Where does the good go

Diary of a mad black woman or why can’t Dawn just write regular length posts everyday like normal bloggers instead of manifesto length diatribes once a week, I mean Jesus, look at this title

“If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.”
-Gospel of Thomas

I threw in the towel on this being my year at the end of March.
And then, just in case I even thought for a second that maybe I was wrong and perhaps I missed something and that, there was the smallest chance that this might actually be my year, I got very sick. Four doctors, six medications and one “huh, well, if that didn’t work, I don’t know what to tell you, Dawn” sick. Which for a lifelong hypochondriac was pretty frightening.
Imaginary diseases are way more manageable than mystery diseases. Eventually, the mystery was solved and once the bottles of pills were deemed insufficient, surgery to correct some genetically haywire valve in my stomach and repair damage to my throat, was said to be my best option. I laughed and demanded better and stronger pills. Do you know how many people die from post-op infection? Fuck that. Plus, I wasn’t going to be in the hospital for the birthday season. And my doctor said some stuff to which I responded “Dr. dude, birthday season.” And in the face of such well-reasoned argumentation, he demurred, wrote some more prescriptions and controlled his sighing when I still called him once a week to ask why I wasn’t any better.
And then, one day, in mid June, I woke up and couldn’t walk.
What. The. Fuck.
I limped my way to a podiatrist near my office and after he took some x-rays he said that a cyst was growing around the nerves in my left foot (did you not notice that dime sized lump on your foot? Um…yeah, but I figured it would go away?) and it had to be removed and tested.
He further informed me that “magic” was not yet approved for such removal and I had to have surgery on my left foot.
Fine. Stupid universe that wants to kill me. Fine. I will submit to your cutting. I signed my license to become an organ donor, scheduled my foot and stomach surgeries to begin the first week after my birthday season.
And then I spent my birthday season enjoying life and family and friends. I ate all the things I loved and tried to see and do as many of the things I wanted to before I succumbed to the inevitable.
And then Monday I went under the knife for the first of four cuttings over the next few months.
I was fairly sure that I would not be susceptible to the anesthesia. That my mind was too strong to be controlled by drugs. I was wrong.
I lay on the gurney for a while thinking — about nothing in particular, at first, and then about how I couldn’t believe that I never got to punch Marsha in the face and then about how that was probably not a good last thought to have, so then I thought about how I wished I had played the Stud 8 World Series event and then I thought that was probably also not a good last thought to have and then I heard the surgeon say “it’s working, let’s move her to OR…she might be a good test case for my blah blah blah” and I heard the nurse way too enthusiastically say “then you should try it, Jim!” And I was so sure they were “doing it.” But I couldn’t lift my head and I wasn’t sure if my eyes were closed and then: nothing.
I woke up something like five hours later to my skeevy, so cheating on his wife surgeon saying that there were complications, and while he got the cyst out, he couldnt really correct my feet the way he wanted to because of some stuff which may indicate that I have some rare bone disorder — or at least, that’s what my mother told me he said when I got home later that day.
And by home, I mean, my childhood home. My mother’s house. The home that 20 months ago I packed up anything and everything I valued (to wit: my television, stereo and all my simpsons dvds) and yelled see ya, suckers, as I sped off to greener pastures in my overpacked Honda.
But I couldn’t walk, and had to be released to a reponsible adult. Living with mommy dearest was great for the first 5 hours. And then she woke me from my drug induced stupor.
“You have to flex your leg or you could get a blood clot.”
“You have to keep an ice pack on your ankle.”
“You’re not elevating your foot enough.”
“Are you sleeping again, you sleep too much”
“Are you still up? You need to sleep.”
Suddenly I wondered why, just 24 hours prior, I had been so afraid to die. There are worse things.
My first full day back in the ECB was the stuff of nightmares. My nightmares. Me unable to move. My mother free to chat away about the perils of gambling and my dwindling child bearing years to her heart’s content. No TV. No escape.
No hope.
I spent the day refreshing facebook incessantly. Hoping someone played a word or threw scissors (seriously, I think I need to give up my “all rock, all the time” roshambo strategy. It’s a bad scene when I’m losing a game of chance to Fisch.
Karol said she would come hang out, but decided that calling me to help her decide which party to go to later that night was pretty much the same thing. Pi called to see if I was still alive. Upon hearing that I was, she was relieved because I’m the only one she knows with a Costco card.
F-train asked why I was complaining, I was getting paid to lay in bed all day.
I so need new friends.
By day three, television had been restored to me, through the internets. Fisch found a way for me to get all three seasons of The Office and all the WPT episodes I missed. So I managed to stave off complete insanity for a couple of days.
Although, by day four I was certain that my mother was trying to kill me. Why had I given her all my financials before the surgery? I know I’m worth more to her dead than alive. A LOT MORE. She’s no fool.
I got up to tell her that her friend Debbie was on the line.
I heard her talking on her cellphone.
“If you think yesterday was bad, today is worse,” she was saying before she looked up and saw me. She quickly got off the phone.
Then, about twenty minutes later, when we sat down for lunch, she called Debbie and repeated the line, only this time she ended the sentence with “because it’s even hotter out today,” and I thought it curious why she would need to repeat the very same phrase that I walked in on, with a different person, just so I could hear this benign “weather related ending.”
I decided to stop eating.
And I stopped sleeping.
I kept a watchful eye…mostly because I’m deaf and can’t hear anything.
I burned through 58 episodes of The Office and six WPT shows with alarming speed. I devoured movie after movie, but still I grew more and more restless. And the not sleeping or eating wasn’t helping.
And then last night, at around midnight I decided I’d had enough and I was going home. I packed my things, put my foot in its basket and headed for the door. But then my mother said I wasn’t going to like what was going to happen if I didn’t get back to my room and get back into bed.
She really should join the army. Good luck, terrorists.
When I woke up this morning, I had officially lost it. Especially since by “woke up” I mean, got out of bed after a night a googling the names of anyone I had ever met.
I hopped around the apartment singing the “I have lost my fucking mind” song. Which actually has an impressive number of verses.
And well, it was all just so ridiculously insane, that I just had to blog this. I had decided early on that I wouldn’t blog my unexpected whirl through the medical purgatory. At first, because it was just too scary and painful to condense into 500 humorous words or less and then later because well, it’d take too long to explain and really no one likes a complainer. But it turns out, that the blog will out. Post I must.
And since I’ve received my disability papers from the firm, I figure I might as well get all the pity comments and facebook games of Scrabble going that I can before I go completely insane.
I am well enough to appreciate rather than resent the sympathy.
Oh, and it won’t hurt my justified homicide case to have a written record somewhere.

