interrobang‽: injury

Clouds tend to follow me.

I'm sure it's obvious by now that I was in the hospital for appendicitis, but I doubt many of you know the wonderful story behind it. It's probably a little conceited of me to assume you'd want to read about my experiences before and after my surgery, given that it's such a personal story, and also that you probably don't give a crap.

But whiners gonna whine, so you must accept that this blog entry will continue as thus.

It seems fitting that I'm documenting my ailment once again, as my first blog entry after a long hiatus came about after a grueling wisdom tooth operation. I was bored, heavily drugged, and feeling like a depressed, chipmunk-cheeked coward. These are all perfect circumstances for writing. It seems that when I'm at my worst, my inspiration to write with anger and fervor are at their best - so when suddenly I found myself without an appendix, but with a catheter, I felt an instinctual need to rant my head off to the Goddess of Curmudgeons.

Dear Una,

(Not sure if reading your blog daily qualifies me to address you informally, so forgive me Mrs. LaMarche, if it does not....)

I'm writing to you in hopes of being christened a curmudgeon; it's something I've been meaning to ask for a few weeks now, but I've been too much of a pussy to do it. (I'm cutting to the punch here; I can pretend I had "things to do", but I know myself better.) Let me first say that you are an inspiration to curmudgeon writers everywhere, and if I hadn't found your blog I might not have continued mine.

My blog, Interrobang (formerly called "Goy Vey".....it's a long story) is a completely selfish personal account of things I like to whine about. Also, bittersweet nostalgia (mostly about childhood). And self-deprecation. So essentially, it's Freud's wet dream.

However, I haven't written in awhile, as I often suffer from bouts of crippling writer's block. There are times when the self-deprecation doesn't even make it to the page, because of, well....me being so self-deprecating. And for awhile I was unsure if being a curmudgeon was something I deserved. But I think this quote pretty much sums me up:

A curmudgeon's reputation for malevolence is undeserved. They're neither warped nor evil at heart. They don't hate mankind, just mankind's absurdities. They're just as sensitive and soft-hearted as the next guy, but they hide their vulnerability beneath a crust of misanthropy. They ease the pain by turning hurt into humor.....
Perhaps curmudgeons have gotten a bad rap in the same way that the messenger is blamed for the message: They have the temerity to comment on the human condition without apology....Their versions of the truth unsettle us, and we hold it against them, even though they soften it with humor. (Jon Winokur, whoever the fuck that is)

Sure, I've been known to start loud, obnoxious scenes to vent my anger; complain openly and adamantly about my life, even though it's incomparable to the rest of the world's woes; and my amount of negativity is seriously impressive, if not frightening. Whether I'm to be proud of this, I'm not sure. Sometimes it's just nice to have the knowledge during your monotonous commute that at any point your rage can be directed into a fistful of bitch out.

At other times, this behavior seems more attributed to say, criminals, or schizophrenics.

But, I can honestly say that at this point, I've racked up enough grievances to warrant my curmudgeon-dom. These passed two months have truly been filled with the stuff of curses:

1. Tara has email hacked. By some asshole in Nigeria. Apparently I am in London, was robbed at gunpoint and need money to get back to the states. Since my life is on Gmail, this ultimately blows. It takes a week of troubleshooting and lengthy explanations to friends, family, coworkers and my gynecologist that I am safe in Brooklyn. Although London sounds preferable.

2. Tara has credit card stolen. This happens 2 weeks after the hacking, yet is completely unrelated, and blows infinitely more. Some bitch in Brooklyn decided to go on a shopping spree at Burberry with card numbers that were most likely stolen by someone delivering me a burger. Bank freezes my account and the $1800 they stole until they verify that I'm not lying. I insist that I'm really more of a Kmart girl.

3. Student Loans Increase. Rent Check Bounces. Sobbing, screaming phone calls are exhibited in the workplace as a result. Those around me shrink upon my presence to avoid evil eye.

4. Tara has emergency appendectomy. I can only guess that the amount of stress and pure bloodcurdling anger at recent events was cause enough for my appendix to peace out. Three days of hospital hell later, I'm infected with a UTI. Six days later, I am sitting at home typing this with a catheter tube up my hoo-ha and a bagful of urine hanging from my leg. I have degenerated to an 80 year old.

