Random Bullshitter to a person of another gender: "This is their noir section. They organize things by genre."
Me: "Nope. That's our European section. Books written and/or drawn by Europeans. There are also some South American creators on the third shelf."
RB: "I'm pretty sure it's all your noir stuff."
RB's Victim: "Are you seriously arguing with the person who works here about how their store is organized? Do you ever stop?"
RB: "That's it. I'm done. I have reached my limit. Goodbye."
And then I and the person who remained had a lovely conversation about which European comics she might enjoy.
Mom: Your suitcase is too heavy. You'll have to pay extra.
Me: I don't think so.
Mom: I'll get the scale. You take the books out.
I take the books out.
Me: See, it's only thirty pounds.
Mom: It feels heavier.
Me: I don't have twenty pounds of books in this pile, so I'm going to put them back in.
Mom: I don't know. How heavy is that one?
I take my copy of The Working Girls' Bible and put it on the scale.
Me: Seven pounds! Still, the rest of the pile is probably about four pounds.
Mom: Weigh it.
Me: Three pounds. That's a total of forty, which is still ten pounds under the limit.
Mom: Don't forget you still have to put in your bathing suit.
Me: Yes. My twelve pound concrete bathing suit is what's going to push it over the limit.
Me on Saturday: I like the ad you posted about the apartment in Medford. Here's some info about me. The ad had "roommate" in the title, I would like to know a little bit about the person currently living there. Here is my availability.
Realtor on Sunday: Let's meet Thursday.
Me on Sunday: Great. What time? Where? And could you give me a little info about the person already living there?
Realtor on Monday: Thursday at six.
Me on Monday: Where?
Realtor on Monday: At the house.
Me on Monday: There is no address listed on the ad for the house. Where should I meet you?
Realtor on Monday: It's on Riverdale Street.
Me on Monday: You are very bad at your job, and I'm not interested in property you represent. I'll look elsewhere.
Realtor on Monday: I also have apartments in Cambridge and Watertown.
There's this tiny clock in the guest room at my mother's that's been bugging me out. No matter what time of day I look at it, it's always somewhere between 715 and 900. Day, night, afternoon. I kept mentioning to ask about it. Because it reminded me of being in the hospital when I was still on a lot of drugs, and was convinced the analog clock was wrong because my brain wasn't up to processing big hand/little hand or Roman Numerals.
I just took a closer look at the clock in the guest room.
It's a digital thermometer.
Mom: Victoria is coming after seven with some fresh baked brownies for you.
Me: That's very nice of her. Is this going to be like the orange bread that Sue made that I never got a chance to try because you and your husband ate it all?
Mom: You are not ever allowed to tell Sue that.
Me: I'm so glad to not be in the hospital, so I'm not constantly having everything poking me, and being tested for everything.
My mother: Good morning. (Pulls out a sleeve of medical supplies) Time to test your blood pressure, blood sugar, pulse, and breathing rate.
Me: Oh, this is still happening.
My mother: This is definitely still happening.
According to my first nurse, she knew she was going to like me based on a story she heard from one of the med techs on the helicopter.
Apparently, when they asked me some questions trying to orient me, I massively failed to recognize what was happening around me.
The only think I kept saying (over the sound of the helicopter blades whirring) was "I fucken hate Goodnight Saigon!"
All week long, my very southern nurses have been asking me about my "wife and/or kids". I chose only to talk about my cats.
Tonight, nursing student Tank Handsome came in to get updated on my case:
Me: I am sorry. I don't remember meeting you.
TH: You were pretty wasted.
Me: I hope I wasn't too embarrassing.
TH: You were fairly naked.
Me: That's usually second date material.
TH: You were very aggressive for an unconscious guy.
I still got moves, even when I'm immobile.
At some point last week oh, I felt very ill. I thought I had the flu, I thought I had heart problems, I knew something was wrong but not what.
At some point my mother came to pick me up to take me in to see the doctor. I don't remember any of this part. At some point my mother was worried enough that she called and had me medivacced to the facility where I am now.
I did not arrive alive but was brought back and put in a medically-induced coma for five days. My first real memory after that was during the Super Bowl which seem really long and boring even for someone just getting out of a medically-induced coma. The next two days I barely remember. I have visions and an incorrect set of memories but then nothing until Tuesday which I remember as being the second worst day of my life.
Yesterday, I cried because I was able to stand with a walker. Today, I am allowed to eat real food again. Affirmations have never been my strength. I have just been downgraded from critical to...not critical? Which we all know is shit. I am, and always will be critical.
Now that I can use my phone again, I will post of my mundane new life. Today's favorite being the dietician who said she wasn't sure if toast would be healthy enough for breakfast, as she handed me a Rice Krispies Treat.
With all the badness of this month, so far, I need to give credit to the people my dad forgot were looking after his mom.
When he got to the house, he said there was paperwork everywhere, and several personal items were missing.
When her husband died thirteen years ago, the people who were supposed to be taking care of him had pilfered some paintings and books (none of them actually valuable), so my dad was heartbroken that they had taken precisely the things my grandmother valued: her old radio, her favorite clothes, her record player, etc.
But they weren't stolen. My grandmother was in a nursing home for less than a day, but for that day, the wonderful people looking after her made sure she was surrounded with as many familiar things as possible.
And that paperwork? All the bills they helped her keep track of and pay for the last several months when she couldn't keep track of her own thoughts.
I'm really grateful to those people, only one of whom I even know, for making her last few months as comfortable as possible.