Prodigal

Two nights ago I did something big: I picked up my Bible. I was ready to read just a little bit. It's like I went on this detox to get all this "dogma" out of my system, all of the opinions of men. Now the detox is nearing its end and I'm ready for something pure, I'm ready to hear what God has to say. I needed to know that I couldn't find love that satisfies fully out in the world. I had to know that for sure so that I could come back to God and say, "I know You're the real thing". I had to come back to the primitive belief that, yes, there is a God. Perhaps that's easier for me than most. For me, its never been a question. All I have to do is look at nature to know there's a God. All I have to do is look at people, circumstances, and I know. We have a big God. A creative God. And He's a lot different that what people tell you. You can only tell someone about God so much; they have to experience God. I know that sounds preacher-ish, but I think its true. You have to know for yourself and you have to see God for who He is. Human words can't describe it. Maybe that's why the Bible is so big-people trying to describe God in every way they can.

So, anyway, I was ready to open up my Bible again. I think I opened to the book of Job. I read a bit there and then went on the Psalms. I didn't read a whole lot, but let me tell you, I was captivated! After not reading this Book for so long and having shed the glasses of the ideas of men, this Book was amazing! The beauty of words that I had no doubt came straight from God. I've been reading a lot of really good books the past few months, but they seemed so trite compared to what I was reading at the moment. It was a magical experience.

Now, I've done more praying through this whole ordeal than you may think I have. I've had at least one heart-to-heart with God. What surprised me was that God still loved me. He wasn't looking at me sin, I could just tell. He was looking at me, His creation, who I was. He was looking at me on this journey and He understood because He had lain the path beneath my feet. The reason I was surprised at this was that I have trained myself to believe that if I so much as don't say my morning prayers, God hates me and I'm going to have to put on one heck of a show to prove to Him that I'm sorry (even if I don't truly feel it). I have a lot of unconfessed sins at the moment, but somehow I get the idea that God isn't interested in hearing my confessions; He's interesting in hearing my thoughts, my heart.

So, after I'd read a bit of the Bible, I turned of the light, lay down in bed and prayed. I used to do this a lot, and most of my real praying is done as I'm falling asleep. I recall someone calling it "pillow talk" with God. I just talked to God about what I thought about Him, about me, and about what was going on. I reminded God that I do love Him, that I always have. He knows. This journey is far from over, but I think I've taken the first steps home. And I know the God wants me to take my time and that He will always be there to guide me, the prodigal daughter.

I Wish...

My wishes. What I want to have done in my life, but will probably never get done. Life is too short. I do wish reincarnation was real, sometimes. Most of the time. These wishes are limited to reality.

I want to learn to speak German, French, Vietnamese, Spanish, Russian, Welsh and an Asian language (perhaps Japanese) fluently. I would also like to work short-term jobs at translators for all of those languages.
I want to go to Ireland (perhaps with a good friend, or as my honeymoon) with one suitcase and a large amount of money. When I get there I would like to buy a car and then drive around Ireland with no specific destination. I would like to have adventures consisting mainly of new people, places and food.
I want to be a secretary, preferably at a hospital.
I want to be an anesthesiologist, while I’m on the subject of hospitals.
I want to be involved in a large, dramatic rat rescue.
I want to save an animal’s life in a heroic endeavor.
I want to rent a small, chilly flat in London and smoke cigarettes.
I want to stay at a Victorian bed and breakfast for a long period of time and write something.
I want to go to a big, old college somewhere out of the country and study literature.
I want to study abroad for a year.
I want to write a book and see it made into a movie.
I want to live on a moor.
I want to be a chef.
I want to star in an opera.
I want to learn to play the piano, the violin and a wooden flute.
I want to own at least one of each once in my lifetime: sugar glider, munchkin cat, chinchilla, skunk, leopard gecko, frog, many fish (saltwater and fresh), ring necked dove, squirrel, hamster, gerbil, mouse, African Gambian rat, a large snake, turtle, degu, dog, rabbit, goat, horse, pig, and a sheep.
I want to be a zoologist and in that career aid in keeping an endangered species.
I want to be a wildlife rehabilitator.
I want to be a wonderful gardener and grow beautiful flowers and organic produce.
I want to adopt a child.
I want to have my own child.
I want to be an astronomer.
I want to have my own, small house and have only just enough money.
I would like to have a faithful pen pal whom I have never met and never will meet.
I want to dance ballet…independently.
I want to have a large, old library willed to me.
I want to be the librarian of a large, old, library. Or a small, old library.
I want to do the Beatrix Potter/Edwardian Lady thing: go outside everyday exploring, writing and painting.
I want to visit Vietnam for Tet.
I want to read the dictionary.
I want to go shopping in France with no budget.
I want to learn to have beautiful handwriting (not calligraphy).
I want to be a coffee barista.
I want to see the John Knox house in Scotland.
I want to see my family in Italy.
I want to go to bed…

