My day began when my dog decided he had to vomit, and then did. The vomit was copious and brown in colour. It spread across my couch (which is also my bed), and then dripped down onto the bag that I had packed for work.
I then realized, with growing horror and nausea, that the vomit did not smell like vomit at all. It smelled like poo. Gross, ingested, regurgitated poo. It seems my dog had at some point ingested some of his own feces, and then vomited those feces up, all over my couch/bed.
I looked at my dog with disgust. He looked at me with love, and wagged his tail a little.
I went to work.
I should have known that a day that began with dog diarrhea-vomit was not going to go well, but I tried to be optimistic. I sang off-Broadway show-tunes to myself and greeted the world (which was rainy) with a hopeful, cheery smile.
And then the diarrhea-vomit continued (metaphorically this time). We were short staffed, short on management and support, and our clients were short on understanding. Various crises arose, to be quashed down and then arise again like mythical movie monsters. By three p.m., I had threatened to kill two people.
And if the words, “I want to stab you in the aorta with a butter knife,” don’t convey unconditional compassion and understanding, I don’t know what does.
Showing posts with label Issues Stemming From God's Wrath. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Issues Stemming From God's Wrath. Show all posts
Friday, February 11, 2011
Friday, May 28, 2010
My Beautiful, Stupid MacBook
My Macbook sucks.
Let’s be clear - in the television-advertisement world, I would much rather be the sauve and attractive thirty-something Mac than the older, pudgy, vindictive PC. That, along with the near-fanatical insistence that Macs are amazing, made by various well-respected friends and family members, was why I made the transition from PC to Mac last December.
But ever since I received my beautiful, silver-plated, backlit MacBook Pro in the mail, times have been tough. Not ‘tough’ in the sense that it was difficult to use, or anything - it's way easier than I thought it would be. And, actually, I’ve been bringing my laptop in for work, and have been able to make amazing magazines and pamphlets that are cool and designy and I’d never thought I’d be able to do, and other stuff like music and using the internet have never been easier...but that’s not the point.
The entirety of the Macbook’s amazingness centres around its track-pad, which I thought I would hate, but I didn’t. It’s really freaking cool, and intuitive, and if you press the command button before you click, it’s the equivalent of a right-click on a mouse, so there’s no downside compared with a traditional PC. But, anyways, there was an problem.
My trackpad seems to be possessed from the devil. Sometimes it moves on its own. Other times, it doesn’t move at all, or moves only right, or in slow bursts, and then I’ll give up in frustration to toast a bagel and return to my laptop, minutes later, to see that my trackpad is moving in zig-zaggy waves, entirely independent of any human hand.
The demon possession of my trackpad seems to come and go, with entire months of functionality, followed by weeks of frustration and threats of holy water. When it first happened, mere days after I got my macbook in the mail, I assumed I was the problem. After all, I knew very little about using Macs, and my last nice computer had died when I accidentally spilled water on it, so my record in taking care of nice, expensive electronic equipment was none too good. I assumed I was pressing too hard, or using the wrong digit, or...something.
Eventually, I learned that I was not, in fact, the problem...except when I insisted on eating near my computer, and getting bits of crumbs and oil slicks on and under the keys, which probably isn’t good.
But this learning came with a record good-patch of only the minor-est instances of demon-possession, and I thought, perhaps, my macbook had healed itself and learned to love me as I had learned to love it. So I pretended nothing was wrong, until life decided, once again, to slap me in my hopeful, skyward face.
I tried to watch a DVD, which was for work, as part of an initiative by the World Health Organization and several local governments to encourage sedentary individuals to get active and stay active throughout their adult lives. I was organizing some events, and somebody sent me a free DVD in the mail which features old people doing two-minute aerobic workouts to peppy elevator music, which...amazing. I was trying to explain the concept to my coworkers and encourage them to join in (movements include ‘Open the door!’ and ‘Pick up your grandchild!’) when the DVD, proudly displayed on my laptop, froze mid-stride. Concerned, I pressed buttons, blindly, in vain. A few seconds later, my macbook spat the DVD out, in seeming disgust. I thought that was a little rude.
Sadly, I let my coworkers proceed with their meeting without the mandatory fitness demonstration.
A couple days later, growing worried, I tried again with another health-related DVD sent to me by an obscure branch of the Canadian government. This time, the DVD never started, and was spit out almost immediately. And when I talked about this to a friend, they suggested using my manufacturer-supplied ‘recovery’ CD to ensure that all software was functioning properly, but then my macbook spat that CD out, unprocessed, as well.
I realized that, while I used to own a DVD player, I had lost the remote, and the entire thing had stopped working about six months ago, after which it remained on my floor, where a puppy had peed on it, prompting me to finally throw it away. I had not really noticed or cared about this loss, because I had an amazing macbook and it had largely replaced by need for a DVD player or even a TV. I still owned my tiny, baby ACER laptop, which I used prior to purchasing my macbook, but tiny, baby laptops don’t possess CD drives, which means I had absolutely no ability to watch a DVD.
