I have a new blog.
In fact, I have TWO new blogs.
One is about gardening, land use, agriculture, food security, and all things dirt-related:
www.toknowbeans.wordpress.com
The other is a simpler continuation of this blog. Follow it here:
www.thatwasithatwasme.wordpress.com
See you on the other side.
Au revoir!
L
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The good old boys
Until today, I thought I had an in; I thought I had worked my way into being part of the local political scene. Until today, I thought I was respectable, bright, articulate-- smart, even. It turns out that none of this matters because-- guess what-- I'm a girl.
I've been working on a local campaign for one of my dad's good friends. Don't get me wrong-- the man I'm working for is an absolute peach and a great politician. I'm working on his campaign in hopes that I can network and perhaps find a job, or at least learn a little bit about the political process while helping him out. I've been doing some pretty boring, monotonous stuff, but I figured that that's part of starting at the bottom. Nope-- I'm just filling my gender role as secretary who can't be trusted with any decisions or excess knowledge. Fuck that. I have a degree from a great school, have a proven track record with various legal and political internships. I studied abroad at Oxford University. I'm never this full of myself, but give me a break. I'm not a secretary. I wasn't just being handed the peon work. If I were a guy, a dude, a bro, I would be going to the staff meetings and giving actual input to the campaign.
As it so happens, my roommate's friend emailed me to find a spot working on the same campaign I'm working on. I forwarded his resume to my "boss", thinking nothing of it; I thought, perhaps, that I would see him stuffing envelopes with me some weekend. I was wrong. Oh, how I was wrong.
Not only is he much more involved than I am, but he is invited to every campaign staff meeting. I am not. He is invited to breakfast and lunch with members of the campaign. I am not. While I do data entry work, he gets phone calls from our "boss" about events. I am the one with the degree. I am the one with a relevant degree. This kid is still an undergrad at UMass studying landscape architecture. Yet, he has surpassed me completely in this case.
This evening I saw our candidate at a city event. He told me that I looked great-- he always compliments me. It wasn't meant in a dirty way, but rather in a "that's our only real use for you" way. I'd rather have a penis and be ugly-- maybe I would get to do what I want in life.
If this didn't make me bristle enough, I found out later that my roommate's friend had spoken to the candidate earlier today and had been to several staff meetings. I've been toiling on this campaign for nearly a month now, and for what? To NOT be invited to staff meetings, to NOT learn anything about the election process, to NOT get what I want out of this venture. I was the one who forwarded this guy's resume to the candidate; I never thought he'd surpass me so quickly. I think the real translation of "you look great" is GLASS FUCKING CEILING.
Am I overreacting? No. Because this evening, me, my roommate, and her friend ran into the mayor of Easthampton. I expected him to recognize me. I have had several face-to-face conversations with the mayor in his office. I am the youngest woman to serve on any city committee. I have lived in this town all my life; my parents both serve on committees.
The mayor recognized my roommate's friend, not me. Why? Because he had offered to work on the mayor's campaign and had met him, oh, say, once. The mayor then proceeded to jokingly ask Alexis's friend if he wanted to be filmed with him for an interview. Oh, joy. Apparently, all the conversations I've had with the mayor have been disregarded. I feel as though I have been put up with or tolerated. I feel like my degree isn't worth the paper it's printed on.
There is something starkly wrong here. I am not inarticulate, nor am I dumb. I am smart yet still willing to learn. This, however, equates to "you can do secretarial work". If I had a dick and no degree, I could get further. What. The. Fuck.
The real conundrum here? If I'm not aggressive enough, I'll get nowhere. If I'm too aggressive, I'll be a ball-breaking bitch (Hillary Clinton, apparently). I'm not sure whether I want to surge forward or fall by the wayside. I'm too young to be so tired of the good ol' boy system.
I've been working on a local campaign for one of my dad's good friends. Don't get me wrong-- the man I'm working for is an absolute peach and a great politician. I'm working on his campaign in hopes that I can network and perhaps find a job, or at least learn a little bit about the political process while helping him out. I've been doing some pretty boring, monotonous stuff, but I figured that that's part of starting at the bottom. Nope-- I'm just filling my gender role as secretary who can't be trusted with any decisions or excess knowledge. Fuck that. I have a degree from a great school, have a proven track record with various legal and political internships. I studied abroad at Oxford University. I'm never this full of myself, but give me a break. I'm not a secretary. I wasn't just being handed the peon work. If I were a guy, a dude, a bro, I would be going to the staff meetings and giving actual input to the campaign.