Doing the Hospital Thing, Big Girl Style

It’s the day after my procedures. I feel like crap, but I am grateful for food and water. I’m not accustomed to recording the practical things that are going on in my life, but rather my little thoughts and revelations. However, I suppose I should, for the sake of any future events or readings, record yesterday’s goings-on.

My appointment was for eleven A.M., but I wasn’t expecting to actually get my procedures done until one at the latest. Radiology is never on time. One the way out I was parched and hungry. I hadn’t been allowed to drink anything since midnight and I hadn’t eaten in about three days. I had pushed myself beyond what I thought I was physically and mentally capable of in those past three days. Most of that happened trying to get down the last laxative, which tasted so bad I actually ended up gagging on it mid-sip. In all seriousness, if I am ever holed up in prison being tortured and starved because of my religion or something, I’ll be an old hat at it. I just know I’ll be thinking, “Well, at least I’m here because I believe in something and I’m not being forced against my will to eat nothing but chicken broth and jell-o and swallow laxatives like Go Lytely.” I only got down half of that stuff before quitting, by the way. If you could taste it you would think highly of me for getting that far.

Anyway, we (my mom and I) were in the car headed to Omaha for the big day and I was ignoring my bag of amusements and looking out the window, thinking. This is my usual style. I was thinking about how the littlest things can be a big sign of how much a person has grown up. Through the whole bowel cleanse ordeal and I didn’t whine and cry as I usually would (okay, so I whined, but in an adult manner). I wasn’t putting numbing cream all over my hands and arms for the I.V.. I knew when I got there that I wouldn’t make my usual list of demands (keep the oxygen mask away from my face until I’m out, make sure to pull out the intubation tube while I’m still out, explain to me clearly when you are going to put any drugs in my I.V. that would make me sleepy and let me watch you do it, and for goodness sakes, let my mom come into the room with me until I’m out. Oh, yeah, and the stuffed animal stays with me.). And, of course, I wouldn’t be a pediatric anymore. I would be with the old stuffy people, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t use what cuteness I had left to get people to treat me sweet like.

My mom said I should make as many demands as I wanted to but I said, no, I wasn’t doing this because I was trying to be grown up, I was doing it because I was. I didn’t need those things any more. I put my trust in whoever was running the show in that room and I was going to let them have their own way (to a point, of course).

So when I got there it was the same story I’ve been through countless times, except my mom wasn’t allowed to come back until I was all ready to go. I had to put on one of those ugly gowns with no ties in back except one around the neck. And of course I wasn’t allowed to wear anything underneath except my pink fuzzy socks, which had to be covered up with the most ugly blue paper things you’ll ever see. Another robe went around me and tied in front so I could walk about with dignity. The robes had this pattern on them that mom and I spent awhile contemplating, which is what you do when you have to sit around with nothing else to do for over two hours.