Which...I only own about three DVDs, and for the most part I like to watch movies in the theatre or online, and sometimes I download them from iTunes, which means that I don’t actually need a disc drive at all, but...it still seems like an important thing to have, in case I need it. Like a backup kidney.
Two days later, I realized, with growing distress, that the demon possessing my trackpad had returned with a vengeance. Checking my email and finding out my bank balance become a tiresome chore (it takes an average of five minutes and three gut wrenching screams of frustration before I can drag my stupid cursor to the appropriate shortcut tab). I realized that, with my imminent move, I had to phone people like BC Hydro and Telus, and that, because of my total reliance on laptop technology, I didn’t have stupid obsolete things like phonebooks and business cards.
...Why are you making my life so difficult, stupid demon possessed macbook that I love??
The demon possession has abated enough that I am able to blog, which I appreciate. And I finally, after seven tries, was able to navigate the web enough to book an appointment at an Apple Store, with a Genius, who will undoubtedly think that nothing is wrong but, at my insistence of demon possession, take my precious macbook away for repairs...which could take months.
And, since I decided not to install cable in my new apartment, or a phone, this move should be extra fun and interesting. How can I look up potential new furniture from the ikea website? How can I check my credit card balance, to see if I could possible finance said furniture? How can I order take-out food when its 2am and I’m sad and I don’t know the names or phone numbers of restaurants in my new neighborhood?
Damn you, macbook, I love you, but you’ve ruined my life.
Let’s be clear - in the television-advertisement world, I would much rather be the sauve and attractive thirty-something Mac than the older, pudgy, vindictive PC. That, along with the near-fanatical insistence that Macs are amazing, made by various well-respected friends and family members, was why I made the transition from PC to Mac last December.
But ever since I received my beautiful, silver-plated, backlit MacBook Pro in the mail, times have been tough. Not ‘tough’ in the sense that it was difficult to use, or anything - it's way easier than I thought it would be. And, actually, I’ve been bringing my laptop in for work, and have been able to make amazing magazines and pamphlets that are cool and designy and I’d never thought I’d be able to do, and other stuff like music and using the internet have never been easier...but that’s not the point.
The entirety of the Macbook’s amazingness centres around its track-pad, which I thought I would hate, but I didn’t. It’s really freaking cool, and intuitive, and if you press the command button before you click, it’s the equivalent of a right-click on a mouse, so there’s no downside compared with a traditional PC. But, anyways, there was an problem.
My trackpad seems to be possessed from the devil. Sometimes it moves on its own. Other times, it doesn’t move at all, or moves only right, or in slow bursts, and then I’ll give up in frustration to toast a bagel and return to my laptop, minutes later, to see that my trackpad is moving in zig-zaggy waves, entirely independent of any human hand.
The demon possession of my trackpad seems to come and go, with entire months of functionality, followed by weeks of frustration and threats of holy water. When it first happened, mere days after I got my macbook in the mail, I assumed I was the problem. After all, I knew very little about using Macs, and my last nice computer had died when I accidentally spilled water on it, so my record in taking care of nice, expensive electronic equipment was none too good. I assumed I was pressing too hard, or using the wrong digit, or...something.
Eventually, I learned that I was not, in fact, the problem...except when I insisted on eating near my computer, and getting bits of crumbs and oil slicks on and under the keys, which probably isn’t good.
But this learning came with a record good-patch of only the minor-est instances of demon-possession, and I thought, perhaps, my macbook had healed itself and learned to love me as I had learned to love it. So I pretended nothing was wrong, until life decided, once again, to slap me in my hopeful, skyward face.
I tried to watch a DVD, which was for work, as part of an initiative by the World Health Organization and several local governments to encourage sedentary individuals to get active and stay active throughout their adult lives. I was organizing some events, and somebody sent me a free DVD in the mail which features old people doing two-minute aerobic workouts to peppy elevator music, which...amazing. I was trying to explain the concept to my coworkers and encourage them to join in (movements include ‘Open the door!’ and ‘Pick up your grandchild!’) when the DVD, proudly displayed on my laptop, froze mid-stride. Concerned, I pressed buttons, blindly, in vain. A few seconds later, my macbook spat the DVD out, in seeming disgust. I thought that was a little rude.
Sadly, I let my coworkers proceed with their meeting without the mandatory fitness demonstration.
A couple days later, growing worried, I tried again with another health-related DVD sent to me by an obscure branch of the Canadian government. This time, the DVD never started, and was spit out almost immediately. And when I talked about this to a friend, they suggested using my manufacturer-supplied ‘recovery’ CD to ensure that all software was functioning properly, but then my macbook spat that CD out, unprocessed, as well.