As it so happens, my roommate's friend emailed me to find a spot working on the same campaign I'm working on. I forwarded his resume to my "boss", thinking nothing of it; I thought, perhaps, that I would see him stuffing envelopes with me some weekend. I was wrong. Oh, how I was wrong.
Not only is he much more involved than I am, but he is invited to every campaign staff meeting. I am not. He is invited to breakfast and lunch with members of the campaign. I am not. While I do data entry work, he gets phone calls from our "boss" about events. I am the one with the degree. I am the one with a relevant degree. This kid is still an undergrad at UMass studying landscape architecture. Yet, he has surpassed me completely in this case.
This evening I saw our candidate at a city event. He told me that I looked great-- he always compliments me. It wasn't meant in a dirty way, but rather in a "that's our only real use for you" way. I'd rather have a penis and be ugly-- maybe I would get to do what I want in life.
If this didn't make me bristle enough, I found out later that my roommate's friend had spoken to the candidate earlier today and had been to several staff meetings. I've been toiling on this campaign for nearly a month now, and for what? To NOT be invited to staff meetings, to NOT learn anything about the election process, to NOT get what I want out of this venture. I was the one who forwarded this guy's resume to the candidate; I never thought he'd surpass me so quickly. I think the real translation of "you look great" is GLASS FUCKING CEILING.
Am I overreacting? No. Because this evening, me, my roommate, and her friend ran into the mayor of Easthampton. I expected him to recognize me. I have had several face-to-face conversations with the mayor in his office. I am the youngest woman to serve on any city committee. I have lived in this town all my life; my parents both serve on committees.
The mayor recognized my roommate's friend, not me. Why? Because he had offered to work on the mayor's campaign and had met him, oh, say, once. The mayor then proceeded to jokingly ask Alexis's friend if he wanted to be filmed with him for an interview. Oh, joy. Apparently, all the conversations I've had with the mayor have been disregarded. I feel as though I have been put up with or tolerated. I feel like my degree isn't worth the paper it's printed on.
There is something starkly wrong here. I am not inarticulate, nor am I dumb. I am smart yet still willing to learn. This, however, equates to "you can do secretarial work". If I had a dick and no degree, I could get further. What. The. Fuck.
The real conundrum here? If I'm not aggressive enough, I'll get nowhere. If I'm too aggressive, I'll be a ball-breaking bitch (Hillary Clinton, apparently). I'm not sure whether I want to surge forward or fall by the wayside. I'm too young to be so tired of the good ol' boy system.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Retrospect: I haven't learned much.
This afternoon, I was cleaning out my basement.
Trust me, it gets more interesting than that.
After an hour of organizing my records, several shelves of books (all belonging to me), and some other random nonsensical items, I came across a giant Tupperware tub filled with notebooks.
I, at some point, decided I needed to save all of my notes/papers/flash cards/etc. from all of my years in college.
Here are some highlights from my notebooks. If there is no introduction/explanation, assume that it’s written somewhere, on some page, in some notebook next to other, more important/coherent things:
From a Spanish notebook, I have the essential translation of ‘la estetica de fealdad’- the aesthetic of ugliness. No further explanation granted in said notebook.
“Today’s Lecture: We’re Fucked and Here’s Why”
“Barney Frank. D-MA. GAY” (underlined several times)
“British Parliament:
Lots more yelling.”
Sometimes I write quotations down that other idiots in class might utter. Here’s a good one: “Do Republicans have a problem with trans-fats?”
Oh, another good one. Next to a smudge where a chunk of dark chocolate was laid on my notebook, the words “the last piece is yours” with an arrow. Thanks, Ema.
“rats and feces stories”
10/27 (large, scrawled letters) I NEED COFFEE. Walk to elbow room with me afterward?
Written conversation between Ema and I after some dumb girl in our class was talking about how she was friends with the governor of Maine:
Me: GOOD FOR YOU.
Ema: (happy clapping retard kid)
Me: well…my family hangs out with important people too. Should I raise my hand and say that my uncle shook Bill Clinton’s hand?
Ema: ABSOLUTELY.
“I’m just writing down random phrases so it looks like I’m paying attention”
“killer of children rather than making own line propagate” (?)
“Wales is fucked, Scotland is screwed”
“debagging: ripping off men’s pants.”
“Boy gets girl. General celebration. End.”
“sex vs. diseased sex”
“sex=death, syphyilis”
In notebook on Evelyn Waugh: “Racist. Sexist. Homophobic, classist, enjoyed being offensive and rude. Bigot. Snob. Politics of T.S. Eliot. Partied, got fired from all jobs. Drank, did drugs. Blatant alcoholic. Left Oxford without degree.”
