Thursday, May 31, 2007

LIquor Before Beer...'re "in the clear," beer before liquor, never sicker.

Is that right? Something to that effect, I think.

I stutter when I type whilst intoxicated. It's funny. I'll misspell the first or second word of the sentence and I'll keep trying to spell the word, key-key-key-backspace-backspace, over and over again, and then once I get it right I go sailing right around.

I hate spell check. I never use it.

I'm asking myself how that rhyme goes because I used my last shot of vodka for my screwdriver and I still need more to drink and I found a beer. I'm drinking because I got into a car accident tonight. At around 8:58 EST I was pulling out of Wendy's with a Chicken Salad Frescata and a Frosty for Tom (neither of which are on his diet, but he's been bitching for six days, I couldn't stand it anymore). The intersection is no more than 500 feet from the drive, I'm not going fast, and as I approach the intersection I look to my left and right, even though my light's green. I have a kid. Call me granny. And then suddenly, in the middle of the intersection, just below the light (which was still very green!) there is a black truck, one of those big suckers that's raised up a little bit, turning left in front of me. I slam on my brakes, he slows down, and the nose of my cars stops just a little bit beneath the truck's undercarriage. He then proceeds to RUN OVER MY HOOD with his right front wheel, then both his left and right rear wheels. The right rear wheel gets stuck in the corner of the windshield on the passenger side, and starts spinning. At this point, I remember screaming, because glass started to spew out all over the car (the song playing on my mix CD? Lost Without You by Robin Thicke -- my flavor of the month tainted before it's even been two weeks). Incidentally, I later found a tiny piece of funky windshield glass inside my shirt, on top of the little shelf of cleavage created by my Victoria Secret full support demi that they no longer produce.


As soon as I got done screaming, I drive slowly through the rest of the intersection yelling Fucking Asshole about 10 times before I burst into tears. And after that, I started laughing, because there were four people surrouding my car, asking me with these really worried faces, "Are you okay?!" I realized they were all pretty freaked out, and I stopped laughing and told everyone I was okay, so they'd just go away. I found it very unsettling to be the object of such scrutiny and concern, mingled with a little bit of that rubbernecker curiosity about accidents. Was it me, or were they disappointed there weren't any spurters, or bones showing? I remember my ex brother in law telling a story about seeing a guy on a bike spin out and his femur was sticking out. He had a look of both horror and pleasure on his face as he gave the gruesome details.

Then again, I have Slither on my DVR, and I fell asleep every night my husband was in the hospital (27 nights) to that bitch. It was like being rocked to sleep on a hammock in a breezy field of wildflowers, by Mother Earth herself. Who needs Calgon when you've got the mirth-inducing delivery of the universe's least-used resource: the underrated actor? He's got epic comedic timing. Nathan Fillion (I so want my own wikipedia page!) is the next Greg Kinnear.

No. No, no. He's the bionic Greg Kinnear. Stronger, better, faster....

Yadda yadda yadda, I'm okay. The truck dude has up to date State Farm, a clean driving record, and he admitted it was his fault. Suh-weet! I feel very lucky and blessed right now, but I am also getting blotto! I have a xanax I've been saving for months. I hoard pharumaceuticals. I consume them like ice cream; I deny myself for extremely long periods of time, and then I buy Ben and Jerry's Mint Chocolate Cookie. I only need to eat 1/4 of the pint, and I can put it away now, and save it until my next crises. Controlling emotional eating. Yeah, right.

Anyway, tonight, I deserve a downer. My whole body feels tight, all the muscles ache. Even my ribs hurt. And it was only me, slamming on my brakes. There was no real "impact." Crazy. I betcha the people watching at the cross street, which was packed, were just sitting at their red light thinking, "Holy shit!"

Is this what it's like to be a basketcase? My heart just breaks for people who have been in accidents that have not gone well.

Sometimes the world just seems so random it's cruel.

And in other news....have you always wanted to marry Scott Baio? You can tell him why here.