I'm hoping that, with your blessing (as you are indeed the queen of curmudgeons), I will break through the walls of writer's block and continue to share my rantings with all who will listen. But most importantly, I'll be giving myself a reason to express myself again. Perhaps being an anointed curmudgeon will light that fire under my ass and scare my critical ego into slinking away into obscurity. I know that writing this has already done wonders.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to empty my bag of pee.

Yours truly,

Tara

So why expound further? Well, why not? I've been thinking about why so many unbelievably odd and inopportune experiences so often plague me. It's a dumb luck inherited from the Stromberg clan, the depths of a past which I have only begun to discover.

OR...perhaps the universe just wanted to give me some great material to write with. If that's the case, then I better do so - don't look a gift horse in the mouth, as they say.

Here are the cliff notes of that fateful day:

I eat tacos. Immense abdominal pains follow. I assume I have really indigestion.
After attempting to use the bathroom, I realize I can hardly walk. Okay...it must be really bad indigestion.
I frantically Google "appendicitis." I then fall asleep wondering if I'm going to die.
I wake up, thankfully. I must REALLY need to poop.
Stay home from work because....I need to take a dump? This is greatly embarrassing....So, I travel limp-like-a-hunchback-ready-to-hurl to the doctor in hopes of finding a better excuse for skipping work.
Doctor sends me to ER. I am seen at 5pm. I drink lots of iodine.
The cleaning lady walks in while they're doing my uterus scan. She refuses to leave until she takes out the garbage, which is right next to my straddled legs.
I get a CAT scan and some crazy drugs that make me feel warm and squishy inside.
While waiting in the aisle of the ER at 9pm, doctor greets me with an enthusiastic "You have appendicitis!"...........at least it wasn't diarrhea?
I am introduced to 15 doctors, only 5 of which will actually be in the OR.
I use the anesthesiologist's iPhone to update my Facebook status per my imminent surgery (so cheeky, am I.)
They ask me what music I would like to doze off to as they fiddle around with my insides. I say, anything but Lady Gaga....
......"Ra-ah-ah-ah"-CRAP!
Last thing I remember is funky smelling oxygen mask....

I find it suiting that I should end this entry with a graphic interpretation (emphasis on "graphic") of how my surgery probably went down:

Pretty symbolic if you ask me.

‽

I know how much all of you are just dying to know what the silence these past few months has been about (isn't it funny how I just materialize an audience out of nowhere?). However, I enjoy teasing too much to give it all away so soon.

Instead, I'll play a little game: I give you a clue, and you see if you can't figure it out before I decide to share (ie, procrastinate, file my nails, worry about what the hell I'm going to write next.) I fear that building this up too much might result in a huge let down, but then I guess that's your problem isn't it? I'm just going to keep thinking that for my own peace of mind. Kthanks.

My sister, Ceri, has inspired me to go back to my artful origins (yes, it's true; once upon a time I drew), and create my own comic of injury - though, slightly more "cerebral." (It's a joke that will pay off later, I promise.)

My therapist brought up a great juxtaposition of emotional and physical conditions that I thought would be perfect fodder for a comic that took all of my recent bad luck and packaged it up into a neat little bow of witty self-discovery.

*NOTE: I bet I know what you're thinking: "Therapist‽ Um, yeah, I'll see you later" ::runs away:: If not, kudos to you, because you're open-minded and not an asshole. If you do happen to be rolling your eyes and starting to lose your credibility in this blogger persona I have so artfully created for myself, then I probably don't like you, so I don't care. HOWEVER, consider that my therapist is the mechanism by which the things I should be discussing with myself are reflected back at me in a way that is both enlightening and a slap in the face. Much like broccoli, you really should try it sometime. It's a good source of nutrition.

Here's a review of the players, introduced by their medical definitions, which will be useful in interpreting what the hell I'm trying to say:

Hippocampus: An area buried deep in the forebrain that helps regulate emotion and memory.
Amygdala: A small oval structure in the temporal lobe of the brain that is closely connected to the hippocampus and plays a role in the sense of smell, motivation, and emotional behavior.
Cerebral Cortex: The cerebral cortex is responsible for the processes of thought, perception and memory and serves as the seat of logic and problem solving (among other functions). It is not formed until later in adolescence.

(Thanks Med Terms)