For Saturday, I had written an entry that was a rather cryptic return from my ten-day hiatus. My mind is in a [somewhat] better place now, so maybe I can get through a rational explanation of the weekend's events.

Easter. Yeah. Great.

... Or maybe not. I just explained the situation to Lindsay--or ranted about it--Michelle and Ian have also sort of heard about it.

My mother's family is certifiable, I'm convinced.

My grandmother had an aneurysm on Thursday.

My mother has six siblings, and none of them knows the value of leaving a message on an answering machine apparently. My parents said they had a dozen calls on Thursday night, all of them resulting in dead air on the answering machine--after which they unplugged the phone because they thought it was over-zealous marketers or kids pulling pranks--because, surely, if the matter were that important, the caller might leave even a sparse message. No.

Since the robbery, my parents have had one dinosaur of a computer in their home. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. And for this reason, it's not very useful for checking email. My father finally received his new desk-top in the mail on Thursday, but he hadn't set it up yet, because he gets home late most nights and is too tired to mess with it.

On Friday night, my mother had managed to make "the dinosaur" log on to the internet. In her inbox, there's an email from my uncle J asking her to get in touch with one of them. Uncle F is angry at my parents for not responding sooner--he doesn't quite believe they were robbed and have one old computer that doesn't quite work all the time. Aunt J is convinced that she could have done something to prevent Nana's aneurysm. Uncle C is now living by himself, but occasionally being looked in on by my uncle S. Aunt K is ... well, she's a bossy bitch.

The family is imploding, basically, and nobody is communicating very well; and my mother can't get a straight story about Nana's condition from any of them. So she messages me on AIM on Friday night (when I'm out at the Publick House with Lindsay, Ahmer, Bob, Kathy, and a silent young man whose name I couldn't catch in the din). When I get home at midnight, this is the message:

"Nana had an aneurysm. She's at Beth Israel, and maybe you can visit for us. Call me."

Midnight seemed an inappropriate time to respond to this message, so I went to bed.

I called in the morning, trying to find out where exactly Nana is at Beth Israel (it's a sprawling hospital), but Mum didn't know that. She knew when visiting hours began, but that was about it. It didn't help that my phone was uncharged, because she wanted me to go there, find out Nana's condition, and call them back immediately. So I let the phone charge for a while, got ready, and walked down to the D line.

My first guess at the buildings was wrong. I went into the East Campus building, because that's the official address for the whole hospital, and was informed that Nana was actually in the West Campus building. And when I got there, the front desk person told me that she was in room 675--but there really isn't a room 675, at least not labeled as such. I wouldn't have known where to go at all if aunt J hadn't spotted me first.

A (aunt J's husband) had taken C to get food, so we were the only ones there to begin with. We stood outside the ICU for a while, because they were in the process of doing something with Nana, and I tried to get J to say something of her condition so that I'd know what to expect. But J doesn't really know what's what.

J: "Well, an aneurysm is like a stroke that happens in the brain."
Me: "Really? I thought that strokes also happened in the brain."
J: "No, strokes happen in the heart... blahblahblah... "
Uhhhh ... I didn't have the patience to argue with her on that front. And I really wanted to hear something from an actual doctor.

Talking to J [inappropriately] reminds me of this commercial:





I really wasn't prepared to see Nana this way. There's a tube that goes through her groin, all the way up into her skull and out to drain the excess fluid from the aneurysm. An orderly--or maybe she was a nurse--came in and re-adjusted the oxygen tube to her nose. She was in an out of consciousness during the time that Jean and I were in the room. For thirty seconds at the most her eyes would be open, and then she'd go back into fitful rest. She talks, but sometimes there's no sound, and when there is sound, it's a gruff lower version of her voice.

