Would you rather...

work for a woman who is a bitch or a guy who is a prick?

They are two totally different characters and personalities that have differing affects on the working environment they oversee.

I think I know my answer...

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A Paradox of Sports

I love watching professional sports; I'm a massive Red Sox fan, a big Celtic fan, a good sized Bears and Red Wings fan.

Yet, I despise the jock mentality, the jock attitude, and the ethos.

I don't read fiction very often. Hell, I don't read books period often (short of children's books for my job). I read non-fiction periodicals.

I lived in my real-life hell as has been documented previously in my childhood, yet I find comfort in trying to know and understand reality.

This is why I prefer watching sports and political/current events shows than a plethora of television shows.

In a weird way, sports, while a game, is reality. It's certainly more reality than "reality tv."

There are storylines, there are plotlines that sports writers spill ink about. But, those are largely ficitonalized, contrived stories of bloviating bloviators.

The reality is the action. There is no script. There is no director. There is no producer. There are only actors. Yes, it is a game.

In the scheme of things, these games mean nothing. But, neither do movies, tv shows, nor even fictional stories, or other works of art.

But, sports is spontaneous. Sports is happening now. You can sneak a peak to the end of a movie, or a book. You cannot do so with sport.

There was no way this Sox fan could fast forward to see that incredible, history-making event of Dave Roberts famed steal of 2nd base that vaulted the Sox to overthrow the dreaded Yankees, winning a whopping 4 games straight.

No screen writer would have, could have, written that with a straight face.

I love professional sports. I do. I am picky, however. *shocker!*

I love it for the real drama, the pageantry, and the sheer unpredictability of events.

It is often said that all fiction books follow one of a scant few models, arcs, whatever they're called. There are simple formulas writers can follow to get out a very good story. This is not meant to diminish to writers of good books. I respect them highly. I just am not one who cares for that type of entertainment on balance.

I say all that above about sports acknowledging, even knowing, that those people are too cool for me. They would have nothing to do with me in reality.

So, perhaps that is why I like them: I can't have them. But, I don't think that is it.

There are the bad things about sports that I don't like: I've railed against steroids in baseball, I've called for the NBA to get a clue about some of their blatantly bad & possibly corrupt refs, I don't really like the fact that some players on my own favorite team are paid ridiculous sums of money to hit a baseball as hard as they might...but, nothing is perfect.

Some actors/actresses get paid $20 million per picture, so I chuckle about those opining on A-Fraud get over $20 million per year. Yes, people doing both of these jobs are laughably overpaid. I am a teacher, I think I should get a few of those dollars to add to my bank account.

But, there are imperfections with everything. I do not apologize. I will go on loving the sports I love, with all their flaws. I will try to persuade for changes to be made when changes are needed *cough* re-configuring the divisions in MLB *cough,* but I will continue to watch in amazement at the ability, the drive, the effort of some of the finest athletes in the world.

Everything & Nothing

I had a post in mind today, but my thoughts ran jumbled and mixed through my feeble mind.

I had everything to say, and yet nothing to say.

Uno & Affirmation

One year ago on this date, I was chopped open & was delivered a new liver. Happy anniversary to me!

I've been thinking about this post for a while as one might imagine, and I had several ways to tackle what I wanted/felt the need to say.

However, lately a sentiment has crept into my brain:

As of today, I have changed the new year's celebration for myself. This date will now be my new New Year's date.

And with all new year celebrations, comes those silly resolutions. I never believed in/subscribed to those silly resolutions because I thought they were silly things people told themselves to make themselves feel better.

Kind of like religion, ironically...but, I digress...

The past month or so, I have desperately sought to change something for the better. What I have come up with may be a ginormous bite that I can't even begin to chew on, but it's what I've come up with.

A highlight of my week is walking my dog and listening to the curmudgeonly Tony Kornheiser rant and rave about topical things on his Washington D.C. radio podcast.

I am a curmudgeon, a loner, a person who doesn't generally like people; I want to be left mostly alone.

My man Kornheiser typifies what I am in many respects, minus the bank account.

I want to change something though. Despite what someone once told me about nothing good coming out of trying to change, I'm doing it anyway. (Ironically, this person changed some things about themselves for the better recently, so it's weird that this person holds said belief.)