“pain & cruelty= funny.”
“clean, square, modern. i.e.: Cutter-Z.”
“like trying to write a travel book on Hoboken, New Jersey.”
“Laura dies of black plague, 1348.”
“Henry VII: typical younger brother. Stubborn, impatient.”
“Shot in leg. Leg turns gangrenous. = Protestant hero.”
“what’s with Yeats and birds?”
“England: no onions or citrus fruits”
comments on a paper:
“Laura—I like the way you construct both the thesis and the argument here—while these two writers look completely different, there’s a lot to be learned from what they have in common. Like the Odd Couple!”
On another paper:
Laura—you offer here a highly insightful treatment of Platonic Forms. Excellent work! Your comments on how Plato might draw on his theory in order to block the regress from starting are highly perceptive. A.”
… I could not at this point recall exactly what Platonic Forms or the regression theory are. Oh well.
“literature today: cigar, volcano.”
“spend= ejaculate”
“it’s not that great to be Irish”
“getting raped by swan.”
“carves giant slabs of meat before father= very aristocratic”
“it snowed meat and drink of all possible kinds in his house”
“high, goatish voice”
“Deeply disturbing. Steals children.”
“wedlock is a paradise= misconception thus far. Wants young sex partner.”
“Adam and Eve- blindly clenching a phallus”
“sodomy wasn’t a huge deal in England.”
“swearing= worse than homicide”
“rhymes exquisitely elsewhere; then it becomes shitty”
“image of poppet: portly, ample waisted”
(Will Morgan called me poppet a few times. Now I shall hit him.)
“why put this in the mouths of chickens?”
“why so sluttish?”
“artistic temperament: his soul is female.”
“Resolution. Problem. Resolution.”
The following are from Michael Thurston’s American Lit class. I was in the class with several close friends. It was a big class. We often wrote ridiculous things to each other in my notes.
“Where are you in Moby(‘s) Dick?”
“Page 1”
“Look at girl in red behind Ali. HAHAHA.”
The name “Mel Gibson” with an arrow drawn to “Slaves” and then the name “Joey”
“shut the fuck uppppp” next to picture of someone vomiting. I can only assume that someone in the class was pattering on about something stupid.
“Length of Moby’s Dick”
Title of notes for 11/8/2008: Moby’s Dick
(this became a significant inside joke.)
“Call me Ishmael. Not his really name.” (wow, I was an English major.)
“what if there IS NO MEANING? (contemporary anxiety)”
written in margin: “did you just say ‘club footing’?”
“Thomas Morton—Woodstock. Beaver hats. Anglican guy. Phallic dancing.”
“parents have your interests at heart. Unlike BOYZ. (sad face)”
“New England writers are bad singers”
“1830’s- Western Frontier to Chicago (not the band)”
“Natty Bumpo—mountain man, a la Lonnie”
“falling of trees= trees can be dangerous.”
“Hawthorne= impotent”
“1+2=3” (Yes, in American Lit notebook)
“Emerson. Nature- “our world is retrospective”. We write about guts, black stuff, slim jims.”
“Judaism= Buddhism” (This was Mareva, in the margin, making fun of someone who essentially made that connection)
“Can you draw some circles on the board?” (another quotation from a lovely class member)
“Intoxicants breed artificial transcendence. Systematic derangement of the senses. So…my great American novel SUCKS.”
“Poe= Alec Baldwin?”
“Thoreau= “Tho-row”. Invented hacky-sacks. Hippie appearance.”
Written directly below that, with an arrow pointing somewhere: “HAHA THAT GIRL WAS SO WRONG”
“quoth Gene Wilder, NEVERMORE”
“fishing with a net…spear…guide”
“birds eat semi-fermented berries (accidentally)”
“Dr. Broya Mookheygree @ IFF” (…?)
That’s it, for now. Funny stuff, eh?
Trust me, it gets more interesting than that.
After an hour of organizing my records, several shelves of books (all belonging to me), and some other random nonsensical items, I came across a giant Tupperware tub filled with notebooks.
I, at some point, decided I needed to save all of my notes/papers/flash cards/etc. from all of my years in college.
Here are some highlights from my notebooks. If there is no introduction/explanation, assume that it’s written somewhere, on some page, in some notebook next to other, more important/coherent things:
From a Spanish notebook, I have the essential translation of ‘la estetica de fealdad’- the aesthetic of ugliness. No further explanation granted in said notebook.
