Once Upon An Appendectomy....

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.

‽

It's Time for "WTF Is Your Problem Now?"

Oy, I'm kvetching.

....with the queen of complaints: me.
I have to remember, my workplace is a pit of disease, much like a kindergarten play room.

I compromised my attitude for coming into work by promising it'd leave me some time to write in my blog: all the things I've been saving up to finish in my drafts, everything that's been waiting on handwritten notebook pages to be copied into a long column of writing that people will probably groan about having to read through....things of that nature. Including yesterday's journey through Park Slope with the Rybotz, buying comics at Bergen, visiting KingCon, chatting with a bored Jonathan Ames, scoffing at overpriced vintage wares, and switching locations of stifling to frigid temperatures faster than that stupid Katy Perry song. (Like how I just summarized my day in a sentence? I need to try this more often - less bored readers.)

That said, somewhere in between sweating in my coat, freezing because of the sweat caused from excess coat when sprinting outside with my long impatient NY legs, then reverting back to sweating once my coat was recovered with all the winter items I had since peeled away.....I got sick.

This also might have been a result of my skimpy Frosted Flakes + Fiber Bar diet, which was finally topped off with a hasty dinner that I eagerly devoured within 5 minutes, out of fear it might disappear before I could finish. These are the illogical realities of a New Yorker; or just a starving idiot - not sure if there's a difference.

Anywho, walking up and down the subway stairs made me realize that I was dizzy, almost weak, and that my irritation at being slow was not as important as my fear of possibly becoming that loathsome sick passenger responsible for delayed F train service. I'm usually guilty of despising that person, but now all of a sudden I'm guilty of being that person who forgot to eat their Cheerios in the morning and passed out in the middle of the closing doors. (However, rest-assured I'll still be complaining about the asshole who throws himself in front of the train in the near future - some of us have lives you know.)

My answer to this faint feeling was protein in the form of a McDonald's double cheeseburger. I have never glared at a cashier with such pale, sickening intensity. How long does it take to get a pre-made patty slapped on a bun and thrown into a bag? Apparently, longer than it takes me to get angry about it.

Later on at friend's, head still woozy while watching 1977's Tentacle by Italian director, Assonitis (don't think the pun was lost on me, and don't judge my off the cuff selection of entertaining Saturday night fare), I began to retrace my steps in hopes of discovering what the hell was wrong with me.....

OhmygodIhadaTamponinfor8hours. I'm probably going to die.

This provided me with at least 3 hours of pure hypochondriacal panic, as I fretted over my symptoms in relation to TSS, along with the possibility of seeing a giant octopus eye suddenly emerge from the depths of the ocean in HD.

Luckily, as I sit here the next day at work, there are no rashes to be seen; but my stomach is still unhappy with anything I feed it, and my eyes refuse to stay alert enough to focus on my typing. What could it be? What plague hath befallen me this time?

It's not a far stretch to assume I contracted something while working. All week, there have been bodies walking around with the cold, allergies, stomach flu, who knows what else. Come to think of it, ever since I started working here 2 years ago, I've been to the doctor more frequently than ever. Perhaps this is a direct result of the gift of health insurance....perhaps not.

In any case, the condition of my health and those of this morose, dust-filled prison seem inextricably connected. That, and my editor is playing crappy early 2000 Emo music with shrill guitars and thoroughly annoying twentysomething tirades about burying graves, wasted time or some shit.

And I shall continue to whine about it.

‽

The Crochety Crocheter, (or the Pains of Getting Old)

It's a gorgeous Wednesday: the sun is out, the temperature is fair, and instead of being stuck inside at work not really enjoying it all, I am sick in bed, really not enjoying it.

If my immune system were capable of answering me apart from waves of nausea and the secretion of more respiratory-blocking mucous, I would it address it as follows:

Dear Body,
Since when have I had allergies? Why do I feel like an elderly woman that will quite possibly fall and then not be able get up at any given moment?

This bit is getting a little ridiculous. I am 24 years old for god sakes. Let's not continue to be sour about the recent influx of pizza and lack of exercise over the past......year. We need to work together. And I need to get shit done.

Yours sincerely,
Tara (the brain part)

No one warned me that after 21, you literally lose 40% of your health. Where did my energy go? My immunity to nasty, body-invading elements? My ability to climb more than two flights of stairs without getting winded?

Sometimes I really believe that I am becoming an elderly woman. Suddenly the old taunts of "Grandma Tara" are coming true: and this time, it's not just about wearing a shawl everywhere and using phrases out of the 1920's. It's both physical and psychological.

When I started working my 10 hour + per day job, I realized that my ability to concentrate passed 8pm had diminished. So had my physical ability to say, stand up straight and finally, to actually stay awake. I started turning in for the night around 10:30/11pm.

By that time, most people my age haven't even gotten drunk enough to puke yet.

I can't even think about going out late on a weekday unless I want to be a zombie during work hours. And even 7 hours of sleep is not enough to burn the daily oil on. Ten hours of work is a bitch. And so am I, if I don't get my fucking sleep.

Like my lovely elderly grandma (who is nowhere near being a bitch), I have developed a plethora of aches and pains that I had once scoffed at when complained about by older folk. I'm quite certain I'm developing a hunchback from leaning forwards on my laptop all day, and my spine seems to forever be out of place and knotted into god-knows-what excruciating mess of deteriorating muscle. After just a day of walking a little extra than usual, my legs feel like rubber, and they chafe easily in cold weather. I can tell when it's going to rain, as my jaw begins to ache in remembrance of a previously painful wisdom tooth extraction.

Also, I now regret all those times I boasted that I had never felt a headache before. Because I have. And they suck. Best of all are the sinus headaches, which I've been having more and more with the onslaught of allergies. It's as if someone is trying to push a brick wall outwards from inside your face. Constantly.

I NEVER had allergies until last year. I had one bout with sinusitis and from then on my head become a ticking time bomb. At the slightest bit of congestion, I freak the hell out. It could just be a cold; OR it could be an infection that renders me incapacitated in bed, hiked up on antibiotics and having fever dreams with melting clocks. Over the past year and a half, I have feel victim to my sinuses three times.

Now, I'm stuck at home on a spring day afraid to even breath the air, since the record high pollen count has left my throat raw and my head heavy. I tried going to work yesterday, but felt as if there were cartoon-like putrid sick bubbles seeping out from my breath all day. I walked around as if I needed a cane and a couple of pills to make me lucid.

So today I decided to lay low and get the pollen demons out of me; although they are proving difficult to get rid of. I thought maybe I'd get some minor stuff done at home while I have the time; but.....no.

My body simply pines for the comfy bed, a cup of tea, and a Rosamunde Pilcher novel. Throw in some Advair and an over-sized flowery muumuu, and I'm ready to party like I'm 89.