I realized that, while I used to own a DVD player, I had lost the remote, and the entire thing had stopped working about six months ago, after which it remained on my floor, where a puppy had peed on it, prompting me to finally throw it away. I had not really noticed or cared about this loss, because I had an amazing macbook and it had largely replaced by need for a DVD player or even a TV. I still owned my tiny, baby ACER laptop, which I used prior to purchasing my macbook, but tiny, baby laptops don’t possess CD drives, which means I had absolutely no ability to watch a DVD.
Which...I only own about three DVDs, and for the most part I like to watch movies in the theatre or online, and sometimes I download them from iTunes, which means that I don’t actually need a disc drive at all, but...it still seems like an important thing to have, in case I need it. Like a backup kidney.
Two days later, I realized, with growing distress, that the demon possessing my trackpad had returned with a vengeance. Checking my email and finding out my bank balance become a tiresome chore (it takes an average of five minutes and three gut wrenching screams of frustration before I can drag my stupid cursor to the appropriate shortcut tab). I realized that, with my imminent move, I had to phone people like BC Hydro and Telus, and that, because of my total reliance on laptop technology, I didn’t have stupid obsolete things like phonebooks and business cards.
...Why are you making my life so difficult, stupid demon possessed macbook that I love??
The demon possession has abated enough that I am able to blog, which I appreciate. And I finally, after seven tries, was able to navigate the web enough to book an appointment at an Apple Store, with a Genius, who will undoubtedly think that nothing is wrong but, at my insistence of demon possession, take my precious macbook away for repairs...which could take months.
And, since I decided not to install cable in my new apartment, or a phone, this move should be extra fun and interesting. How can I look up potential new furniture from the ikea website? How can I check my credit card balance, to see if I could possible finance said furniture? How can I order take-out food when its 2am and I’m sad and I don’t know the names or phone numbers of restaurants in my new neighborhood?
Damn you, macbook, I love you, but you’ve ruined my life.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Things I've Learned...
5. If you spend your entire weekend making wind chimes, you will end up with an excess number of wind chimes.
4. If you start telling people about your excess number of homemade windchimes, people will think that you’re odd.
3. If you’re starting to feel like people are conspiring against you, it’s probably just schizophrenia. Nobody cares about you enough to sabotage your every move.
2. If you look and smell like a giant salt and vinegar potato chip (quite literally, thanks to a liberal dosing of Apple Cider Vinegar on your unwashed hair), that is the exact moment that an attractive Olympic athlete will try and talk to you. (It was an improptu puppy walk before I jumped in the shower, he was inprobably at the bubble tea place ten feet from my house...)
1. You don’t need to possess testicles for God to kick you in the balls.
4. If you start telling people about your excess number of homemade windchimes, people will think that you’re odd.
3. If you’re starting to feel like people are conspiring against you, it’s probably just schizophrenia. Nobody cares about you enough to sabotage your every move.
2. If you look and smell like a giant salt and vinegar potato chip (quite literally, thanks to a liberal dosing of Apple Cider Vinegar on your unwashed hair), that is the exact moment that an attractive Olympic athlete will try and talk to you. (It was an improptu puppy walk before I jumped in the shower, he was inprobably at the bubble tea place ten feet from my house...)
1. You don’t need to possess testicles for God to kick you in the balls.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Ivy Donegal and the Curse of the Butt Rash
Chapter II
Ech.
So…three days and four medical professionals staring at my butt later, a dermatologist has declared that I, Ivy Donegal, am NOT going to die of a killer butt rash. Or at least not any time soon.
Hoorah!
Now, you may be wondering…how does one die of a killer butt rash? Well, dear fictitious audience, I will tell you how.
Certain medications have been known to trigger an autoimmune or allergic response within the body, which leads to the body’s own immune system attacking a protein within the skin. This leads to one of two potential syndromes: Steven Johnson Syndrome or Toxic Epidermis Necrolysis. (The name is based on how much of the body is affected, with Steven Johnson Syndrome being the less severe of the two.) Both are extremely rare, affecting about one in a million people every year worldwide.
As a result of this immune attack and protein breakdown, your skin then begins to blister, and rash, and then peel off. En masse. YOUR SKIN PEELS OFF. All over your body.
The outer layer of your skin separates from the inner layer (epidermis from the dermis), and this can even happen inside of certain organs, leading to breathing failure, the inability to swallow, or intestinal obstruction. Your exposed, blistered skin is extremely vulnerable to infection, and patients are best treated in a burn unit. Oh, and if the rash attacks your eyes, which it does in 15-35% of cases, you go blind.
In the most severe form, Toxic Epidermic Necrolysis, between 30 and 40% of patients die. The death rate is lower for Steven Johnson Syndrome, but still disturbingly high at 5-15%. And those that don’t die are often left blind, disabled, or horribly disfigured.
And that is what two different doctors thought I had. On my butt. Because of stupid medication I was taking for a week which didn’t help anything anyways. Gawd.
…The Horror.
Ech.
So…three days and four medical professionals staring at my butt later, a dermatologist has declared that I, Ivy Donegal, am NOT going to die of a killer butt rash. Or at least not any time soon.