It will be virtually impossible to change this thing. It's not in my nature, it's not in my DNA, it hasn't been my life experience to do such a thing or think such a way. I will try it to the best of my ability though:

Affirmations - in New Age and New Thought terminology refers primarily to the practice of positive thinking - fostering a belief that "a positive mental attitude supported by affirmations will achieve success in anything."

I am going to TRY to think more positively about things via affirmation. Try. Yes, try.

First, I would just like to give a shout out to the doctors and nurses who cared for my ignorant ass. In all honesty, there was really only one day in which I was a total jackass. Otherwise, I treated them extremely well, and they did so in kind. I owe them a lot and I tell them so every time I go in. This anniversary is just as much of a reflection on me and my ability/willingness to fight, but their skill, professionalism, and their heart.

Finally, many thanks to the very select few who provided great comfort & great assistance during this difficult time for me.

Thank you!

Day 12 - Internal & External Hell

I'm beginning this post with a few lyrics from Aimee Mann's song "Real Bad News:"

"You don't know, so don't say you do --
You don't.
You might think that things will change,
But take my word --
They won't
You paint a lovely picture,
But reality intrudes
With a message for you
And it's real bad news"

I start with those because at this point I had thought things had changed for me, but, I got the bad news that they hadn't really.

This day really starts the night previous, when I got the newsflash that they were considering opening my body back up to fix a problem that had become apparent and do some exploring into seeing what was going on:

Exploring and surgery are not words I prefer to hear together. Last time I'd heard those words, my father ended up dead on an operating table.

To say I was alarmed at this news, would be an exaggeration. I immediately got on the horn to my mother who had abandoned my ass only a few days prior. I had to beg her to come back to ensure things would be okay. She was hesitant to come back, and I could tell she was trying to weasel out of doing so.

I spoke to my uncle who is a doctor, and had him speak to some people. But, I wasn't satisfied, and I lay in bed most of that night annoyed and frustrated. And, scared out of my ever lovin' mind.

My aunt came in and spent the night in my room on a very uncomfortable bed, but not-a-bed thing. I was THAT upset.

Back to Day 12 morning and shortly after waking up, a man came sauntering into my room looking all fancy in dress pants, a dress shirt, and a tie. Mind you I had never seen this man before. EVER. EVER!

He said hello and introduced himself as "Dr. blah blah blah." Okay I thought. What do you want?!

He informed me that they were going to wheel me into surgery "this morning" and he wanted me to sign some forms.

YYYYYYYEAH. This poor bastard made a grave mistake because I lost my mind. I started bawling like I had never bawled before; Not even at my father's funeral, which I didn't bawl at, I was just in total shock (think I still am in a way). There was some serious nasal discharge going on. I used a whole mini box of crappy hospital tissues :)

To say the least, the doctor was caught completely off guard, and he was eventually made to talk to my uncle and explain to HIM why he wanted to do what he wanted. In my rage, in my frustration, and in my fury, I knew enough that I wouldn't sign anything until I got the answers I wanted.

I knew my uncle would get the rational questions and technical questions asked and answered sufficiently, and moreover he could explain to me what was going to happen and provide his opinion.

Eventually, things got answered, I was mollified and shortly thereafter I signed the two papers necessary to open my stomach back up. I called my mother to say it was on, and before I had time to notify anyone else, I was wheeled out of my room.

The last thing I remember before going dark was being in the operating room, which was totally cool. By that time, I had mentally processed the problem, rationally realized WHY this needed to be done and I was relaxed.

Their big mistake was NOT telling me WHY and WHAT they were going to do the night before. I needed more lead time to process the event. I would have been largely fine.

When I awoke later in the day, I remember sitting in my room and asking to get the damn catheter taken out and checking out how much swelling I gained back. I had made some great progress on taking the swelling down and I was going to be pissed if I gained all that back. I had only gained a tiny amount, which was good.

I got a report on how things went, what they did, and that the bloodwork was already looking much better. I felt better too.

This was the very last major hurdle to the path of exodus from the hospital. This was the worst day of the 3 weeks for me personally. It marked the end of the beginning and the beginning of the end.

Further updates on days will come later.

Boston, thy love ye

I love my chosen city, Boston.

