Cleveland Clinic: Best Hospital In The US & Expensive As Fuck.

My doctor's appointment in Cleveland was interesting. I stayed at the InterContinental Hotel, a $300 mistake. There were only about 5 restaurants within walking distance, and 4 of them were $15-$30 a plate. (More about my walk around Cleveland below).

During my appointment, I was required to go through my medical history with the nurse, surgery by surgery, diagnosis by diagnosis, test by test, so that she could enter it into the computer. It took 2 hours. Since it's a teaching hospital, 4 residents listened in awe to my extensive history, just salivating at the chance to study my case and discuss it over coffee.


Soon the surgeon forced his way through the looky-loos burning holes into my fabulous vintage outfit (cashmere sweater, 60's tan boots, 50's pearl necklace). "Why do you want to have surgery?" he said as he leaned back in his chair. "Are you kidding?", I ask. "No. Why do you want to have this surgery?" he asked again. "Because I hate my life" I quipped. "Well what about your life do you hate?" he asked, trying to get to the point. "I'm not going to talk about my personal problems with them in the room," as I motioned towards the staring gallery.


They filed out the door, and I replied, "Every part of my life is painful. I cannot live another 60 years in chronic pain. I cannot work 8-12 hour days when I desperately want to go home and lay down. I cannot avoid dating because it would create future, and most likely heart-breaking, problems for me. I have given up on life. I no longer have creative juices to fuel my art, which is my existence. I no longer want to leave my house. It's too much work."

"OK. Let's go over your history". Without blinking, he took my entire 4 page spreadsheet in and asked a few questions. He understood. He understood without any explanations about my 27 years of health problems. Suddenly it was done. All done. I was elated that our exam was over and my search for the perfect surgeon had been fulfilled. He was incredibly busy and tried to answer my questions without going into long speeches. When he left, I tried to shake his hand but he was already onto the next patient.

And that didn't even bother me. He was to the point. He was blunt and honest. There was no bullshit, just answers to my questions. And that's what I want in a surgeon. Someone with extensive skills, enough empathy to take care of me the proper way, and someone that conducts himself in the most humble way possible (he's a 70% humble, 30% cocky ratio). I also expect him to have impeccable attention to detail in understanding of my history, my feelings, and the surgery.

I made an appointment for Dec. 30th, his next available. Suddenly a warm feeling of happiness rumbled through my body and I wanted to cry. This was the first time I've felt this emotion in many many years.

A life without pain. A life where surgeons no longer dictate what I can, and cannot do. A life where people's mistakes do not hold me back from the feeling that I can DO WHATEVER THE FUCK I WANT.

December 30th will be the day I'll remember for the rest of my life.
At least I hope it will be. There are no guarantees with surgery and I cannot have unrealistic expectations that my life will do a 180.

My Cleveland Clinic experience cont'd: I wandered around the Fairfax area and ended up at MOCA, a delightful surprise. This was absolutely the best part of my visit. It was small but beautiful. They were showing Jorge Pardo's instillation which MOCA describes as, "Arranged according to use and function, and displayed within the context of various rooms of a house, the instillations, sculptures, and paintings in Jorge Pardo: House highlight the artist's ability to consistently traverse the boundaries between art, design and architecture".
I am coming to Cleveland a day early before my surgery for pre-op appts, and I'll be making my way to the Coventry area. It's the lowbrow indie part of Cleveland, a place I would never expect in a town that is bombarded by doctors and residents, and Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame visitors.

*Photo #1 is of a a note scribbled on a napkin in a weird 'Praying Room' at the hotel. There were stacks and stacks of bibles next to the oils.
*Photo #2 is of the clinic building my exam was in.

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We're All In It Together Now.

I've given up. I'm sitting in Papillion, NE doing absolutely nothing with my life. I read, watch movies, daydream about art, sort through my belongings to put in storage, dream about art, pet my cats, and sit in the backyard and do sudoku.

Then I remember that people are losing their houses, their jobs, their life savings, their retirement funds and many are ending up working jobs at 1/10 of their skill level for 1/250th of their original pay while I'm watching weird indie comedies.

Then I remember that the reason I'm here, being bored and complaining, is because I'm about to undergo my 50th surgery, which not only will take several excruciating months of recovery, but doesn't even touch the tip of the iceberg when it comes to fixing my health problems.

Then I think about the people who are in much worse shape that me, have a tremendous amount of health problems, and might not have anybody to help them. And some have no way to pay for their bills and end up living on disability for pennies a day, being shoved in a state-run facility, or worse yet, living on the streets.

But then I remember that pain is pain, and nobody deserves to deal with it no matter what their situation is. Having a bed to sleep in at night doesn't mean my surgery will be any less grueling and having parents to help me certainly doesn't mean I'm not going to be drowning in medical bills the rest of my life.