“Today’s Lecture: We’re Fucked and Here’s Why”
“Barney Frank. D-MA. GAY” (underlined several times)
“British Parliament:
Lots more yelling.”
Sometimes I write quotations down that other idiots in class might utter. Here’s a good one: “Do Republicans have a problem with trans-fats?”
Oh, another good one. Next to a smudge where a chunk of dark chocolate was laid on my notebook, the words “the last piece is yours” with an arrow. Thanks, Ema.
“rats and feces stories”
10/27 (large, scrawled letters) I NEED COFFEE. Walk to elbow room with me afterward?
Written conversation between Ema and I after some dumb girl in our class was talking about how she was friends with the governor of Maine:
Me: GOOD FOR YOU.
Ema: (happy clapping retard kid)
Me: well…my family hangs out with important people too. Should I raise my hand and say that my uncle shook Bill Clinton’s hand?
Ema: ABSOLUTELY.
“I’m just writing down random phrases so it looks like I’m paying attention”
“killer of children rather than making own line propagate” (?)
“Wales is fucked, Scotland is screwed”
“debagging: ripping off men’s pants.”
“Boy gets girl. General celebration. End.”
“sex vs. diseased sex”
“sex=death, syphyilis”
In notebook on Evelyn Waugh: “Racist. Sexist. Homophobic, classist, enjoyed being offensive and rude. Bigot. Snob. Politics of T.S. Eliot. Partied, got fired from all jobs. Drank, did drugs. Blatant alcoholic. Left Oxford without degree.”
“pain & cruelty= funny.”
“clean, square, modern. i.e.: Cutter-Z.”
“like trying to write a travel book on Hoboken, New Jersey.”
“Laura dies of black plague, 1348.”
“Henry VII: typical younger brother. Stubborn, impatient.”
“Shot in leg. Leg turns gangrenous. = Protestant hero.”
“what’s with Yeats and birds?”
“England: no onions or citrus fruits”
comments on a paper:
“Laura—I like the way you construct both the thesis and the argument here—while these two writers look completely different, there’s a lot to be learned from what they have in common. Like the Odd Couple!”
On another paper:
Laura—you offer here a highly insightful treatment of Platonic Forms. Excellent work! Your comments on how Plato might draw on his theory in order to block the regress from starting are highly perceptive. A.”
… I could not at this point recall exactly what Platonic Forms or the regression theory are. Oh well.
“literature today: cigar, volcano.”
“spend= ejaculate”
“it’s not that great to be Irish”
“getting raped by swan.”
“carves giant slabs of meat before father= very aristocratic”
“it snowed meat and drink of all possible kinds in his house”
“high, goatish voice”
“Deeply disturbing. Steals children.”
“wedlock is a paradise= misconception thus far. Wants young sex partner.”
“Adam and Eve- blindly clenching a phallus”
“sodomy wasn’t a huge deal in England.”
“swearing= worse than homicide”
“rhymes exquisitely elsewhere; then it becomes shitty”
“image of poppet: portly, ample waisted”
(Will Morgan called me poppet a few times. Now I shall hit him.)
“why put this in the mouths of chickens?”
“why so sluttish?”
“artistic temperament: his soul is female.”
“Resolution. Problem. Resolution.”
The following are from Michael Thurston’s American Lit class. I was in the class with several close friends. It was a big class. We often wrote ridiculous things to each other in my notes.
“Where are you in Moby(‘s) Dick?”
“Page 1”
“Look at girl in red behind Ali. HAHAHA.”
The name “Mel Gibson” with an arrow drawn to “Slaves” and then the name “Joey”
“shut the fuck uppppp” next to picture of someone vomiting. I can only assume that someone in the class was pattering on about something stupid.
“Length of Moby’s Dick”
Title of notes for 11/8/2008: Moby’s Dick
(this became a significant inside joke.)
“Call me Ishmael. Not his really name.” (wow, I was an English major.)
“what if there IS NO MEANING? (contemporary anxiety)”
written in margin: “did you just say ‘club footing’?”
“Thomas Morton—Woodstock. Beaver hats. Anglican guy. Phallic dancing.”
“parents have your interests at heart. Unlike BOYZ. (sad face)”
“New England writers are bad singers”
“1830’s- Western Frontier to Chicago (not the band)”
“Natty Bumpo—mountain man, a la Lonnie”
“falling of trees= trees can be dangerous.”
“Hawthorne= impotent”
“1+2=3” (Yes, in American Lit notebook)
“Emerson. Nature- “our world is retrospective”. We write about guts, black stuff, slim jims.”