Hoorah!
Now, you may be wondering…how does one die of a killer butt rash? Well, dear fictitious audience, I will tell you how.
Certain medications have been known to trigger an autoimmune or allergic response within the body, which leads to the body’s own immune system attacking a protein within the skin. This leads to one of two potential syndromes: Steven Johnson Syndrome or Toxic Epidermis Necrolysis. (The name is based on how much of the body is affected, with Steven Johnson Syndrome being the less severe of the two.) Both are extremely rare, affecting about one in a million people every year worldwide.
As a result of this immune attack and protein breakdown, your skin then begins to blister, and rash, and then peel off. En masse. YOUR SKIN PEELS OFF. All over your body.
The outer layer of your skin separates from the inner layer (epidermis from the dermis), and this can even happen inside of certain organs, leading to breathing failure, the inability to swallow, or intestinal obstruction. Your exposed, blistered skin is extremely vulnerable to infection, and patients are best treated in a burn unit. Oh, and if the rash attacks your eyes, which it does in 15-35% of cases, you go blind.
In the most severe form, Toxic Epidermic Necrolysis, between 30 and 40% of patients die. The death rate is lower for Steven Johnson Syndrome, but still disturbingly high at 5-15%. And those that don’t die are often left blind, disabled, or horribly disfigured.
And that is what two different doctors thought I had. On my butt. Because of stupid medication I was taking for a week which didn’t help anything anyways. Gawd.
…The Horror.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Ivy Donegal and the Curse of the Butt Rash
Chapter I
It was not so very long ago that Ivy Donegal, seated in the office of her trusted physician, was told of a miraculous pill.
“I have seen it work wonders,” said Ivy’s trusted physician, and Ivy nodded, and Ivy listened. Her physician extolled the virtues of the miracle medication, which had vastly improved the lives of many poor unfortunate patients not unlike Ivy herself.
Ivy nodded, and Ivy listened. Her physician continued.
This particular pill was not often prescribed for the illness that Ivy was, herself, experiencing. It was not approved by any medical organization, or large, governmental, administrative body, for the treatment of Ivy‘s particular problem. It was, it seemed, approved to treat a very different problem, which was a problem that Ivy herself had never had issues with.
Ivy nodded, slightly confused, and her physician continued to explain.
“There are almost no side effects, and the results, I believe, could be dramatic.”
Ivy did like dramatic things, and she particularly liked the potential for results.
“And if you don’t see any improvement, then we can stop it right away. There are no withdrawal effects.”
Ivy did not like withdrawal effects, and with this promise she was convinced. She accepted the prescription, scrawled out by her physician on a tiny square of paper, and she put it in her pocket. She bent down to lift her backpack, and she turned towards the door.
“There is just one thing,” her physician said, with an air of caution which caught Ivy’s full attention. “A rash.”
Ivy turned, and after a long pause, full of tense foreboding, her physician spoke.
“There is only one side effect of this medication, and it is very, very rare. But there is a small chance that you may develop...a Rash.”
Ivy furrowed her brow in an attempt to elicit understanding. Her physician sucked in a long, laborious breath, ever slowly, as Ivy waited.
“I have never seen this rash, myself, but I know it to be a very bad, bad rash. If you have such a rash, you must go straight to the hospital. You will need to be hospitalized. The rash is very, very bad.”
Ivy nodded, resolutely. And then her nod faltered, and paused, because Ivy did not understand things, at all.
“But I have lots of rashes,” she said, and this, of course, was very true.
None of Ivy’s rashes had been worthy of hospitalization, but many were ugly, and many severe. Readers may recall the instance where Ivy shaved her head for charity, and God smote her down with scalpal psoriasis.
Ivy, ever since, had been plagued by chronic psoriasis, along with a host of other equally appealing diseases of the skin. Her skin easily bled, bruised, and blistered. Her skin peeled and purpled with pin-prick purpura. She often had hives, and eczema, and dermatitis, and poison ivy. She had once even come down with a severe case of flesh-eating bacteria, but by the time she saw a doctor the bacteria had transformed themselves into a case of mild sunburn. Aloe had helped. Such was the unpredictable nature of Ivy’s skin.
Ivy told her physician these things, or something similar. Her physician, it seemed, did not care.
“This rash if different,” her physician forebode. “If you have The Bad Rash, you will know.”
And Ivy left her physician’s office, and Ivy went then to visit her pharmacist.
***
Ivy went to her neighbourhood pharmacist to fill her prescription and, eyeing the pills, she felt the cold pangs of unease. The pills were very, very small, which meant, to have any effect at all, they must be incredibly potent. They were also the exact size and colour of the toenail clippings belonging to a small child, and Ivy did not find this to be an incredibly appealing image to connect with something she was going to put in her mouth.
She left the bottle of pills, un-ingested, on her dresser, and she waited.