It was reaffirmed today:

Boston has history at seemingly every turn.

Boston has multiculturalism.

Boston has some great higher academic institutions.

Boston has a kicking sports scene.

Boston is big enough to qualify as a big city.

Boston, however, is small enough to make it feel almost quaint.

Boston has character.

Boston has an energy.

Boston has some old architecture that reminds you of the wars fought.

Boston has some modern architecture that reminds you of today.

Boston holds historic Fenway Park.

Bostonians have a funny accent.

Boston has some great food options.

Is Boston perfect? No.

Boston still has the Italian mafia (don't let anyone dissuade of of such a notion).

Boston's politicians (specifically Speakers of State House) are consistently busted for corruption.

Boston can be cold.

Boston's metro is an old, antiquated system that is costing a fortune to SLOWLY upgrade.

Have I mentioned the Italian Mob yet? Wait...whoops!

Day 11 - Good News, Bad News

On the floor of the hospital I was on, Mondays could be a big day. It marked the end of a nice, restful weekend for the nurses/doctors, and the beginning of another week in the rounds of keeping people alive to the best of their ability.

For me, I woke up with an optimism about my condition and the progress I had seen made in such a short amount of time. Between the fresh shave & bath that the wonderful Ted gave me on Friday, and the drop in swelling in my legs, I felt invincible. I didn't let the TINY little fact that I couldn't walk without a walker nor utilized my legs to take any steps get in the way of this invincibility.

In medicine, things can get messy, and mistakes get made even in the best of circumstances and with the best of intentions.

A mistake, was made.

Early Monday, the team came by during rounds and seemed to indicate things were looking good, but there was an issue with the procedure that had been performed. In layperson terms, there was a tube/vessel that was supposed to carry and transfer bile to the lower intestines. It was still so swollen from the required stitches to connect it during the surgery, that it couldn't do it's job effectively.

So, during the procedure Friday, they snipped a tiny cut into the opening to let it start working. Meanwhile, they microscopically bandaged the cut as best as you can in that situation and hoped the cut didn't start bleeding again.

Well, something happened, and there was an issue. Some other things may have been messed with during the procedure, which I was NOT made aware of until this time.

This was when I began to lose control. The next three days were the most trying days of my stay.

A hold pattern was instituted that morning to wait and see how things looked. SO, I had my Monday breakfast, and needled the nurses gently when they came into check on me.

This also marked the first day I had Beth as my nurse. Oh, wonderful Beth. She was an awesome nurse who laughed when I cracked cheesy jokes, gave me virtually whatever I asked for (more on that later), and she treated me with dignity and respect, even when a certain area of my body needed to be cared for.

By mid-morning I began noticing some stomach discomfort. In my infinite wisdom, and my positive attitude at the progress I had made, I brushed it off to needing to train my stomach for serious food again. This despite having been eating serious fruit and other "soft" foods.

The pain, as I ate my lunch, only got more intense. I refused to be concerned. I ate dinner, and the pain was still there. It was determined I would probably need to go in for another scoping. That was completed late Monday, and it was determined that there was no bleeding from the cut.

This, was the good news. The bad news was that there seemed to be a ginormous ulcer that had magically formed in my stomach. Moreover, there were some other things they were looking at. But, what they didn't tell me at that time, and what they should have, would make the next day the toughest day emotionally for me of the entire stay.

It was the lowest I think I have ever been. At my most human, and at my most pathetic.

Day 12 will begin at approximately 9:00 with a doctor making the tactical mistake of walking into a minefield.

The retard within...

So, since a CERTAIN feels the need to try to eliminate the R-word, I feel it's time to write this post.

Early on in my life, I was diagnosed with a disorder. Part of that disorder was thought to be possible symptoms of mental retardation.

For the record: Every doctor, person, mule, and pigeon I have asked about this little notation on some medical literature I made it into (Yes, I & the fam was written up in a medical journal. No, it doesn't pay well.) I was rebuffed and scoffed at.

I still wonder how much of that is accurate. I have mental/cognitive issues. I am convinced of this. I hold a Bachelor's of Arts and I'm working towards a pretty nice Master's, so it's possible I did too much crack as a baby.

