A rare occurrence… me, my mother, and my father, talking about our respective colonoscopies. My mom is wearing a Madonna-style “New York” tank top and just bribed the food services people to bring me extra jello, my dad is wearing a denim shirt from his store that says “Pete’s Gun Shop” and brought me his 1960’s boxed set of Lord of the Rings, and i’m merrily clicking away as i assure them that Everclear would be a totally appropriate clear liquid to mix with my cranberry juice.
Yeah, we’re fucked up no matter how you slice it.
Don’t be alarmed about this or anything, alright? I mean, other than the mandatory fasting that had been imposed on me i’m not in any sort of discomfort or physical danger. Basically, i was convinced my appendix was exploding, the doctors were somewhat convinced my appendix was exploding, they admitted me, and it turned out to be something that was three centimeters away from my appendix (that shows no indication of explosion). Who knew?
My mom’s bringing back $20 of magazines since i read all the books and liner notes i have with me, and my Dad’s coming with pictures of his surgery, and i am intermittently getting calls from the admissions crew. So, it’s really like a vacation … i’ve definitely stayed in hotel rooms smaller than this. Sorta puts things into perspective… firstly, that i value my academic standing about three times more than i value my health and, secondly, that i need to be getting more out of life.
It’s not as those i’m having one of those epiphanies about being thankful and all that crap, because i am thankful for what i have. What i am realizing is that i’m twenty, and that after spending two decades in a state of nearly perfect health my body is finally starting to feel the wear and tear. I’ve never before had to seriously contemplate that — tiny degradations of vision and early-onset CTS aside i’m shockingly fit for someone who’s so ignorant of their own health.
Point being… it’s not that i should be more thankful, it’s that i should just be more.
Responses from friends (and one parent) upon hearing that i would be allowed have clear liquids today:
- Does that include Vodka?
- So, i can bring you Jello-Shots?
- Do you prefer white wine or blush?
- Light beer is pretty see-through, don’t you think?
I’m sure that would go over really well… gotta love friends (and parents who bartend).
I love my mother. I mean… i really hate her sometimes, and i get really frustrated by the fact that we’re both still in Philadelphia so it’s easy for her to sink her claws into my life at a moment’s notice, but there are times when those claws come in pretty handy.
Case and point: right now i’m actually reading my email. Now, for all of you net-junkies this might not seem like such a big deal, but i’m currently tethered up to an IV pole on the sixth floor of Graduate Hospital, and apparently they haven’t implemented a “net access for patients” policy at this point. Of course, being totally addicted to the internet, i was markedly more upset by my inability to blog than the fact that i wasn’t allowed to eat or drink anything for 48 hours, and i made it known to anyone who would listen.
My mother happens to work downstairs in the ER, and after a particularly long kvetch that involved me telling her i was going to unhook my saline drip and jog to the internet cafe on Walnut street she disappeared for five minutes only to return with the head doctor of the ER in tow.
With his Macintosh G3 powerbook, and internet connection.
So, here i am, trailing tiny translucent tubes that are supplying me with saline, potassium, Solu-Madrol, and Matronidazol and barely allowed to drink 8oz of white grape juice every hour. And happy.
I love my mom.
Why, yes, life is exactly like that. However did you know?
Ah, the joys of our wondrous network of over-taxed collegiate bloggers. And, look, it only took three years of college to leave me vaguely stressed out.
Last night i came home miserable, which hardly surprised me — any day started off with a Venti Latté is bound to end up in tears or with me bouncing down the sidewalk like a Mexican jumping bean. Anyhow, my favorite two ways to cure misery are spending money and eating (yes, i know, it’s a very health set of habits). However, my attempt at the former was foiled by the bookstore ordering the wrong edition of the book i needed, so when i got home i was ready to do some serious binge-eating. At my disposal i had ice cream, ramen, pop-tarts, and all other manner of collegiate waste. Did i go for any of that? Nooooo. No, instead i decided to order a gastro-intenstinal nightmare sandwich with a side of cardiac arrest.
AKA : chicken cheesesteak w/extra cheese and a large side of cheese fries. Yes, you’re right, i could never be a vegan. Thanks for noticing.
Chicken cheesesteaks are a phenomenon i was just introduced to last year when i finally came off my vegetarian kick, and they’ve been one of the junkfood mainstays of my diet ever since. Somehow the two or three places where i obtain this death on a bun use incredibly lean and well cooked chicken, which is exactly why i don’t eat the beef variety: they’re nasty. However, the establishment i ordered from last night doesn’t use that lean, healthy chicken, but instead something i am currently referring to as “cheef.” Sure, it tasted nice and carnivorous on the way down, but not even a protective layer of deep fried potatos and cheese wiz could protect me from the wratch of cheef.
Said wrath basically is that over 24hours later my stomach is still twisted in knots in an attempt to cleanse itself from the greasy chow i crammed into it last night, and the only two options i’m seriously contemplating right now are an immediate switch to vegetarianism to placate my distressed digestive system, or a slightly more sinister plan than involves a lot of porcelain.