Ivy knew that medication was a think to be treated with caution and respect. She knew that some medications would make her feel tired, and others nauseous, and still others would make her anxious, unravelled, and indisputably insane. Having already spent far too much of her life feeling unravelled and insane, Ivy wished to avoid all such effects whenever possible.
And so Ivy waited, until a day arrived when she had nothing else planned except sleep and television, and neither of these things required her to be conscious, un-nauseous, or sane. Ivy eyed the pills suspiciously, and then she swallowed them.
Ivy waited.
Nothing happened.
Ivy shrugged and watched TV. The next day, she swallowed more pills, and then more, and then more.
The dose was increased very slowly, in order to reduce the chance of the dreaded Bad Rash. A week passed, and Ivy took more pills, and then more, and then more. Nothing happened.
And then Ivy took a shower, because Ivy had grown smelly. And there Ivy experienced a small and undignified thought. Ivy thought, ‘My butt hurts.’ And then the thought disappeared, as small, undignified thoughts are wont to do. Ivy set about a normal day.
Ivy took more pills, as was her custom. She went to work. She came back home. She kissed her puppies.
She realized, then, that her butt really, really hurt, and this concerned her. Ivy set about staring at her butt in the mirror.
There, standing on the lid of her toilet and gazing backwards, over her shoulder, at her exposed bottom-end in the bathroom sink mirror, Ivy discovered what looked to be…a Rash! A small, red rash, to be exact.
Ivy was unconcerned.
Ivy, avid hypochondriac, was not the type to remain unconcerned in the face of a potentially serious bodily event. But the rash, while painful, seemed quite small and benign, and Ivy could not really think of a scenario in which a small rash on her bottom could lead to anything other than discomfort.
Ivy, dear readers, was wrong.
It was shortly thereafter (the next day, to be exact) that Ivy attended a conveniently-timed appointment with a walk-in clinic physician. This was not Ivy’s regular physician, who was, also conveniently, on vacation throughout the most interesting parts of this story.
Ivy needed to renew a prescription for an entirely different medication, which was a medication prescribed to treat an entirely different rash. This was the medication Ivy had been using diligently ever since God smote her down with ironic psoriasis of the scalp. The doctor nodded, wrote and prescription, and then Ivy paused uncomfortably.
“I should mention…” And Ivy paused, and she thought of the rash, and her physician’s dire warnings concerning The Rash, and she weighed this against the thought of a complete stranger inspecting her exposed bottom for what was probably nothing. Ivy sighed. “I have a rash.”
She told the doctor of the rash, and medication, and the doctor looked pale, and concerned, and said, “Oh my.” The doctor asked to see the rash, and Ivy consented. Ivy exposed her skin, and the rash, and the doctor nodded with grave concern.
“I have never seen The Bad Rash before,” the doctor said, consulting a large and cumbersome medical text, “But, according to my understanding, The Bad Rash is a very serious thing. And it looks very much like…your rash.” The physician nodded towards Ivy and her diseased buttocks.
Ivy flushed red with concern and surprise.
Ivy, you see, had been expecting the physician to tell her the rash was nothing. Ivy had been expecting the physician to say that the rash was a result of some incredibly embarrassing hygiene issue, or venereal disease, or fungus best treated with mild soap. And Ivy had been expecting the physician to tell her that there was no rash, at all, except in Ivy’s own head, and for the love of god to please pull her pants up, now.
But the physician didn’t say these things.
She booked an emergency dermatological appointment for Ivy, two days away. She asked if Ivy had been feeling unwell. She advised Ivy that, should the size of the rash or any part of Ivy’s health begin to change, in any way, that she should go straight to the hospital.
And Ivy nodded, and went away.
Ivy was beginning to feel quite nauseous.
When Ivy went home, she looked up the rash on the internet. She still did not know, exactly, how a small rash on her buttocks could be a potentially serious thing…and then she learned. She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. Her stomach churned. She began to sweat.
“My god,” she thought, “I’m dying of a butt-rash.”
And Ivy decided to go to the hospital.
***
And as you read this, dear readers, Ivy Donegal may be dead, or dying, or lying in a very undignified position while doctors, nurses, and medical students congregate around the small rash on her butt.
Ivy hopes that this is not the case, and the odds are very much with her. But Ivy also knows that death via medically-induced killer butt rash would be a perfect crescendo to a life full of many undignified malignancies, and that laughter, ironic or no, is probably the very safest medicine.
xoxo Ivy
It was not so very long ago that Ivy Donegal, seated in the office of her trusted physician, was told of a miraculous pill.
“I have seen it work wonders,” said Ivy’s trusted physician, and Ivy nodded, and Ivy listened. Her physician extolled the virtues of the miracle medication, which had vastly improved the lives of many poor unfortunate patients not unlike Ivy herself.
Ivy nodded, and Ivy listened. Her physician continued.