I never got into him. I always liked Potsie, and then when I was into the Tiger Beat posters, I was Matt Dillon and John Schneider all the way, baby. Cheesecake.

I really need more alcohol.

Friday, May 18, 2007


Here's a shoutout to my online friend PhilABowl, who jokingly asked me the other day, in his forum, after learning of my husbands latest travails within the medical community, "Geez, how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?!" That just made me laugh so hard. Thanks, buddy. I needed that.

Anyway, Mr. Cadydidwhat is still confined to his hospital room, but they let him out of isolation after thirteen days on Tuesday evening, once the department of scary infectious bodily fluids signed off on his sputum test.

*pause for a big old YUM!*

So now, we're addressing some other issues that have reared their insidious little heads since he was admitted 27 April.

Ongoing concerns about his liver due to hepatitis C will require a liver biopsy. I still haven't found out what his viral load is. Here's hoping someone will talk to me today about that. The biggest concern, though, is his low immune system as a result of the Hep: he's got almost no immunoglobulin in his bloodstream, and all the antibiotics they have him on for the staph infection continue to compromise his ability to fight infection. I guess there is a blood therapy you can get once a month to bolster the body's ability to combat the nasties; I'm researching that as we speak.

Continued concerns over chronic cough due to emphysema; breathing treatments help, but his lung function is not so great. We won't know more until he feels better once he's completely free of steroids, at which point the pulmonary MD will give him a lung function test. At this point, though, the doc is optimistic that as long as he continues to not smoke, he can live a reasonably long life.

Wednesday, the gastroenterologist on his case informed us he has a condition called gastroparesis, and a fungal infection in his esophagus. Separate issues, but both make it difficult for him to get proper nutrition and to eat with any success (nausea is a side effect of both of these conditions, as well as all the drugs he's taking through IV and orally -- the latest pill count per day was like, 8 - 10 capsules). The gastroparesis is what troubles me. This is a condition in which the stomach does not flex appropriately, and food ends up just sitting in his gut, basically fermenting rather than being digested. Key nutrients remain unabsorbed, obviously, but at least we know why he looks like he's eight months pregnant most of the time.

Currently, he's complaining about his pain, and I'm fussing at him to suck it up for the time being because if they put him back on IV demerol, he'll move backwards in his treatment. See, demerol is addictive after 2 weeks, and the withdrawal symptoms are very uncomfortable, but short-lived. Demerol, though, is a great boon for somebody who has other physical problems that cause pain, but long term it's not doing him any favors, even without the liver disease.

But, you know men. They're big babies when it come to pain, and he would rather get high every three hours than wear a time release patch (which I just can't wrap my head around, really --- if someone told me I could stick something on my arm for 72 hours and get pain relief up to 125 times stronger than morphine, I'd be more than happy with that!). Bottom line is, he's been in and out of the hospital so many times in the last five years, he's not only developed an elephantine tolerance to most commonly used narcotics, he's gotten himself a nice little junkie-type addiction to the euphoria those fast-acting, short-lasting IV opioids provide. But try to talk to a guy who feels like his life is hanging by a thread about the "long term." It's like banging your head against a brick wall.

The biggest challenge when he gets sprung from the hospital (we're shooting for Monday) is keeping him off the cigarettes, improving his diet and encouraging him to start exercising, which I hear tell is good for even sick people! Crazy, isn't it? /sarcasm. My personal cross to bear will be changing my own habits of co-dependent enabling. My heart goes out to Howard K. Stern, because I know first hand how difficult it is to love someone so much that you'll actually help them self-destruct just to keep them happy. I'm seriously considering going back into therapy again, just so I can puke up all this turmoil and emotion onto someone else's lap, thereby somewhat alleviating the fallout on my marriage and my child.

I've also considered taking up heavy drinking, but I'll save that for another post. One of these days I'll treat you to my personal diatribe on western medicine and the pharmaceutical companies, my current focus of much wailing and gnashing of teeth. But I think I've just about reached my quota for personal angst. It's time to read the latest issue of People and pretend that my life is carefree and easygoing as I take my toddler for a walk. Sunshine and friendly neighbors, the anathema of midwestern suburbia.

