18

oh my.

well, i am here, in hopstown, sitting in the fairfield inn, which is in front of the comfort inn and overlooks the hampton inn.  we almost didn't get here; our first plane took off from oakland, climbed a little then stopped, descended so far down that we were just fifty feet over the bay, and then, once relanded at oakland, was surrounded by firetrucks.  apparently an engine overheated, but the pilot didn't tell us anything until we were on the ground.  it was complete radio silence in the air and you could hear the murmur of people freaking out all around, quietly but surely.  i grabbed my mom's one hand and the lady across the aisle grabbed the other and we all held our breath until the water stopped and the runway appeared.  everyone was fine; we unloaded and sat around and joked since we had all bonded and then we took a new plane that got us here without incident, but there was that minute (and it was really that long) where all i could see was water that was way too close, and i kept thinking, "oh dear, what are the chances that our pilot is as good as the one who landed in the hudson?" and "i am going to be pissed if i die this way" and "if we have to make a water landing, is it okay to ask for an extra week before starting work?" my frightened self is, like my unfrightened self, really really random.

today was house hunting day #1.  highlights include talking to strangers everywhere we went, and the lovely woman in a bookstore who told us about living in california and the random customer who  walked in, joined the conversation, touched my shoulder and told me everyone in the town was crazy within 90 seconds.  lowlights include:  most of the houses hunted.  there was one ad in the paper for a duplex in a safe neighborhood, and when i called, an incredibly gruff voice answered.  within our five minute conversation, he had informed me that "i don't take no crap from tenants" and, upon learning that i'm from california, let me know that i might not like the place because of my "rich california tastes." to top it all off,  the duplex was located right next to his restaurant, a smokehouse.  and yet we drove over there straightaway to check it out, because desperation is apparently my third middle name.

and oh my gosh.  we drive up and a hand-sharpied sign outside  says "plaese come in." of course, we've come this far, so we do, and there's a man who's about eighty sitting there, and mr. w___, as he introduces himself, he takes us out back, past a rusted metal box that's apparently the smoker and so close i could almost burn my hand is a mobile home and this is the duplex.  i have to duck to go in the door, and the ceilings are about six and a half feet high and and there's an overwhelming smell of stale cigarette smoke and something else.  it's dark with wallpaper so ugly that it's almost amazing but no, still ugly and furniture that aims to be called sad.  there are clothes in the entry closet and mr. w then tells me that the last tenant "from puerto rico.  i think he got into drugs" skipped town and left.  the carpeted windowless kitchen has a guy in in, and he's supposed to be fixing the lights, but it's still dark.  he is holding a fluorescent tube and says "i changed the bub (no "L" in sight/hearing) but i don't know if the new one works" and while he and mr. w start talking about bubs, i look in the bedroom and of course desperately look for something to compliment, because lord knows i even need to camper of the week this.  the closet was pretty big, so i didn't even have to lie. 

god, writing this out makes me feel so snobby, like it's just a class issue.  but oh lord, i swear this wasn't just a case of my rich california tastes.  or maybe it is, and my love of windows on more than one side and personal requirement that i don't feel nauseated by the walk to my home or creeped out as soon as i enter are just unrealistic.  but then we went to look at another duplex, which was totally decent and  inhabitable, and i told the owner that i was so relieved after what i had just seen, and when i mentioned the name of the smokehouse, he said he knew just where and what i was talking about.

and really, note to self:  as a vegetarian with a weak stomach, try to stay away from places two yards  and downwind from eleven hours a day of meat smells.

17

i'm due to leave for the airport in about six hours, so clearly the smart thing for me to do is update this. but this seems like such a big moment--the last time before i officially become a kentuckian--the last time before i first see the fair and lovely state of TN, home to dollywood and the closest whole foods and TJs (it's totally legitimate to pack my car with coolers and drive to civilization/whole wheat naan once a month, right? that doesn't mean that i'm failing to thrive in my town of two super wal marts, does it?). it's funny--i've never been to TN before, and now it's the closest most convenient airport. oakland-nashville nonstop tickets are as low as $120, and i predict that i will double check that fact many many times in the next few months.
last time i wrote about how great i was feeling. there was, i believe, even a mini-ode to dex the steroid. oh how times have changed. once i stopped taking dex, it decided to rear its particularly ugly head and give me steroid acne. yes, that's right--my forehead looks like i'm fifteen, work at mcdonald's, and have never heard of face wash in my life. times ten. and of course this is a perfect look for meeting potential landlords and starting my job. in the myriad warnings on the side of the prescription, this effect was never mentioned, but when i googled it, i found tons of bodybuilders complaining (and requisite criticisms of "stop shooting up you meatheads") and debating the merits of injecting some other vitamin that supposedly helps and another terrifying website that said that these side effects usually go away in "a couple of months." good grief.
my hairstylist reminded me yesterday that my forehead is so small (it's really a threehead) that bangs aren't a viable option, so my only recourse is to stock up on teen empowerment movies that remind me that the most popular guy at school will rescue me from my drugged-up sister's wedding and we will eat birthday cake while sitting on the table, and all my dreamz will come true (except for the fact that jake ryan will probably be grounded til the end of time for trashing the house and lending his dad's rolls. but details details.) whether or not i'm prom queen perfect.
hopefully by the next update, i will have: a place to live that cannot be rolled away (and cement foundations do not ameliorate) and fewer stray roids playing tetris with my hormones. and a bit of a clue about this whole j-o-b thing i'm starting on the first. and, if you're lucky, a report from my first visit to a) the piggly wiggly or b) the jefferson davis memorial. let the games begin.