This particular pill was not often prescribed for the illness that Ivy was, herself, experiencing. It was not approved by any medical organization, or large, governmental, administrative body, for the treatment of Ivy‘s particular problem. It was, it seemed, approved to treat a very different problem, which was a problem that Ivy herself had never had issues with.
Ivy nodded, slightly confused, and her physician continued to explain.
“There are almost no side effects, and the results, I believe, could be dramatic.”
Ivy did like dramatic things, and she particularly liked the potential for results.
“And if you don’t see any improvement, then we can stop it right away. There are no withdrawal effects.”
Ivy did not like withdrawal effects, and with this promise she was convinced. She accepted the prescription, scrawled out by her physician on a tiny square of paper, and she put it in her pocket. She bent down to lift her backpack, and she turned towards the door.
“There is just one thing,” her physician said, with an air of caution which caught Ivy’s full attention. “A rash.”
Ivy turned, and after a long pause, full of tense foreboding, her physician spoke.
“There is only one side effect of this medication, and it is very, very rare. But there is a small chance that you may develop...a Rash.”
Ivy furrowed her brow in an attempt to elicit understanding. Her physician sucked in a long, laborious breath, ever slowly, as Ivy waited.
“I have never seen this rash, myself, but I know it to be a very bad, bad rash. If you have such a rash, you must go straight to the hospital. You will need to be hospitalized. The rash is very, very bad.”
Ivy nodded, resolutely. And then her nod faltered, and paused, because Ivy did not understand things, at all.
“But I have lots of rashes,” she said, and this, of course, was very true.
None of Ivy’s rashes had been worthy of hospitalization, but many were ugly, and many severe. Readers may recall the instance where Ivy shaved her head for charity, and God smote her down with scalpal psoriasis.
Ivy, ever since, had been plagued by chronic psoriasis, along with a host of other equally appealing diseases of the skin. Her skin easily bled, bruised, and blistered. Her skin peeled and purpled with pin-prick purpura. She often had hives, and eczema, and dermatitis, and poison ivy. She had once even come down with a severe case of flesh-eating bacteria, but by the time she saw a doctor the bacteria had transformed themselves into a case of mild sunburn. Aloe had helped. Such was the unpredictable nature of Ivy’s skin.
Ivy told her physician these things, or something similar. Her physician, it seemed, did not care.
“This rash if different,” her physician forebode. “If you have The Bad Rash, you will know.”
And Ivy left her physician’s office, and Ivy went then to visit her pharmacist.
***
Ivy went to her neighbourhood pharmacist to fill her prescription and, eyeing the pills, she felt the cold pangs of unease. The pills were very, very small, which meant, to have any effect at all, they must be incredibly potent. They were also the exact size and colour of the toenail clippings belonging to a small child, and Ivy did not find this to be an incredibly appealing image to connect with something she was going to put in her mouth.
She left the bottle of pills, un-ingested, on her dresser, and she waited.
Ivy knew that medication was a think to be treated with caution and respect. She knew that some medications would make her feel tired, and others nauseous, and still others would make her anxious, unravelled, and indisputably insane. Having already spent far too much of her life feeling unravelled and insane, Ivy wished to avoid all such effects whenever possible.
And so Ivy waited, until a day arrived when she had nothing else planned except sleep and television, and neither of these things required her to be conscious, un-nauseous, or sane. Ivy eyed the pills suspiciously, and then she swallowed them.
Ivy waited.
Nothing happened.
Ivy shrugged and watched TV. The next day, she swallowed more pills, and then more, and then more.
The dose was increased very slowly, in order to reduce the chance of the dreaded Bad Rash. A week passed, and Ivy took more pills, and then more, and then more. Nothing happened.
And then Ivy took a shower, because Ivy had grown smelly. And there Ivy experienced a small and undignified thought. Ivy thought, ‘My butt hurts.’ And then the thought disappeared, as small, undignified thoughts are wont to do. Ivy set about a normal day.
Ivy took more pills, as was her custom. She went to work. She came back home. She kissed her puppies.
She realized, then, that her butt really, really hurt, and this concerned her. Ivy set about staring at her butt in the mirror.
There, standing on the lid of her toilet and gazing backwards, over her shoulder, at her exposed bottom-end in the bathroom sink mirror, Ivy discovered what looked to be…a Rash! A small, red rash, to be exact.
Ivy was unconcerned.
Ivy, avid hypochondriac, was not the type to remain unconcerned in the face of a potentially serious bodily event. But the rash, while painful, seemed quite small and benign, and Ivy could not really think of a scenario in which a small rash on her bottom could lead to anything other than discomfort.
Ivy, dear readers, was wrong.
It was shortly thereafter (the next day, to be exact) that Ivy attended a conveniently-timed appointment with a walk-in clinic physician. This was not Ivy’s regular physician, who was, also conveniently, on vacation throughout the most interesting parts of this story.
Ivy needed to renew a prescription for an entirely different medication, which was a medication prescribed to treat an entirely different rash. This was the medication Ivy had been using diligently ever since God smote her down with ironic psoriasis of the scalp. The doctor nodded, wrote and prescription, and then Ivy paused uncomfortably.