“Someone out there has the job of designing these patterns,” I said. Mom nodded.

“But isn’t even totally original. Its just these weird dashes and a box with that little paisley thing in it. Its like generic paisley.” So that’s what we called it from then on. Generic paisley.

After my generic paisley robes and blue foot things were put on I was told what would happen during the procedures (live biopsy, colonoscopy and endoscopy). Then I had to sign a bunch of consent forms. After that this poor nurse tried to put an I.V. in me that I said would be a sure stick. I had been working this vein in my hand all morning as happy to finally have something that would work. Well, apparently that vein decided it didn’t want to come out anymore by the time I was at the hospital. Not that you can blame it, I hadn’t had anything to drink in quite awhile. It was a rather painful experience and the nurse tried to see if she’d gotten the I.V. to thread by putting in some saline, which only sat under my skin and made a bruise. She felt really bad and refused to try on me again. Another nurse, who was obviously more experienced got a vein on my other arm.

Since that was done my mom was allowed to come back. She was quite relieved, actually because she had been sitting in a waiting room with two middle aged ladies who could do nothing but talk about their children’s sports, the latest sale and Penny’s. My poor mother. She doesn’t really fit in with most people her age. Kind of like me.

So there we waited and waited talking about generic paisley and the like. I was remembering why I always used to be so upbeat and original in hospitals. It was because I was surrounded with the kind of people who were passing by my bed that day. Old, say ghosts who shuffled about with their heads down, looking like poor excuses for human beings in their bed-creased generic paisley robes. I had to balance all that out somehow, so I became this witty, intelligent, and rather demanding girl who always wanted nothing more that to put on her normal clothes and go to the bathroom by herself. I told my mom I would try to be a ray of sunshine that day and it was a good thing I’d taken my Lexapro that morning.

My dear Dr. Gilroy was running the show in there, which was cool because I really like him. I mean, come on, he has an Aussie accent and calls me ‘boss’. It was about a quarter until two when he wheeled me into the procedure room.

“I don’t have a license for this,” he warned me, speaking of rolling beds around. He was quite right because we bumped into more than a few corners. When we got into the room he picked up an Ipod and said, “What do you fancy?” or something equally un-American. I chose classical. He put on a beautiful guitar version of a song I like that Sarah Brightman sings.

My I.V. wasn’t hooked up to anything so he just took my hand and put in two syringes of drugs right in front of me and then told me to turn on my side. I turned, but before I touched the pillow the drugs kicked in. I put my head down on the pillow and blanked out. The next thing I remember is feeling like someone had stuck a tube into my intestines (which they had) and was pushing it as hard as they could against the wall of the intestines (though what was really happening was they were inflating my intestines with air). I heard myself moan and maybe say, “ow” or something and then Dr. Gilroy give a command for more drugs. After that, I was waking up back in recovery. I asked Dr. Gilroy how it went and he said they’d had to take a lot of biopsies, which mean that they found a lot of weird stuff in my intestines, I guess. I asked if they’d done the liver biopsy and he said no, they were going to do that now. That was odd to me, since I had always been asleep for liver biopsies. He ushered in a couple people with a ultrasound machine. I was kind of drifting in and out of sleep, or whatever those drugs made me do. Next thing I know, Dr. Gilroy is numbing the area with lidocaine, which hurt because he had to go deep with it. Then he took the long biopsy needle and warned me that it might sting, but the lidocaine did the trick and I didn’t feel a thing. Turns out I have cirrhosis (hardening) of the liver. We’ll have to see how that turns out.

From then on it was just a two hour recovery. I was offered a glass of ice water, my first liquid in 15 hours. It tasted as sweet as if Moses himself had brought it. I was still a little tipsy-turkey, but I got my clothes on and we went straight to the gift show for my first food in three days: Twizzlers and Chex Mix. Delicious. One the way back we stopped at a gas station and I got a Krispy Kreme, a turkey sandwich and the gas station’s rendition of french vanilla cappuccino. It was great.