I guess we're all in it together....thank god for Nov. 4th.

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The Token Funny Quirky Single Friend

See who's in the background? Yep that's Rhoda. The quirky, single, funny best friend.


And who's Doogie's right-hand man? VINNIE!

Why am I naming off these famous TV sidekicks? Because I've come to the conclusion that I'm the token kooky, funny, single best friend. I've always been the funny 3rd wheel, usually cracking jokes while I go through men like tissues, occasionally self-deprecating, and always the girl with all the bad luck.

Mini Story: While a Home Depot associate was helping me find spider killer, he asked me if I had a boyfriend to kill them for me. No...I don't.... "Well I always kill them for my wife". Well I have cats, and they're scared of the spiders as well. "You need to find yourself a boyfriend to kill them for you." OUCH.

That's when I came to the realization that I'm the quirky BFF. My friends have always had boyfriends, or at least seem to "invite this new guy" at the last minute when we go out, so I end up being the funny single friend trying to make myself look less single. And always ending up in the hospital is such a drag on having fun. Apparently diseases are a real mood killer!


Honestly, I'm not embarrassed of being quirky and single, it's just the stigma that comes along with being quirky and single. Is it so terrible that I'm SINGLE AND FABULOUS? Didn't Sex In The City just teach us that being single IS fabulous?

But don't feel too sorry for me, I've definitely had my fair share of sidekicks, although my sidekicks still dragged THEIR sidekicks along for the ride (random fuck of the week, bf/gf, stalker, the new desperate friend, etc.).

I also consider myself to be a Eddie Haskell to your Wallie Cleaver (I can be a sneaky girl-crazy asshole), and a Dan Fielding to your Night Court (It's not easy being sleazy), Jeff Green to your Larry David (I have really bad luck), and of course Joan on Mad Men (so many reasons I can't even begin to list).

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Life! Come Back! Don't Leave Me, I Swear I'll Be Good This Time!

I woke up on my 27th birthday, made my typical breakfast (French Vanilla coffee, Luna bar & banana), worked a 12hr day, ordered a dress off the internet, and off to bed I went. Then it suddenly hit me:

WHERE HAVE THE LAST FEW YEARS GONE?

I just kinda gave up, I've been on autopilot. I honestly don't remember anything significant happening in years, and I realized that I'm no longer enjoying life. What happened? Everything happened I guess...

So I jumped out of bed and decided to change my entire life. I planned out a surgery to (hopefully) put an end to my chronic pain, worked for a few months to save up money, sold 3/4 of my amazing vintage furniture & clothing, and waited for the 'go ahead' from my parents to move into their house.

Finally the opportunity arose, and one weekend I quit my job, packed up my shit, and moved to Omaha. And although the circumstances are shitty, this is the best thing that's ever happened to me. I brushed that bullshit right off my shoulders, left everything in the past, and am on the way to starting a BRAND SPANKIN' NEW FRESH & CLEAN LIFE!

A pain-free existence, new job, new city, new outlook...I absolutely REFUSE to miss one more day of life.

PLANS:
1. Sell everything.
2. Leave Denver.
3. Plan surgery.
4. Have Surgery.
5. Recuperate.
6. Move in 3 months.
7. Enjoy every minute of my new warm, beachy, sunny life.

*The photograph was taken during my 12hr drive from Denver when I stopped to set flowers on my grandpa's grave. It was 1am, and my shining my headlights on the gravestones was the only way I could find his name.

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Diseases Always Get In The Way Of A Good Time

I moved from Denver to Omaha 12 days ago and I'm already drifting off into a suburban stupor, worrying about sorting the recycling instead of 6" heels, Swiffering blinds instead of drinking cocktails, and yardwork instead of art galleries.

So why would I make such a bold move? Because unfortunately I'll be having my 51st surgery, and recouping will take a few months, which means I'm moving back in with my parents so they can take care of me. Yea thanks disease, not only are you painful, frustrating and never-ending, but you are also an incredible financial burden, strain on my relationships, and problems always seem to arise at the worst possible times.

So you're coming along for the ride. I'll be documenting my entire health debacle with photography, films, blogging, and even describing every account of my trials and excrutiating tribulations during my longtime hospital friend, the I.V. He has always been there for me, following me through some of the toughest times of my life, becoming an ally against pain and infection for decades of hospital stays. And that motherfucker gives me the morphine I need to recite beautiful poetry and create enough fodder for another 10 art shows.

*The photograph was taken during my 12hr drive from Denver when I stopped to set flowers on my grandpa's grave. It was 1am, and my shining my headlights on the gravestones was the only way I could find his name.

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