“Judaism= Buddhism” (This was Mareva, in the margin, making fun of someone who essentially made that connection)
“Can you draw some circles on the board?” (another quotation from a lovely class member)
“Intoxicants breed artificial transcendence. Systematic derangement of the senses. So…my great American novel SUCKS.”
“Poe= Alec Baldwin?”
“Thoreau= “Tho-row”. Invented hacky-sacks. Hippie appearance.”
Written directly below that, with an arrow pointing somewhere: “HAHA THAT GIRL WAS SO WRONG”
“quoth Gene Wilder, NEVERMORE”
“fishing with a net…spear…guide”
“birds eat semi-fermented berries (accidentally)”
“Dr. Broya Mookheygree @ IFF” (…?)
That’s it, for now. Funny stuff, eh?
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Oy vey!
It has admittedly been a while since my last update. I can explain. Well, not really, but i suppose the very act of explaining sort of provides an update in and of itself. Eh?
My last post concerned my lack of motivation. I can assure you that this trend continued steadily up until the very last moments of my time at Smith College. Needless to say, I have graduated. Let me rewind a little bit. We'll start with my last days at school.
To begin, I truly miss my friends and the campus already. I know all I did was bitch and complain about it, but what else do you do when you love something? Smith College is like an annoying sibling: you can complain, and you get aggravated, but in the end, you love it, snotty nose and all.
The last two weeks of school, I was inundated with work. My finals included two actual, physical tests and 52 pages of papers. 25 pages of those papers were for my Evelyn Waugh seminar with Doug Patey. I had a long research paper for my environmental class as well as a Shakespeare paper and another research paper for my Congressional/legislative process class.
A couple of weeks before the last day of finals, I realized that I needed to organize my time fairly well. I vowed to write five pages a day and, surprisingly, stuck with decent accuracy to this goal. I typed away about bees for my research paper on pollinator bills before congress (try writing fifteen pages on that...I somehow did). I theorized my way through various manifestations of societal "clothing" in King Lear. I wrote about...something...for my environmental ethics class.
My friends were entirely supportive of me during this time. Every night they'd ask, "did you finish your five pages?" and when I'd reply in the affirmative, they'd cheer with what looked like real excitement. I had a makeshift thermometer on my door, separated into 5-page intervals. People left me encouraging notes, knowing that I'd soon graduate. This all went very, very well, until the night of Wednesday the 18th.
I was in Neilson library, alternately typing about modernist architecture and watching youtube videos of Eureka's Castle (i'd post said video but it has been taken down due to copyright infringement...lame). I had, by that time (about 9 pm), consumed about five cups of coffee and a lot of carbs. My stomach started to hurt. No big deal. I typed away though my insides seemed to be trying to escape.
I got back to Park Annex (my house) and explained my ongoing gastrointestinal discomfort to my friends. One girl gave me some Tums and sent me on my way. I decided not to finish my five pages for the night. In bed, I put a heating pad on my stomach; it was burning more and more every minute.
After sitting up all night, writhing (literally) in pain, I decided I had a stomach bug. I dragged myself out of bed and proceeded to chip away at my seminar paper. After a few hours, I had only seven pages left to write: I was close to my goal of 52 pages. I had taken all of my actual finals a few days before. The only thing standing between me and my diploma was seven pages.
Ali convinced me to move home; a big snowstorm was expected the next day. She helped me pack up what was left of my belongings. I had been moving things back to my family's house intermittently; all I had left at school were some hangers, my computer, bedding, and a toothbrush. My stomach felt like it was being stabbed with a million knives. I carried my stuff to Ali's car and tried to stay awake.
At home, I was feeling worse. I managed to somehow type another four pages of my paper. I hadn't been physically sick, I didn't have a fever, and I wasn't even nauseous. I went to bed early-- at about eight p.m.-- and vowed to finish my last three pages the following morning. I had until 4 p.m. on Friday to do so; it would be no big deal.
At about 3 a.m. that night, however, I woke up feeling as though my stomach had exploded. I am so glad that I was at my family's house because I could hardly move. I laid in bed and cried hysterically. I could not get comfortable. I finally fell back asleep after my mother gave me a pill (I'm still not sure what the pill was).
The next morning I woke up and lied to my mother that I felt better. It was indeed a lie because the pain had localized in my lower right abdominal quadrant. It felt, again, like I had been stabbed. I walked with a limp but kept telling my mother I was fine. I typed one more page before my mother dragged me away from my computer and brought me to the hospital.
