Happy Birthday Ms. Gladys

When last seen, our intrepid author was lying inert on a gurney, praying for the merciful hands of oblivion to come and pat her on the head for a while. Or at least not to try to shove tubes down her throat.

They left me on my gurney for an hour or so, then came in and took me back down to the Torture Room. Unlike my last trip down, I had been robbed of all cheekiness; they had me, they were going to do whatever they did, and I wasn't gonna say a damn thing either.

Next thing I knew I was back in my room, it was 11:00 at night, and the whole ordeal was over. And at least 75% of the remaining pain was gone, too. Of course, my throat hurt like a total bitch--as would yours, I suppose, if someone had crammed it full of industrial-strength garden hose, TWICE.

And I had turned 35, somewhere during this long and medically-fraught day. Now I have had some rotten birthdays--birthdays forgotten by men, birthdays spent drunkenly preventing friends from getting the shit beat out of them, birthdays spent waiting for unwanted guests to come move in and ruin my relationship further--but I think on the all-time Ways I Really Would Have Rather Not Spent A Birthday list, the whole "mild sedation" story will keep this one at the top of the rankings for a while at least.

But that, really, was the end of the gross unpleasantry. They put me back on broth and jello for the next morning's breakfast, then onto "real food" by dinnertime. And nothing exploded, though that may be because "real food" was actually "unpalatable swill" and I only ate five bites; and then the next morning they told me "okay, you're going home today" and took out all my needles. And it is worth mentioning here that, at least around the arms, I look like someone held me down while three or four other people took well-aimed licks at me with rubber hoses. I am splotchy purple from fingertips to shoulders from all the infiltrated IVs, abortive blood draws, and late-night heparin shots. And my hands hurt, which I remember from the worst of my junkie days; miss enough shots and you're bound to nick a nerve or two, or encroach on a tendon.

The first couple of days at Mom's were rough. Everytime I'd try to eat or sleep I'd throw a fever and end up drenched in sweat, soggy and miserable. After a couple of times, I started to get a very familiar vibe from the whole sensation, and I realized that there's some element of this which with I AM very familiar--some of it may be post-surgical, but some of it is dopesickness, plain and simple. They had me on whacking big doses of straight morphine for five days, Vicodin and morphine the rest of the time--impossible NOT to have developed a little habit in that circumstance. So when I came home this afternoon (and believe me, I almost kissed the sidewalk--god I missed this place!) I put away the Vicodin they gave me--I'm not having any real pain, anyway--and fixed myself a dose of methadone, which has settled the whole works down. I'll just taper myself down the way I did when I got off heroin; I can't imagine it taking more than a week or two.

Then there's the whole dietary side of things. Apparently, or so they tell me, I don't need to change my ways too much in terms of what I eat--no fat-free diet or anything weird like that. I gave it a test today--a cheeseburger and fries from McD's, only because I was in bad shape and it was there. I don't have an appetite, really, but if I don't eat something small every four hours or so, my stomach hurts. So I've been making friends with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And even those make me belch...like, a LOT. Like Barney on the Simpsons. (We won't even talk about things at the other end of the digestive spectrum. I've heard it improves with time...god, I HOPE so.)

But I'm HOME, with my cats and my guy and my very own bed and blankets, and all my own books--the stuff in my mom's bookcases is just past redemption. Yes, I know bodice-ripper novels are de rigeur for sickbed reading but...just NO. And the streets at Mom's are just too quiet at night--I can't sleep without street noise anymore. And Mom ALSO doesn't have cable. It was just so good to get home...even if home needs a new roof and has a tore-up bathroom, and even if Whitey isn't speaking to me and only gives me the cold kitty-shoulder when I make the "pets" sign.

So yeah--I'm okay. And the guys in New York still want me to interview, probably the last week of June or the first week of July. They obviously already interviewed the other candidate--the one who was supposed to fly the same day I was--so the fact that they still want to talk to me makes me very optimistic indeed. My bag is still packed, as a matter of fact.

It might end up being a decent summer after all.

Thanks for all your comments, concern, and kind wishes, and to Firefly for being the bearer of news in my absence. It's good to be loved.