It's The Little Things...Like Staying Alive

I don't think I have ever not cared about how I looked more than I do now. This surgery has sucked every bit of life out of me. I would lay in bed thinking about what outfit I would wear in the morning, physically restrain myself from going into Nordstrom's shoe department, and was continually on the quest for the shiniest lip gloss ever.

What the fuck? I guess I realized that the little things people spend their time worrying about are so trivial compared to the real world.

I spent 2 days vomiting blood, desperately trying to hold my composure while various residents and interns found it necessary to ask me every humiliating question possible while 3 other patients were in the ER room with me. And I was worried about LIP GLOSS?

It's not that I gave up, it's that while I'm not feeling well, I don't want to live up to anyone's expectations. I don't give a fuck if I wear scrubs to Super Target, or no makeup to Walgreens. I don't give a fuck.

When I'm feeling better I will step back into my cork wedges. But I hope I don't lose sight of the truly important things...like staying alive.

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Surgical Glue...Things Have Changed.

Call me old fashioned, but I'm used to big giant staples. My surgeon cut out the giant scar I had and gave me this clean one, minus the staples. Surgical glue? Boy am I out of the surgery loop.

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EMTs Aren't Attracted To Skeletons Holding Urine Samples

When I get sick enough that I find myself too disgusting to look at in the mirror, things have to be bad.
I went to the ER on Sunday night. It was 7pm and I had been vomiting for 24 hours, and could no longer hold down a sip of water. I was deathly afraid that I had an infection from my surgery.

While laying in a bed between a raggedy old broad with a kidney stone and a coughing old man with his 6 family members, I desperately tried to drown out everything, including my fear, with a little Adult Swim on Comedy Central.
I needed to get an X-Ray to see why my body wasn't working, and had to give a urine sample to make sure I wasn't pregnant. Yea........... So I dragged myself to the ER bathroom, holding onto some random nurse I grabbed along the way. After taking 10 minutes to find a drop of pee, I bundle up and get ready for the 45 sec torturous walk back to Bed No. 2.

I swing open the door and a bed was blocking my exit. On the bed was a giant woman sitting halfway up on, listening to a nurse yelling from across the ER. The man pushing the bed sees me and apologizes and moves the bed.

The man turned out to be an EMT. Now I'm not attracted to people because of their professions (ok that's a lie, I prefer artists or other tortured souls), but the two EMTs pushing this woman were good-looking. Very good-looking.

And they scooted by me without a second look (or a first one really). Oh my god. That never happens. On a normal night, I would be dressed in a vintage top, jeans and platform wedges, big earrings and perfect mod hair. Even going to the hospital I prefer to look somewhat nice. But Sunday was bad. They couldn't look at me. My eyes were so black and sunken that it was almost hard to see them, my cheek bones were protruding, my hair was unwashed and somewhat pulled into a pitiful ponytail. And I was holding a urine sample.

I felt disgusting. There were no exchanged glances or sly smiles, only an 'excuse me' as I shuffled away holding a cup of warm urine. But what did I expect?

I feel disgusting. Absolutely fucking disgusting.


Photo by Reuters Pictures.

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Sunken Eyes Are The New Black

Today I felt like a real sick person. I've always thought of it from my perspective, like "I have serious health problems", but today was different.

You always hear about those dogs people bring into hospitals to cheer the patients up. You know what I'm talking about. You've seen the photographs of dogs sitting bedside of a smiling sickly skele-woman in diapers or young adorable cancer patient.

Well, today I was that person. The hospital brought a big fluffy dog into my room and he stood next to my chair. He didn't seem to interested in me, more into the scent of The Gucch on my stuff.

I made small talk with the trainer and we talked about my cats (go figure). I was so happy to pet the dog...it really was the highlight of my day. Things have been rough, and it did something I haven't done in ages: smile.

Afterwards, I thought of the way the trainer looked at me. A gaunt sickly girl with sunken eyes, bruised arms and a pasty white face, petting his dog with a boney shaking hand. I became "a sick girl". Nothing more, nothing less. Just a girl in the hospital that a dog cheered up.

It solidified the fact that I blend into the crowd of emaciated, disgusting, bleeding, oozing, dying, cancerous, bedridden patients. I felt the pity of another person. I didn't like it.

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Settlers Aren't Just From The Old West

I'm going absolutely insane in Omaha. I thought I could handle the lack of fun here. This town is rampant with relationships and settlers. Settlers are the people desperate for that constant reassurance. "I must be pretty." "He/She won't leave me." "I'm special enough for someone to stay with me this long."

"I will never be lonely."

So my nights consist of something a little less fun. All of my friends are gay, so we ALWAYS end up at the 3 gay bars in Omaha, Flix, Chix & The Max. I dress to the nines. Beautiful vintage mod dress, 5" Dior platforms, 1960's Bouffant, my favorite Love Las Muertas jewelry, and of course always Urban Decay lip gloss, gum, and $20. So now I'll set up the scene for you. Now imagine 2 degree weather, 3" of ice on the sidewalk.

I get into my friend Mike's car. We drive to Flix and have a few drinks. After an uneventful night with absolutely no straight hotties in sight, I feel, yet again, like the 5th wheel. Michael is flirting with his boyfriend, Sarah snaps her fingers and a smooth bootie girl appears at her side, and I'm flirting with the idea of a grilled cheese appearing at my side. After an hour of whining to go home, I finally unstrap the heels, slip into a tank, situate The Gucch at the end of my bed, slip on my headphones, and fall asleep to the sound of Air, Nouvelle Vague, or sometimes The Velvet Underground.

It's like Groundhog Day without the hotties. My last days before a long tedious painful surgery are spent curled up in a hoodie, watching movies, and thinking about my art. Fun!

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