I was admitted at 11 am and sat in the Emergency Room alone while my mother went home to get my computer so I could finish working on the paper while waiting. Let me take this opportunity to say that I hate Cooley Dickinson Hospital. The woman who gave me the iv could NOT find a vein and kept jamming the needle into my arm. I hadn't eaten anything in a few days at this point (I had not showered either, but that is another story). I looked down while she was jabbing the needle into my vein and saw it moving under my skin. Ali and my mother were there with me; I yelled to them that I was going to puke. Sure enough, I puked--luckily, into some weird bag that Ali had procured out of somewhere-- and the woman FINALLY got the iv needle into my arm. While all of this was happening, a phlebotomist was seemingly subjecting me to the archaic practice of bloodletting. The nurse putting the iv in hooked me up to a saline drip and then attempted to give me morphine. She first, however, dropped the glass jar of morphine on the floor and chuckled, stating happily that she was clumsy that day. She finally got the morphine into my system; things were good. For a little while.
Some dumbass doctor ordered a CT scan (not sure why; they KNEW it was my appendix). I had to drink all that nasty orange stuff and be wheeled to the big weird machine (I'm clearly down with medical jargon). While I was on my way to the big weird machine, the person pushing my wheelchair (I really couldn't walk) rammed me into a machine in the hallway and knocked it over and then proceeded to open a door with my legs. Great.
After about, oh, three more hours, my CT results came back. Surprise surprise: it was my appendix. Oh, and it had ruptured while I was sitting around waiting, being rammed into things and jabbed with needles. They promised that I'd be operated on by seven p.m. I was still pissed that I hadn't finished my Doug Patey paper and asked if I could work on it. I tried; it wasn't a good idea to type while on morphine.
I wasn't nervous about the operation until they wheeled me up (in my bed, still ramming me accidentally into walls and things) to the recovery area. Then I got nervous. My imbecile of a father tried to comfort me, telling me that it wouldn't be like years ago when he had his wisdom teeth out: "I could hear everything they were doing!". Finally, at 10:30 p.m. (12 hours after I had first been admitted), my anesthesiologist gave me something which she referred to as "champagne". I remember, vaguely, being wheeled into the operating room, saying bye to my parents, still sobbing though I had been heavily sedated. My heart monitor beeped quickly. I remember a woman patting my head and telling me that I'd be fine. They put a shower cap type thing on me. I remember them stating that I'd "be asleep in no time". I remember shivering and crying, but I don't remember closing my eyes.
Things were hazy when I woke up. I groaned to make sure my vocal chords worked because my throat was so sore-- I had been given an oxygen tube during the surgery. I couldn't see clearly, so I squinted and closed one eye to read the clock in front of me. It was almost midnight. My stomach was in searing pain. I had an oxygen mask on my face and could hardly remember where I was. I was back in the recovery room, post-operation. They hadn't given me any painkillers yet because they wanted to make sure I woke up completely.
I kept asking for my mom, for Aaron, for painkillers, for anything. My throat hurt very badly but I still managed to groan and bitch at the nurses. I was put on oxygen because I had tachycardia (a rapid heartbeat). I was eventually given morphine and brought up to the new wing of the hospital. I remember breathing very slowly, and a nurse kept reminding me to breathe. I wasn't really coherent so it was easy to forget about breathing...
I slept pretty well through the night with a constantly supply of morphine and antibiotics being injected into my system. I was smelling pretty ripe because I hadn't showered in days. Aaron and Ali came to visit; my room was really nice and I had a beautiful picture window to watch the big snowstorm through. I watched horrible holiday movies, catching only segments of them at a time because I was drifting in and out of sleep. It took me about three full viewings of The Wizard of Oz to piece various segments together; I couldn't keep my eyes open.
The best part about recovery was that I looked pregnant. My surgery was laproscopic, so they had inflated my abdomen with carbon dioxide. I was even fatter than usual. Great.
I finally made it home on what I think was Sunday or Monday. I can't remember. Regardless, I finished Doug Patey's paper while on morphine and attached it to an email, sent it along, and collapsed on my family's couch with a semi-contented whimper. So much for going out with a bang like I had always pictured.
I passed all of my classes and did fairly well. It wasn't my best semester ever grade-wise, but that's ok. The semester had been plagued with apathy (see previous post) and various bad occurrences (getting my identity stolen, for one). The important thing is that I managed, somehow, to graduate.
Wow, this post went on for a lot longer than I had expected. Anyway, that is the story of how I parted ways with my appendix. People really dig it when I tell it at job interviews and such.