16

it seems a little crazy and jinx-y to write such a thing, but two weeks after brain surgery, i'm actually starting to feel okay again. or at least within a standard deviation of okay. i mean--i'm definitely not all back (and am in fact typing this while lying my head on a cold pack, which is one of the single most revolutionary ideas ever. how is cold so good?); i'm still way more tired; the thought of starting work in a week and a half still freaks me out; my head is still tight and will be for the next few months. but even in the last few days, a corner seems to have passed, and i think a lot has to do with me being almost done with my steroids. i have never been so grateful for a drug in my life as i was that friday when my brother picked up the dex and i got to swallow eight. apparently not everyone gets swelling, but when you get it, there is nothing else that fixes it. not painkillers or screaming or pleading with your personal god. as nuts as it was that i went home less than 24 hours after surgery, once i had the swelling under control, i was so much happier to be home, on the couch, conquered by the family cat. so dex, i really owe you one. then again, i'm pretty sure you make people crazy. when i went to my check-up this week, my doctor explained that he doesn't automatically prescribe steroids anymore because of the awful side effects, both psych and otherwise. and while it's hard to blame crazy on just steroids, the less of the dex in my body, the more i feel like myself. or less not like myself? or less like an unknown? i've also gone to the acupunturist twice, and even though i have no idea how it connects to all of this, i've felt a little better and calmer after each visit. the woman says that one of the goals of acupuncture is to make new blood, and i like the image of that--all my little red blood cells firing on extra cylinders to top me off. or whatever those crazy kids are doing. i've spent so much time thinking about a piece of my body this summer that i find myself wanting to remystify everything. like, it's fantastic that the lab work on tumie came out great, but i'm really excited to keep a lid on everything until an mri in a year.
so i leave on the 28th for ky again, and i start work on the 1st, i think (although maybe i should confirm that?). and as someone who likes to plan ahead, i'm dying a little bit on trying to find housing. there isn't really a craigslist for the area; there is for a town in tennessee forty minutes away, but they don't really cross-list postings. and there's the local online classifieds, which i check every day, but most places are either three bedrooms and too expensive or in terrible neighborhoods or verboten to pets, and oh am i getting a dog ASAP. my mom's coming out with me, and i've written real estate agencies since there don't seem to be property management companies, and people must find housing in this town somehow. there are 30k people, after all. i just have a sneaking suspicion it's going to involve driving around and looking for signs. literal ones, in the yard.

15

i really should be watching mad men, but i'm not because i have the attention span of a gnat these days. especially with tv or movies; i cannot just sit there and watch something or i start getting so restless that i start drumming on the wall and that just drives my mom crazy. and considering the woman has been taking far better care of myself than i deserve, complete with grilled cheese and onions on raisin toast without me even asking for it, the least i could do is not actively drive her nuts.
yesterday was the first day since surgery that i didn't cry. i guess i'm a natural born crier, but wen i tried to explain to someone how every day i burst out in tears a couple of times, i think they thought i was really nuts. "no, i don't know why, and there's nothing that really precipitates it, and it just happens and then i pull it together and finish whatever thought i was on. for a while it was happening at 1 and 4 pm each day; i was just like a baby settling down for a nap. i'm trying to find something that describes all of this, because even though my mom's well-meaning friends keep saying, "you must be so glad to have this behind you," no, not really. because even though i rationally know that i needed to have surgery, and all things considered i'm doing really well, that still doesn't erase the fact that i went in asymptomatic and feeling fine into the hospital and left with less skull, five steel bolts, and a windy incision that itches. there is a violence to surgery, especially ones that don't feel needed, and i sort of feel like someone stuck a marble in my head and sealed the cap on and started shaking, like the way we made butter in first grade. and i'm not really bitter or angry, but i miss the way my head was configured before. i mean more than just the shape--something feels lost and even though everyone swears it's just temporarily, how does anyone really know? i cried today because it was too hard to figure out what i wanted for dinner, and though i later baked cookies and my mom says that counts to counteract a cry, i would like to return to a person with a rational distance between her and the outside world. and my mo jo--i miss that. i hope once they remove the staples on tuesday that some of the magic seeps back in. otherwise, my scalp's going to need to do some stretching.

14

so this time last week i was coming home from the hospital. i didn't know it yet, but the Rx i had been given did nothing to stop the swelling and so i spent that entire thursday night and friday morning lying on the couch thinking i was going crazy. no no, not crazy. just not given the right stuff.
and then eventually my mom got on the phone with the pharmacist, who made me cry until my mom had a talk with her and sometime during all of this, my brother shows up and he's sitting there dissecting fried green tomatoes the movie with my sister and then he gets the steroids and i get to take eight and things are better. and really, that's the easiest way to phrase everything: things are getting better. i'm off pain pills and most of the steroids, although i'm on ambien until i manage to sleep through a full night. my spelling has improved somewhat although it's still a little off. i made it through a book, although it was trashy. i've watched more television than i know what to do with myself and made my mom watch head staple remover videos on youtube to prepare myself for next week. unless you get reallyclose to my scalp (or battered arms. oh IVs), you can't tell anything's going on, and yet i don't feel the same at all. i'm tired and i cry every day for no reason? i mean, there must be a reason, but my brain chemistry's too shot to figure it out.
i wish there was a word better than strange to describe all of this, but it hasn't come to me yet. it's weird to be functioning so well and still not have any absolute clue that anything was removed (hopefully confirmation to be received at the doctor's next week). when i was on all the drugs the first day, i wrote out an order for a burrito, and my best friend laminated it since it doesn't look like my handwriting at all. the letters are small and short and tight, and i wonder whether signs of this more precise person ordering a braised tofu burrito will continue to emerge. or if it was just a trip down the controlled narcotics wonderland.