioid fueled sleep, consisted of me waking feeling rested but with tremendous pressure in my bladder and bowels (which this week have felt like all one unified joint bipartisan pressure), and a walk down to the basement to my personal post-THD bathroom where my sitz bath and my witch hazel pads are waiting for me. And then I sit, and it hurts SO MUCH and I can’t really pee, and I definitely can’t poop. I then stand to pee and guess I’m not pooping. Except for some early success on Wednesday, accompanied by earth shattering straining, I have not pooped, even though it’s all I think about. Spoiler alert: today is going to be all about poop.

But first the farmer’s market. Have to pick up our CSA. Then home, and then pick up Miles at his friend’s house. Then get my renewal of my pain prescription. Then finally home, and the decision not to take another pain pills because MAYBE the tooth pain is lessening, and maybe I can do without the pain pills for my butt.

The day bores on, hot and still. Laura and Abe are out at a farm. Miles is home and it set to babysit. He has some emergency about sneakers for which he convinces Laura to take him to Wicker Park and lend him $400. HOW? But all this time, I have been in the BATHROOM! Pooping. With great effort. Standing. Squatting. Squatting ON the toilet. Squatting in the bath. Pushing like my life depended on it. Pushing like my poop baby had to come, that it would die if it didn’t. AND MY POOR TENDER LITTLE SURGERIED BUTTHOLE. I pooped a million times on Saturday. Watched American Honey, a 3 hour movie which took me 6 hours to watch because of poop.

And remember no pain pills!

Sunday. Today.

Same morning. Great pressure. To the basement bathroom. Actually pee and poop. (Interesting note: this week at least, it was really hard for me to fully pee while I was sitting. I’ll just leave that there.)

Then more of this week’s super high fiber diet, which is kind of my normal diet but MORE -- lots of yogurt, oatmeal, fruits, and vegetables. Pears, apples, bananas, pineapple, cherries, raspberries, blueberries, raisins.

I forgot what else I was going to say. They’re all out to dinner and I’m alone. I’ve been pooping approximately every 2-3 hours and then 20 minutes in a sitz bath and then a bath, and man, my legs have never been washed so often.

***

Part of why I don’t do these very often is that they take FOREVER. Which is approximately the date of my next post, and which definitely will not be about poop.

I didn’t even get to today’s worries, which were about mortality and blood pressure. I walked to CVS in the heat to buy a blood pressure monitor and to exercise my legs which felt heavy and bad, but didn’t match up with any of the diseases I researched on the internet that included painful legs because I didn’t have any of the other symptoms.

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