On another note, I was urged to update my blog by a few people; I didn't realize that people actually read this. I mainly keep this blog for personal reasons. It makes me feel like I have a theoretical place where my thoughts are organized. I'll be updating more frequently now (after writing 52 pages in two weeks, I didn't want to even be literate anymore, let alone type another word), so stay tuned.
Quite a bit has happened to me since I left the hospital, none of it as interesting as the appendix story. I will, however, set it down soon enough. Happy February, y'all.
My last post concerned my lack of motivation. I can assure you that this trend continued steadily up until the very last moments of my time at Smith College. Needless to say, I have graduated. Let me rewind a little bit. We'll start with my last days at school.
To begin, I truly miss my friends and the campus already. I know all I did was bitch and complain about it, but what else do you do when you love something? Smith College is like an annoying sibling: you can complain, and you get aggravated, but in the end, you love it, snotty nose and all.
The last two weeks of school, I was inundated with work. My finals included two actual, physical tests and 52 pages of papers. 25 pages of those papers were for my Evelyn Waugh seminar with Doug Patey. I had a long research paper for my environmental class as well as a Shakespeare paper and another research paper for my Congressional/legislative process class.
A couple of weeks before the last day of finals, I realized that I needed to organize my time fairly well. I vowed to write five pages a day and, surprisingly, stuck with decent accuracy to this goal. I typed away about bees for my research paper on pollinator bills before congress (try writing fifteen pages on that...I somehow did). I theorized my way through various manifestations of societal "clothing" in King Lear. I wrote about...something...for my environmental ethics class.
My friends were entirely supportive of me during this time. Every night they'd ask, "did you finish your five pages?" and when I'd reply in the affirmative, they'd cheer with what looked like real excitement. I had a makeshift thermometer on my door, separated into 5-page intervals. People left me encouraging notes, knowing that I'd soon graduate. This all went very, very well, until the night of Wednesday the 18th.
I was in Neilson library, alternately typing about modernist architecture and watching youtube videos of Eureka's Castle (i'd post said video but it has been taken down due to copyright infringement...lame). I had, by that time (about 9 pm), consumed about five cups of coffee and a lot of carbs. My stomach started to hurt. No big deal. I typed away though my insides seemed to be trying to escape.
I got back to Park Annex (my house) and explained my ongoing gastrointestinal discomfort to my friends. One girl gave me some Tums and sent me on my way. I decided not to finish my five pages for the night. In bed, I put a heating pad on my stomach; it was burning more and more every minute.
After sitting up all night, writhing (literally) in pain, I decided I had a stomach bug. I dragged myself out of bed and proceeded to chip away at my seminar paper. After a few hours, I had only seven pages left to write: I was close to my goal of 52 pages. I had taken all of my actual finals a few days before. The only thing standing between me and my diploma was seven pages.
Ali convinced me to move home; a big snowstorm was expected the next day. She helped me pack up what was left of my belongings. I had been moving things back to my family's house intermittently; all I had left at school were some hangers, my computer, bedding, and a toothbrush. My stomach felt like it was being stabbed with a million knives. I carried my stuff to Ali's car and tried to stay awake.
At home, I was feeling worse. I managed to somehow type another four pages of my paper. I hadn't been physically sick, I didn't have a fever, and I wasn't even nauseous. I went to bed early-- at about eight p.m.-- and vowed to finish my last three pages the following morning. I had until 4 p.m. on Friday to do so; it would be no big deal.
At about 3 a.m. that night, however, I woke up feeling as though my stomach had exploded. I am so glad that I was at my family's house because I could hardly move. I laid in bed and cried hysterically. I could not get comfortable. I finally fell back asleep after my mother gave me a pill (I'm still not sure what the pill was).
The next morning I woke up and lied to my mother that I felt better. It was indeed a lie because the pain had localized in my lower right abdominal quadrant. It felt, again, like I had been stabbed. I walked with a limp but kept telling my mother I was fine. I typed one more page before my mother dragged me away from my computer and brought me to the hospital.