By the time we got home I was dead beat. I couldn’t breath in or out all the way because the lidocaine from the biopsy had worn off and was starting to really hurt. I got online and sent a quick email to James and talking to Jordan and Christina. Pretty soon I had to go lie down.
I woke up this morning at five A.M. Its been a rough day because of the biopsy site giving me so much grief. I’ve had to lie in bed and focus on breathing. I finished two books, clipped out pictures from magazines and watched one of the many movies Kathy brought over for me to watch. I also had mac and cheese. Its so great to eat, even if I can’t eat a whole lot in one sitting yet (my poor intestines have been through a lot). I’ve been acting like those ghost people from the hospital I hate so much. I forgot to take my anti-depressant and I’m in a lot of pain. So I just sort of lay in bed with my poker face and shuffle around the house as needed. My good mood comes and goes.

In other news, my dad is coming tomorrow, which is awesome. It snowed again today. And best of all, Baby Crash actually snuggled with me! We’re still waiting for her to brux, though. Eloise gave me some lip, also, which I suppose is her trying to take after Baby Crash a bit. She couldn’t do it properly, however; she squeaked instead of meeping.

So I’ve filled up about three pages and I guess the writer in my got a little carried away. I didn’t think I’d enjoy telling that whole story. Now I hurt like heck so its time to go back to bed after a spell check.

A Mess

Feel like shit today. Useless and unproductive. A melting mess. We have to get Cosette put to sleep. I feel like crying every time I look into her cage. She’s smiling through the cancer, through the fact that she can’t eat solid food and can’t move much. I love her so much. I have a lot to do today, my hair is a mess and I feel fat. Life feels like a stomach full of coffee and I have icy feet.

Sunday Morning Snow

Woke up Sunday morning to much snow. Snow in Nebraska is like a pregnant lady-- it’s late. Ha. I’m so lame. Anyway, I didn’t make it down the block, much less to St. Mark’s for work. The ice was crazy. I was pissed off the rest of the morning so I went back to bed because my head was killing me. I didn’t appreciate the snow as much as I thought I would.

You know, I think I really would go crazy if I couldn’t write my journals. My thoughts constantly scream to be known, to be put into pretty sentences for the appearance of order. If I couldn’t record things on paper (or, rather, on my laptop) I would feel like they never existed. If you can’t remember something it may as well have never happened. I’m not a very good speaker, meaning that I can’t speak my mind very well in conversation. Get me in front of an audience and suddenly I’m the queen of sentence structure, diction and clarity. Go figure. But I’m better at expressing myself if I can write it down. I suppose it is because I spent so many years reading novels instead of having conversation. I understand written communication better than oral. I think I’m getting better, though. And Crash just squeezed under my door. Excuse me. I swear that rat will be the end of me.

Well, Baby Crash was intent on escaping and ignoring my commands to come back. I caught her sliding on the wood floor into mom’s room. Took me some yelling to find her, but she eventually turned up by my feet looking at me with big innocent eyes. That crazy baby. I gave her a talking to while she complained and put on her whole woe-is-me act. Baby Crash is a rare rat because she talks so that we can hear her. She seriously does talk and most of it is protest.

So, anyways, I have got to stop eating cheese because I’ve had two migraines in that past 56 hours or so. I’m in a poor-girl mood, meaning that I’m not wearing much make-up, wearing jeans and t-shirts, not eating much or buying much, drinking coffee and forgetting about my hair. I thought of cutting it really short because I’m in a sort of rebellion at the moment but I knew that would be too impulsive, I’d look awful and plus, I’ve been wanting to grow my hair out for a long time. It’s still tempting, though. I’ll let you know.

I need to clean those cages, get some serious school work done and return things to blockbuster and the library. The latter two I’m kind of procrastinating on because of the ice outside. We’ll see. It’s the last day of vacation for poor Ginny.