10 Responses to “Diary of a mad black woman or why can’t Dawn just write regular length posts everyday like normal bloggers instead of manifesto length diatribes once a week, I mean Jesus, look at this title”

  1. fisch Says:

    Just kidding 😉
    Great post Daw.
    I’d play you scrabble…but as you know I’ve retired from online scrabble play…And after our 1 match of roshambo, I’ve retired from that as well. Yes, it’s lonely on top. What? No, there’s no room. No, it’s not THAT lonely.

    How’s our ratio doing?

  2. Michael Bates Says:

    No one likes a complainer… except when they complain as entertainingly as you do, Dawn. :) Best wishes for a speedy recovery.

  3. Dawn Summers Says:

    Thanks, Michael!

    Uhh…I’m not going to lie to you, ratio is not doing so well.

  4. F-Train Says:

    I think F-Train pointed out that you were getting paid to watch tv, which has been your dream job for as long as F-Train has known you. But, F-Train would probably kill himself in your situation, so you’re not doing terribly.

  5. Gertie Says:

    Wow! Insanity really brings out the best in your writing! Hope you heal quickly enough to go unsupervised soon.

  6. Karol Says:

    I wanted to come over on Wednesday but then you told me I couldn’t because you were going to the doctor. And then proceeded to talk to me on the phone all day from home.

  7. Dawn Summers Says:

    You should comment that.

  8. Karol Says:


  9. binda Says:

    Video to your heart’s galore. Catch up on tv episodes and movies

    You just have to search for it.

  10. James Says:

    Mmm, is this why you said you had a bad summer over on Karol’s site?

    Just wondering, because if this wasn’t the reason, I formally withdraw my asking what went wrong…because it’ll probably make me shriek (yes, shriek, not scream) in horror.

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