I was admitted at 11 am and sat in the Emergency Room alone while my mother went home to get my computer so I could finish working on the paper while waiting. Let me take this opportunity to say that I hate Cooley Dickinson Hospital. The woman who gave me the iv could NOT find a vein and kept jamming the needle into my arm. I hadn't eaten anything in a few days at this point (I had not showered either, but that is another story). I looked down while she was jabbing the needle into my vein and saw it moving under my skin. Ali and my mother were there with me; I yelled to them that I was going to puke. Sure enough, I puked--luckily, into some weird bag that Ali had procured out of somewhere-- and the woman FINALLY got the iv needle into my arm. While all of this was happening, a phlebotomist was seemingly subjecting me to the archaic practice of bloodletting. The nurse putting the iv in hooked me up to a saline drip and then attempted to give me morphine. She first, however, dropped the glass jar of morphine on the floor and chuckled, stating happily that she was clumsy that day. She finally got the morphine into my system; things were good. For a little while.
Some dumbass doctor ordered a CT scan (not sure why; they KNEW it was my appendix). I had to drink all that nasty orange stuff and be wheeled to the big weird machine (I'm clearly down with medical jargon). While I was on my way to the big weird machine, the person pushing my wheelchair (I really couldn't walk) rammed me into a machine in the hallway and knocked it over and then proceeded to open a door with my legs. Great.
After about, oh, three more hours, my CT results came back. Surprise surprise: it was my appendix. Oh, and it had ruptured while I was sitting around waiting, being rammed into things and jabbed with needles. They promised that I'd be operated on by seven p.m. I was still pissed that I hadn't finished my Doug Patey paper and asked if I could work on it. I tried; it wasn't a good idea to type while on morphine.
I wasn't nervous about the operation until they wheeled me up (in my bed, still ramming me accidentally into walls and things) to the recovery area. Then I got nervous. My imbecile of a father tried to comfort me, telling me that it wouldn't be like years ago when he had his wisdom teeth out: "I could hear everything they were doing!". Finally, at 10:30 p.m. (12 hours after I had first been admitted), my anesthesiologist gave me something which she referred to as "champagne". I remember, vaguely, being wheeled into the operating room, saying bye to my parents, still sobbing though I had been heavily sedated. My heart monitor beeped quickly. I remember a woman patting my head and telling me that I'd be fine. They put a shower cap type thing on me. I remember them stating that I'd "be asleep in no time". I remember shivering and crying, but I don't remember closing my eyes.
Things were hazy when I woke up. I groaned to make sure my vocal chords worked because my throat was so sore-- I had been given an oxygen tube during the surgery. I couldn't see clearly, so I squinted and closed one eye to read the clock in front of me. It was almost midnight. My stomach was in searing pain. I had an oxygen mask on my face and could hardly remember where I was. I was back in the recovery room, post-operation. They hadn't given me any painkillers yet because they wanted to make sure I woke up completely.
I kept asking for my mom, for Aaron, for painkillers, for anything. My throat hurt very badly but I still managed to groan and bitch at the nurses. I was put on oxygen because I had tachycardia (a rapid heartbeat). I was eventually given morphine and brought up to the new wing of the hospital. I remember breathing very slowly, and a nurse kept reminding me to breathe. I wasn't really coherent so it was easy to forget about breathing...
I slept pretty well through the night with a constantly supply of morphine and antibiotics being injected into my system. I was smelling pretty ripe because I hadn't showered in days. Aaron and Ali came to visit; my room was really nice and I had a beautiful picture window to watch the big snowstorm through. I watched horrible holiday movies, catching only segments of them at a time because I was drifting in and out of sleep. It took me about three full viewings of The Wizard of Oz to piece various segments together; I couldn't keep my eyes open.
The best part about recovery was that I looked pregnant. My surgery was laproscopic, so they had inflated my abdomen with carbon dioxide. I was even fatter than usual. Great.
I finally made it home on what I think was Sunday or Monday. I can't remember. Regardless, I finished Doug Patey's paper while on morphine and attached it to an email, sent it along, and collapsed on my family's couch with a semi-contented whimper. So much for going out with a bang like I had always pictured.
I passed all of my classes and did fairly well. It wasn't my best semester ever grade-wise, but that's ok. The semester had been plagued with apathy (see previous post) and various bad occurrences (getting my identity stolen, for one). The important thing is that I managed, somehow, to graduate.
Wow, this post went on for a lot longer than I had expected. Anyway, that is the story of how I parted ways with my appendix. People really dig it when I tell it at job interviews and such.
On another note, I was urged to update my blog by a few people; I didn't realize that people actually read this. I mainly keep this blog for personal reasons. It makes me feel like I have a theoretical place where my thoughts are organized. I'll be updating more frequently now (after writing 52 pages in two weeks, I didn't want to even be literate anymore, let alone type another word), so stay tuned.
Quite a bit has happened to me since I left the hospital, none of it as interesting as the appendix story. I will, however, set it down soon enough. Happy February, y'all.
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