She didn't know me at first. J said she recognises people, but she didn't seem to know me. I told her who I was. She smiled and asked me, "What do you have on the docket today?" I had to get her to repeat it before I understood what she'd asked. And then I felt guilty for making her repeat anything. And guilty for feeling and allowing myself to look upset, because I didn't want to upset her. She lapsed back into what J referred to as "her restful state," and I stood there for a while and watched her breathe. J told me to keep talking to her, but I had no idea what to say, and I was fully engrossed in trying to hear anything that she might say in her sleep. "I'm tired" and "it's not working." And I think hypoglycemia was kicking in, because my vision was getting spotty.

I heard a man's voice asking for room 675, and when I turned around uncle J and his girlfriend G were talking to one of the staff--a woman informing them that only two people could see Nana at one time. I vacated, and aunt J was close behind me. F was in the hallway outside the ICU doors, and he asked J if we'd been to see Nana and who was there now? The two of them made faces about uncle J's girlfriend being there, and then aunt J led the way back to the waiting room. F and N had brought their sons, though F didn't seem very happy about it. They asked me about the robbery, where I'm living, and then seemed to be done with me. So I plugged my cell phone into an outlet and called my mother.

I told her who was there, and what I knew, which wasn't--and still isn't--much. C and A came back into the room, but didn't notice me for a while. Then C did, and I motioned that I was still on the phone with my mother--and, regardless, I didn't want to talk to him anyway. And when I was done talking to her, I slipped away to the bathroom. From the bathroom, I made a beeline for the elevators, and out to the Longwood food-court to assuage my hunger and avoid my relatives.

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Something completely different: some things that make me laugh ...

"The Return of Mr. Gosh" - I was inspired to look this up by an LJ friend's recent post.




"Magic Muffin" - whenever I see muffins, I think of the comic, and the following animated version ...

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

this is how I convalesce

I probably should've stayed home again, but one never likes to use sick days when one is actually sick. Where's the fun in that?

Typing is still an issue, but at the moment I'm managing to stabilise my thumb while maintaining the use of most of my four fingers. And of course it's my right hand, because I have to inconvenience myself as much as possible.

How did I do this?

Snowboarding. Naturally.

I was doing so well for the first three hours that I was emboldened to press my luck on a green trail (which isn't a black diamond, but I still wasn't really ready for it--clearly). I had a few initial falls--and in one of them sprained my thumb, which I didn't notice until something worse happened.

Then, continuing down the hill, a woman and her son began to veer in front of me. I tried to avoid them, and I did it so well that I fucked myself up instead. The front edge caught on the snow and down I went, face-plant against the hill.

Immediate headache. I could taste blood before I saw it, and then I thought it was coming from my nose. But the woman had turned around and was saying, "No, no, it's your head!" Great. She handed me lots of tissues and asked me a few pointed questions to make sure that I still had all my wits, then flagged down one of the ski patrol--who asked me all the same questions all over again. The woman had me describe my friends, since Lindsay and her friend Matt weren't far off, and she went to find them while her large Irish friend and the ski patrol man stayed with me to wait for more ski patrol people to arrive.

Lindsay and Matt trudged back up the hill to find out what had happened, and more patrol people came around.

And then one of the patrol-- "Do you think you can go down on your own?" I don't think anyone thought that was a good idea except for him. (Lindsay, later: "Was he on crack?") Instead, they packed me into a sled, wrapped up in yellow canvas like a mummy and shuttled me down the hill to the infirmary.

Those things look fun until you actually need them, by the way. Then, they're deeply embarrassing.

The EMS workers re-bandaged me (they'd done a make-shift job of it on the hill), and advised that I go to the ER. So Lindsay and Matt went to get stuff from the lockers while I sat around with a plastic bag of snow pressed to my head. Then we walked to Lindsay's car, but somewhere between the EMT station and the parking space, Lindsay's car key went missing. Awesome, right?

