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2005-07-10 21:28

Continued from Friday.

The next day, Thursday, despite my having cleverly worn my best Hooters-length jean shorts to make my calf as ostentatiously available as possible, Angela the radiology tech insists I doff them to allow her access to my groin (words that inevitably garner my sympathy), so I’m compelled to reveal my threadbare, dregs-o’-the-underwear-drawer, long-overdue-washday, drugstore-cheap, baby-pink cotton panties with the iron-on fairy strewing a sneeze of glitter across the crotch (the sole surviving pair of a seven-day coordinating-pastel crotch-fairy set). In return for my showing Angela something so interesting, she —a few minutes, much smeary gel, and many electronic space-blurps from the mechanism later —shows me something even more interesting in return— images of a blood clot in my calf—in my popliteal space, to be precise. “We don’t usually see these. I’d say that out of hundreds of legs we look at, we see maybe one or two,” she announces, a bit too pleased, I think. Evidently, my thrombosis has made her day. Although there’s a remote chance she’s referring to my glitter-fairy panties. A few minutes later, the radiologist pops in and reports that my doctor told her to have me take my freshly shot clot-portfolio to the emergency room and get started on anti-coagulants toute de suite. Supposedly, the clot could detach and kill me any second.

But no fucking way was I going to the ER just then. No caffeinated substance, much less breakfast, had yet passed my lips that day, and my stomach was grumbling ominously in return for the late late crapulousness of the night previous. I had with me neither laptop nor anything to read. And I was SO absolutely changing my underwear no matter what. So I went home, made coffee and breakfast, and for the first time in days was moved to start cleaning up the house —or what I could do limping in pain. I also brushed the cats for a while. I took a bath, shaved my legs, pumiced my feet, and moisturized the whole assembly. I’d bought some violet eyeshadow recently that I hadn’t yet tried out. Where was that fabulous autobiography of Diana Vreeland Lillet had recommended and I hadn’t finished yet? If I was going to be stuck in the ER for an unspecified amount of time, suffering unspecified indignities, I was gonna look, smell, and feel marvelous and have plenty of stuff along to occupy my attention.

By the time I’m actually driving down Storrow Drive —a front tire looked a little low, so first I had to take a few minutes to inflate it with the handy air-compressor I carry in the trunk and to check the others— it’s already afternoon. I have to pick up my kids from camp at 4 PM (I forgot to mention that I’ve got the kids to myself for a few days because my X is away at KNITTING CAMP in Bumfuck, WISCONSIN). If this ER visit, whatever it should consist of, is gonna take longer than a couple of hours, then I just can’t do it. Oh well.

I think to myself, I could call any of a number of friends who would gladly pick up the kids for me and care for them until I’m done. In the old days, Greta would’ve done it, of course. Of course, in the old days Greta would be accompanying me to the hospital at this very moment.

Bad thought! Ouch! Horrible thought! At first, I suspect my ensuing paroxysm might have been exacerbated by the fact that I was at that moment listening to Anthony and the Johnsons, who aren’t exactly a pep rally, but in desperation I instantly change CDs to Shirley Manson joyously rocking out about having something special for her bad [originally wrote new, corrected only after hearing the song the next day, Ed.] boyfriend, and that doesn’t mitigate my feelings one bit. (Although, as I now write those words I realize that song might have been a poor choice, too . . . .)

I am out-and-out weeping to beat the band —even a powerhouse band like Garbage, it seems. Je suis en pleine forme de pleurer plus fort. I’m not keening or wailing, exactly. Just weeping —fluently (hey, she’s fluent in both English and weeping). All the eye make-up I’d just devoted a half hour to meticulously applying is running down my face. I can hardly see where I’m going and am about to get into an accident. It’s like trying to drive through pouring rain without windshield wipers. Except it’s pouring rain inside my eyelashes.

The response I was having was basically, I WANT MY MOMMY! But it was my partner Greta I wanted. I was scared, in pain, worried about how to deal with obligations, and just generally ill-at-ease and anxious. And I didn’t have a partner! I used to have one whom I’d take care of and who’d take care of me. Over the years, we’d gone to the hospital so many times together it was practically a routine. But now I was going to have to start relying on friends. Don’t get me wrong, I would trust Sherman or Joanie implicitly with this kind of help. There’s nothing they wouldn’t do in a pinch to pitch in. Indeed, I knew Greta herself would jump to my rescue in an instant (as, it turns out, she did). But still, she’s not my partner. There just is such a huge difference between being helped by your wonderful friends you love and letting yourself drop with absolute trust and without concern into the arms of the other you.

So I turn around and drive home, weeping into my cleavage (yes, joke). I figure I’ll go to the emergency room the next day, after I drop the kids off at camp. I fall asleep on the couch until it’s time to pick them up. As I limp around throbbing that evening, I feel like I have a huge fucking painful clot in my left popliteal space.

So that brings us to Friday morning.

greta-garble  ·  rechurn-of-the-depressed

* * *

  1. Take care, love. There are in fact a lot of people who care about you.
    erasmus    Jul 11, 10:19 AM    #
  2. I care about you, too. Seriously. It’s impossible to meet you and NOT care, I’m quite positive.

    m.    Jul 11, 12:28 PM    #
  3. thank you, miss ‘chelle-in-a-handbasket.

    oops, i mean MRS! (shit, the pun doesn’t work with mrs.)

    btw, i’m finally on meds now and doing ok.

    at this very moment, in fact, i’m writing my music for next week. i may not be dancing, however . . . .
    mika    Jul 11, 12:48 PM    #
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