To quote my new favorite video blogger, "Further bulletins, as events warrant."

Adult Situations from Radthanael on Vimeo

Thursday, May 10, 2007


Looks like somebody left the water on.



The rest of the house is more of the same. Floors, ceilings, walls. It's all gone. We always said we wished we could gut the house and start fresh. Be careful what you wish for, isn't that what they always say?

It was determined, by the way, that during a power outage some time in the middle of January, a pipe froze, and then eventually burst, causing major water leakage, that went unchecked and unnoticed. We only had friends check on the outside of the house, basically just to make sure it was still standing and not broken into or vandalized.

So now, we have a fresh, gutted house to put on the market, but thankfully, the insurance company has been more than kind and cooperative, and gone above and beyond to work with us, considering my husband is in the hospital. I just wish I could spread some of that kindness and cooperation to the people who are still displaced and without a home.


Tuesday, May 08, 2007

Linus: R.I.P.

Linus was a Jack Russel terrier. Hit and killed on Route 193, heading south (I think). I saw him die. I tried to comfort his owner, who had just recently lost his wife and the dog was all he had. May God comfort, you, Joe, and speed your lost canine to the heavens, where he may hopefully rest at the feet of your departed wife.

Life sucks, sometimes, it really, really does.

Thursday, May 03, 2007

Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt...

My husband is in the hospital. Pneumonia, complicated by a strep infection - in his lungs, which I had never heard of previously -- and his recently diagnosed emphysema. We are awaiting test results which will tell us if he is genetically predisposed to COPD, which could mean years, even decades, lost. Cross your fingers, pray -- to Allah, Buddha, God, Dionysus (come Friday night if the fates are with me I shall be paying personal homage to said god in my own way, via vodka and OJ), Sisyphus, or your grandmother's cat. Good vibrations, we could use a few.

Goodbye Phil Stacey (son of a preacher man, woot!). You're a good man, Charlie Brown. Love the cueball, baby. Rock out.

I am 37 and one day old today. Did you know that May Day isn't just a pagan fertility thingy, but also a labor movement spawned in like, New Zealand? A bunch of anarchists put their heads together and decided the proletariat was still gettin' had by the man, so they put on a parade every year in honor of what they call the real labor day. As Johnny Carson would say, "wild, wacky stuff." I don't know if I ascribe to that line of thinking, per se, but how can they go wrong with a black flag as their emblem, right?!

Hmm. I remember me, I mean, a 17-year-old me, laying in the dark listening through headphones for the first time to Henry Rollins snarling out the lyrics to Family Man.

do you want the family man or do you want the swingin' man?

family man

you get the family man
family man
with your glances my way, takin no chance on the new day
family man, with your life all planned;
your little sand castle built, smilin through your guilt, family man
here i come
here i come family man
i come to infect; i come to rape your women;
i come to take your children into the street;
i come for YOU family man, with your christmas lights already up,
you're such a MAN when you're puttin up your christmas lights,
first on the block;
family man
i wanna crucify you to your front door with the nails
from your well stocked garage, family man;
family man;
saint dad! father on fire! i've come to incinerate you
i've come home

That was one of those life defining moments. Similar to the moment, a few years later, when I saw Piss Christ on display at the Cleveland Metropolitan Museum of Art, and on the same evening listened to Alan Ginsberg recite Howl.

Things like that, much like my husband's disease, his struggle, our frustration, our grief, our fear about what is to come.....these things make me see in stark slow motion reality that there is beauty and blessedness in the things that make us squirm, the things that make us uncomfortable, the things that make us want to look away. Away from the ugly inside of us, and in others.

Life is messy. Why waste time trying to clean it up? Wade through it, let it touch you, let yourself bleed. The deepest cuts are healed by faith (that last line is Pat Benetar, not me, FYI).

The universe is a spectacular pulsating thing, full of questions that don't have answers. Today, I want to embrace its eternal ambiguities, and simply be.