But, I have issues keeping track of highly intensive cognitive things. I would have been a lawyer, yeah I said it, if I felt I had the cognitive acumen to accomplish such a feat.

There are times I don't make the simplest connections, or I totally blank on things JUST said to me in passing conversation.

I don't think I'm a retard, but I think there are days where I may revert to something close to resembling one.

Day 8-10 - The Calm Before the Storm

I am nearly 1 year out of this whole experience, so I clearly would admit that my "memories" may be a bit fuzzy, jaded, and distorted, but as always...I don't care.

Day 8 begins at roughly 7:30am, when I first meet the only male nurse on the floor, Ted. Ted is a hulking of a man, although considering my lightweight dimensions, that may be an overstatement. He turns out to be an incredibly charming, witty, and funny guy to hang with. He woke me up, and did some usual vital signs, and off he went on his merry way.

After a while, my mother and her new beau come strolling in to check in and see how things are going. It wasn't long before the bomb came reigning down from the non-existent heavens that they had "decided to leave today." That was code for: Beau doesn't want to be here, he's pushing me to leave, and since I can't think for myself, I caved in to leave you laying here still taking some pretty serious pain medication.

As I recall, they left around noon. It was thought I was "out of the woods" so-to-speak and everything following this day would be simple. They *could* make that argument, and my mother subsequently *did* make that argument, to which many in the family seemingly were incredulous at.

Upon asking me, laying there in a hospital bed, doped up on pain medication, "Is it okay if we go?" I literally was left speechless. How was I suppose to say no to that? I had no time, nor was I in the position, to mount some counterargument as to why she was being a ginormous asshat. Moreover, no matter how much I argued, I didn't see me getting my way in any shape or form.

Luckily, my afternoon proved eventful to keep my jaw from smacking the mattress I was stuck on while pondering what exactly had just occurred. After my lunch, which consisted of some fruit, applesauce, and some yogurt i believe...I got my first sponge-bath I could ever recall.

Ted, the nurse showed up at my door, and with his big hands and arms got me to painfully move upright and enough to effectively give me the bath my body had been lacking for a week. We bantered back and forth a bit as he kept me propped up and pretty much undressed my ass. He delicately worked around the massive staples and scar that was just beginning to heal, and around the massive bandage in the middle of my chest from a tiny leak that would eventually have to be hand-sewn shut.

Ted, wonderful Ted, took the whole hour to clean me up, give me a respectable shave, and generally made me feel better. It was serious mental progress, in retrospect.

Later that afternoon, just before dinner arrived, the physical therapist arrived to assess how terrible I looked. It was at this point that I was encouraged, and took a stand. Literally. I stood. I looked like a freaking hunchback with my torso bending over, but I stood. Despite standing, my prospects didn't look good. There was talk of possibly needing outside therapy after I was discharged.

Later that evening, I went for the first of what would turn out to be an interesting adventure of procedures. *cough* I was put into a serious sedation and a thing was put down my throat to discern what was causing some numbers they were seeing from the bloodwork not look quite right.

Day 9-10 marked my first Saturday and Sunday that I was mostly awake for. On the floor, those days were the most quiet. There were very few doctors visits, and without my aunt visiting me and bringing wished from my grandmother and my doggie, I would have been even more bored. Being immobile & stuck to a bed, gives you much incentive to get OUT of said bed.

Saturday proved to be a giant blur, as I slept most of the day having been tired from the emotional stress and the physical stress of Friday with the therapy, the bath, and the "procedure." I was completely whipped.

The funny thing about nurses is, they aren't kidding. The sooner you get your fat ass out of bed, the better. And, I knew it. Early on, I pressed myself and pushed a few envelopes without being reckless to get my fat keister off the bed (and yes, sister, it actually was fat at this point!).

The other thing about nurses, is it's a great idea to know how to find the good ones early, and to find ones who will be willing to help you out when you really want something. I had one, and I knew it. Sunday, I stood again and even took some very shaky steps. I was white-knuckling the walker. Late Sunday, I had Elanor as my nurse. She struck me as a bit of a firecracker and someone willing to let me walk, so when I pondered, she was more than willing. Once I was up, there was no stopping me. I headed out the door at speed of warp 1, and I walked a good ways.