“I should mention…” And Ivy paused, and she thought of the rash, and her physician’s dire warnings concerning The Rash, and she weighed this against the thought of a complete stranger inspecting her exposed bottom for what was probably nothing. Ivy sighed. “I have a rash.”
She told the doctor of the rash, and medication, and the doctor looked pale, and concerned, and said, “Oh my.” The doctor asked to see the rash, and Ivy consented. Ivy exposed her skin, and the rash, and the doctor nodded with grave concern.
“I have never seen The Bad Rash before,” the doctor said, consulting a large and cumbersome medical text, “But, according to my understanding, The Bad Rash is a very serious thing. And it looks very much like…your rash.” The physician nodded towards Ivy and her diseased buttocks.
Ivy flushed red with concern and surprise.
Ivy, you see, had been expecting the physician to tell her the rash was nothing. Ivy had been expecting the physician to say that the rash was a result of some incredibly embarrassing hygiene issue, or venereal disease, or fungus best treated with mild soap. And Ivy had been expecting the physician to tell her that there was no rash, at all, except in Ivy’s own head, and for the love of god to please pull her pants up, now.
But the physician didn’t say these things.
She booked an emergency dermatological appointment for Ivy, two days away. She asked if Ivy had been feeling unwell. She advised Ivy that, should the size of the rash or any part of Ivy’s health begin to change, in any way, that she should go straight to the hospital.
And Ivy nodded, and went away.
Ivy was beginning to feel quite nauseous.
When Ivy went home, she looked up the rash on the internet. She still did not know, exactly, how a small rash on her buttocks could be a potentially serious thing…and then she learned. She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. Her stomach churned. She began to sweat.
“My god,” she thought, “I’m dying of a butt-rash.”
And Ivy decided to go to the hospital.
***
And as you read this, dear readers, Ivy Donegal may be dead, or dying, or lying in a very undignified position while doctors, nurses, and medical students congregate around the small rash on her butt.
Ivy hopes that this is not the case, and the odds are very much with her. But Ivy also knows that death via medically-induced killer butt rash would be a perfect crescendo to a life full of many undignified malignancies, and that laughter, ironic or no, is probably the very safest medicine.
xoxo Ivy
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
God Hates Me: A Memoir
This refurbished entry (written a year ago) is a downer. Seriously. Just..don’t read it. Watch some tv. Dancing with the Stars in on. There’s no reason to ruin your good mood.
CHAPTER TWO: God, failing to mess up my life enough, goes after the life of my puppy.
The week had been going badly, as a whole. I was in the midst of a mental health crisis, my job contract had ended and so I was leaving an organization I loved while also becoming unemployed, I was struggling with my courses despite the fact that I had hoped to graduate already, half of my friends were fleeing the province (while the other half seemed to be constantly having sex), and I was trying and failing to move all of my crap 15 blocks without a car. Plus, my stomach hurt. I was poor and hungry and out of Diet Coke while the whole world seemed to be collapsing around my miserable shriveled shell of humanity…and that’s actually an understatement. Things badly needed to change.
It was at this moment that, uncharacteristically, I decided that my attitude needed adjustment. I was being too negative – I needed to look on the bright side of life. I have so many blessings in my life. I’m moving into an awesome new apartment. I don’t have to go to work. I have great friends, despite the fact that they’ve all abandoned me for foreign provinces or penises. Life is looking up.
So, I rearranged my new place so it felt more like my own. I discovered I suddenly owned three tvs, two blenders, two sewing machines, and four dvd players…yay?! I set up separate offices in my bedroom and my non-bedroom room, just in case I was feeling eclectic. I vowed to host sewing and margarita parties. I made to-do lists of all of the positive steps I could take in the coming week. Things were looking up.
My puppies were both staying in kennel to facilitate the move – I realized that I was ready and eager to have them home. Puppy the second was getting neutered, but puppy the first could be picked up that very day, a day earlier than planned…yay! I called the vet and made arrangements. My puppy was so happy to see me, and made me feel special and loved and important. I bought him copious amounts of dog treats and took him home to my new house.
Perhaps I should mention: I love my puppy (in case my four photo albums devoted to him didn’t tell you that). My puppy is my baby. My puppy brings joy and happiness to the world around him. He assistant coordinated Speakeasy. He’s a registered therapist. He volunteers. He was nominated twice for the next election (by the same slightly senile Kerrisdale man) and frankly, I believe he would have won. He knows how to give high-fives, for crying out loud. My puppy is perhaps the greatest puppy in the world.
So I was basking in the wonderfulness of my puppy and feeling on top of the world. After a few hours of cuddling, I made the decisions to go out and purchase a book a friend had recommended which was meant to further improve my mood. Puppy climbed into my purse and we rode to Chapters, where I found the book on sale. We took a different bus route home and got off a few blocks from home as a chance to explore the new neighborhood. My puppy sniffed flowers while I admired cherry blossoms, and we found a nearby school that I could take him to play.