Lindsay was carrying all my stuff and didn't look very keen to go back looking, so I volunteered and went off. I retraced our steps back to the infirmary, but didn't find them, so I walked into the Lost & Found. L&F woman: "What happened to you?!" Me: "I fell, and I'm supposed to go to the ER, but my friend can't find her keys." But no keys had been turned in yet for the day, so I wandered back outside ... with the L&F woman following me, though I didn't know it yet. And Lindsay had come back from the parking lot and was standing in the path between the EMT station building and the Lost & Found looking for me and the keys.

I was dazed and upset and embarrassed, so pulled down my sunglasses and dragged my hood over my head. And Lindsay was turning to go back into the infirmary when the L&F woman appeared behind us and was asking if she should take me to the ER instead. And we must have been making a scene, because one of the Cliff Bar employees (who were skiing all over the hill offering free samples to whoever would take one) came over and asked what we were looking for--if it was a black key on a short leather strap, because he had found one and only just turned it in at Lost & Found.

Awesome. Hysteria averted.

North Conway's Memorial Hospital is five minutes down the road from Cranmore, so it didn't take long to get there--good, considering how long the line in the waiting room was. We got there at 1300 and we wouldn't leave until around 1830.

The wait was long, but the staff was nice. A nurse gave me a fresh pack of ice for my head, and Lindsay and I sat in the waiting room playing the name game (pick a letter of the alphabet and either gender and recite as many names as you can think of that begin with that letter)--dull but distracting. And I needed distracting since the headache wouldn't let up for a minute.

When they finally let me through it was about 1645, and it was to a reclining chair next to the utility closet in a room already occupied by two other patients. We didn't know how long I'd be sitting there, so Lindsay went to Walmart to pick up Scategories, but not before I sent her to the car to retrieve Dragonfly In Amber for me.

I was reading and one of the nurses came to check on me. I told her about my headache and she asked if I would take anything for it. I was afraid of the blood-thinning aspect, but she assured me that what they had would be all right. Then, she went off.

My back was to the door, when, out of the corner of my left eye I saw crutches edge up beside me. This was my doctor. She introduced herself and had me peel back the edge of the bandage on my head to see what she was dealing with. Yes to stitches and yes to a CAT scan. She asked if anything else was bothering me, and I told her about my hand, which hadn't been bothering me until I attempted to sign my signature on the admittance papers in the waiting room. Another yes to an x-ray for my hand.

Then she hobbled off and the nurse returned--with a Vicodin and some water. Vicodin? Seriously? Who watches too much House? Oh, right, I do.

I picked up my book again, but I didn't get to read much before another woman came around to take me to do the x-ray and the head scan. The x-ray was honestly the most grueling part. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and I was shivering, so it was hard to keep my hand perfectly still when it wasn't firmly braced against the table.

The head scan ... getting all the jewelry off and out of my head took a few minutes, a sprained hand not making it much easier. And when it was over, the woman escorted me back to my room--where one of the beds had been vacated, and Lindsay had returned--as promised, with Scategories. The timer didn't come with batteries, so we played on the room clock and waited for the scans to come back from Radiology.

And on that note, can anyone think of an article of clothing that begins with the letter I? All I could come up with is "instep"--the inner part of a shoe, but I don't even think it counts.

After twenty or thirty minutes the doctor came hobbling back into the room with a clean bill of health. Stitches time. A male orderly wheeled in the cart with all the stitching supplies, and Lindsay and I were still musing over an article of clothing that might begin with an I. Neither the doctor nor the orderly could think of anything either.

It was about this time when I started feeling particularly embarrassed about the whole situation all over again--and said as much to the doctor. She told me her story was more idiotic than mine. So I finally asked her about her crutches as she was prepping me for stitches. She had been trying to reach something on a high shelf while standing on a swivel stool. The stool went one way and she the other, and her ankle folded under her.

The doctor was rubbing a local anesthetic in the laceration when Lindsay asked if she could call Nancy on my phone. I couldn't remember where I'd put the phone, only that it was on the bed somewhere and waved in that vague direction. Lindsay found it and began to mess with it as the doctor began to stitch me. Except that Lindsay couldn't find Nancy's number, nor the call history. She has the same phone I do, only hers is a first generation, and mine is relatively new.