With these forceful attempts at getting myself back into shape, I saw a slight drop in the overall swollenness of my body by the time Monday rolled around. I was so impressed with myself and buoyed by my progress, I had visions of going home that very Friday.

Day 11 will begin on Monday morning and the beginning of a hellacious week.

An Old Saying = Truism?

There is a saying I've heard a few times during the discussions of love seeking, searching, & the desperate hope to find love.

I've heard something like: You have to love yourself before you can truly love someone else.

I refuse to believe this is a truism that holds fast. If it holds fast, I am eternally screwed.

I don't think I will ever "love" myself. I am far too critical of my own self. I was far too critical the second I had a conscious thought that I still remember.

Every time I would look at my stomach, it was constant reminder of the imperfections implanted in me from the moment of that egg fertilization. And as the years rolled on, and as has been noted within the digital pages of this blog, the list of things of things I don't like about myself only got bigger & more complex.

I have grown up to begrudgingly accept myself in spite of my incredible flaws, while still trying to work on some of them. I have learned to celebrate, revel, & enjoy my own quirks, while in search of someone unique, smart, and also holding their own quirks.

But, unless I get a concussion & my personality undergoes a Johnny Damon-esque transformation, I will never love myself. Not really.

Even if it's because of a shallow, shallow, shallow thing like my physical scarring that I have seemingly forever had, it just won't happen. My personality is what it is, but that I can at least attempt to work on. For the first time, I have to admit to myself that my physical scars have left their deep emotional scars on my mind.

I blame this on many things, but mostly my own stupidity. I wish I were smarter to have not continually fallen into the trap of the male masculinity model that I was never going to fit; I'm not tall, I have no muscles besides my heart, I have a non-manly voice (Visa once though I was a woman and refused to believe I was I despite giving them every number imaginable), and I'm just not a guy's guy.

I was smart enough to be myself, but perhaps not in a smart way so that "normal" people wouldn't be put off. But, I know me. I know myself. And, I cannot be something I'm not.

It seems like a paradox to me at this point: I will never see myself loving myself, yet I have to be myself in order to operate effectively in this world.

Maybe the two aren't mutually exclusive, but damned to non-existent hell if I'm not smart enough to figure it out.

I read a post on someone else's blog about regrets in the past & how they should be kept there because you really can't do much about it now. I agree with that sentiment.

I have many minor regrets that aren't worth a hill of beans. But, I do have one thing I regret that I have had crop up in the past few months: I should have drank more alcohol.

Early on, I was taught to be afraid, and I was afraid. I still am in many respects.

I was afraid of my parents, I was afraid of my bigger sister, I was afraid of other kids who would punish me verbally, I was afraid of failing, & I was afraid of dying or getting tremendously ill.

I'm no longer scared of my family. Once I began to speak my mind, other kids didn't really scare me too much; ask the kid I sucker punched because he wouldn't shut the heck up.

My fear of dropping dead or getting ill was ALWAYS present. I was extremely careful about booze. I rarely drank in an ill-fated effort to avoid the issue that I finally had to deal with. I didn't much smoke. I basically ate pretty healthy except for a few years there.

In retrospect, it was inevitable. I should have enjoyed my bad drinking machine when I had the chance & lived it up. I should've gotten sloshed like a freaking pirate every weekend. Maybe then I would have found someone that was interested in me as a person once they sobered up. (Fat chance, but you never know right?)

That is my only big regret now in life. I should have just gone for it. I should've let it really all hang out in that way.

I know I owe a lot to the family who gave me this new chance, & the people that have supported me emotionally & financially, but I feel out there a bit. I've always had an attitude, if I hadn't come out swinging when I was hatched I wouldn't have made it 5 days, much less this long.

I want to be out there & take risks, but I can't bring myself to be. I feel like I owe people. I felt like I owed people when I was younger, & now I still do, if not more so. This notion is still hampering me, but I think I'm beginning to feel the chains of restraint & guilt loosen just a smidgen.

It hasn't manifested itself in anything tangible, and maybe it never will. All I do know, is for the first time in a long while, I have discovered someone who I seem to actually relate to. It's almost unbelievable and quite possibly something very silly.

Addendum @ 12:17am - I think there is one way I could come to love myself, but that would be something that would be highly unlikely.