So I took the phone back and, in the glare of the surgical lights, and with the doctor stitching my forehead, I looked through the old incoming calls, found, and dialed Nancy's number and handed the phone back off... I'm a good multi-tasker.

There were only five stitches, so it didn't take too long, and the local anesthetic was quite effective. By the time Lindsay was through talking to Nancy, the doctor had finished and was putting a bandage over the stitches. After a while the male orderly came back in and wrapped up my hand in gauze and an ace bandage. He also came with my release papers and a prescription for pain-killers--more Vicodin, yay! And then I was good to go.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

deterred, in a few ways

--by weather.com.

I had all my credit card info entered into American Airlines' web-site. And then the thought occurred to me: It's January, and I'm thinking of going to London.

So I visited weather.com to check on the forecast. Rain. And rain. And--here's something new!--more rain.

I'd like to walk around and take pictures when I visit the city. That's likely to be impossible if it's raining all the time. And I should've expected that kind of weather initially, but I just wasn't thinking about it before. I'd feel better if there was a forecast of clear skies (or if I'd made these plans a month ago, and there just happened to be inclement weather, and I couldn't do anything about it), but that just isn't the case. I haven't paid for the tickets yet, and I don't have to go when the weather is shit.

It might be a rotten reason not to go, but no. I'll wait until the weather is improved, and I've a better chance of actually enjoying myself while there--not shut up indoors the whole time.

Or should I just buy a poncho and go with it? ...

Even regardless of getting around London without getting drenched, weather could prove a problem with flying (there and back). I'd rather not get stuck somewhere and end up trying to explain to my boss by long-distance phone or confusing e-mail why I can't come to work on Tuesday, thanks.

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FedEx has the most obnoxious office location they could possibly have relative to where I live.

They tried to drop off my iPod AV kit yesterday at around 9:45 AM according to their tracking web site. But because I wasn't there to sign, they wouldn't leave it (just as well since the thing was expensive, and I'd prefer not to lose it or have it stolen). Instead, they left a door-hanger asking for me to sign for it indirectly or come and get it--at their hub in South Boston. My other option was that they would attempt to deliver it again today (with no clue as to when that is going to happen either).

Hi. I work, like normal people who have a rent to pay are wont to do. Don't try to deliver a package to me in the middle of the morning on a work day, and don't expect me to be home. Also, why can't FedEx have more delivery-holding offices around this city? It's not like they don't have the business to support it. Or why can't their main hub be in some central place--maybe near the Government Center? And, I know, South Boston has more warehouse space. Blah, blah, blah. I don't care. They could afford to have local offices (as the USPS does) if they wanted.

But, this rant aside, my flat-mate offered to drive me over there after work if they fail to show up at a more reasonable hour today.

So hopefully I'll have this thing by tonight; and hopefully it'll work with my television too.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

wanderlust

It may be a foolish flight of fancy, but I'm contemplating going to London next weekend.

I've been researching the possibility online, and I could fly there and stay in a hostel for a total of less than $800. The first question is: Do I want to spend $800 for three days and two nights in London?

Yes. Yes, I do.

Second question is: Should I?

I know what my mother would say: NO (and a big fat NO, at that). But I'm twenty-three years-old, so I don't really have to seek anyone's counsel or permission in this matter.

And that's where I'm stuck in my thought process right now.

My first idea had been to visit my friends in New Jersey for that three-day weekend; but they're going to be at Disney World, so I axed that idea. And then, I thought up this new one. It's terribly last-minute, and I'd be going alone, but I think I'd have a good time (you know, provided I kept my nationality a well-kept secret).

I think my only regret would be that it would only last for a three-day weekend. I've only ever been to Heathrow Airport in the UK, and I'd really love to go for a longer visit and actually sight-see. Three days will give me a taste-test, but I'd probably be better off going for a week when I have more vacation days accrued.

But I want to go. So maybe I will.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...