I have always trained my puppy not to stay near roads and, for the most part, he’s listened. Whenever we cross the street, I order him to wait until the moment I yell ‘let’s go!’ at which point he is free to run to the other side. This is meant to avoid him ever going onto the road without my permission and to get him off the road as fast as possible, and while he still needs practice, that evening he was being shockingly good. Each street corner we passed he improved, waiting patiently for my command that it was safe for him to cross and dashing speedily to the other side with me being tugged behind on his leash.
We made it to the last road before our house, and my puppy looked up at me patiently and expectantly. And I told him to go.
The beige SUV turned into our lane from the left in what must have been less than two seconds. I remember stepping back in horror, and watching the front tire just miss my puppy as he jumped back, and then watching the back tire go over his abdomen with a sickening crunch. The SUV paused before speeding away and my puppy screamed. I tried to pick him up and he screamed more as I cuddled him in my arms, and a passing motorist opened her door and told us to get in – she was driving us to the vet. I don’t remember much of the ride, except that my puppy grew quiet as I whispered to him that he was brave and strong and good, and that when we arrived I had been crying and my coat was covered in blood and fecal matter.
Twenty-four hours later, my puppy was able to come home. There are so many things to be grateful for: the girl who drove us, calling her mom for directions, without a second of thought; the vet’s that was there, waiting and open, less than ten minutes from home on a Sunday night; the veterinarians who cared for him as I tearfully filled out his paper work; the friends who sat with me and sent my puppy their love as he made it through that first important night; and of course my puppy who, despite his fear of shiny objects, proved himself to be amazingly strong and brave. He’s home now, and still broken, his medication making him sleepy but in less pain. His prognosis is good, with no fractures or ruptures, but he can’t run for two weeks, or play, and it hurts him to wag his tail. He licks where a bandage covers his IV wound, and then looks up at me sadly and without understanding. Tire marks and bruising cover his tiny tummy.
I had wandered my house, distraught, during the night he was in hospital, crying to a god that I didn’t believe in, ordering him to make my puppy okay – I needed him to be okay. And maybe, when the bruising and pain fade, he will be. He might not run the same, or trust me to keep him safe from cars on the road, and he might be a little less friendly to strangers. I hope no part of him understands what I’ve been reminded of, harshly – that good moods are just moods, and that happiness and whim are cruel precursors to a more triumphant fall. That training your dog to cross the road on command will just make your heart break all the more when you tell him to run, into a car making a careless right turn, before it speeds away while your crushed puppy screams.
CHAPTER TWO: God, failing to mess up my life enough, goes after the life of my puppy.
The week had been going badly, as a whole. I was in the midst of a mental health crisis, my job contract had ended and so I was leaving an organization I loved while also becoming unemployed, I was struggling with my courses despite the fact that I had hoped to graduate already, half of my friends were fleeing the province (while the other half seemed to be constantly having sex), and I was trying and failing to move all of my crap 15 blocks without a car. Plus, my stomach hurt. I was poor and hungry and out of Diet Coke while the whole world seemed to be collapsing around my miserable shriveled shell of humanity…and that’s actually an understatement. Things badly needed to change.
It was at this moment that, uncharacteristically, I decided that my attitude needed adjustment. I was being too negative – I needed to look on the bright side of life. I have so many blessings in my life. I’m moving into an awesome new apartment. I don’t have to go to work. I have great friends, despite the fact that they’ve all abandoned me for foreign provinces or penises. Life is looking up.
So, I rearranged my new place so it felt more like my own. I discovered I suddenly owned three tvs, two blenders, two sewing machines, and four dvd players…yay?! I set up separate offices in my bedroom and my non-bedroom room, just in case I was feeling eclectic. I vowed to host sewing and margarita parties. I made to-do lists of all of the positive steps I could take in the coming week. Things were looking up.
My puppies were both staying in kennel to facilitate the move – I realized that I was ready and eager to have them home. Puppy the second was getting neutered, but puppy the first could be picked up that very day, a day earlier than planned…yay! I called the vet and made arrangements. My puppy was so happy to see me, and made me feel special and loved and important. I bought him copious amounts of dog treats and took him home to my new house.
Perhaps I should mention: I love my puppy (in case my four photo albums devoted to him didn’t tell you that). My puppy is my baby. My puppy brings joy and happiness to the world around him. He assistant coordinated Speakeasy. He’s a registered therapist. He volunteers. He was nominated twice for the next election (by the same slightly senile Kerrisdale man) and frankly, I believe he would have won. He knows how to give high-fives, for crying out loud. My puppy is perhaps the greatest puppy in the world.
So I was basking in the wonderfulness of my puppy and feeling on top of the world. After a few hours of cuddling, I made the decisions to go out and purchase a book a friend had recommended which was meant to further improve my mood. Puppy climbed into my purse and we rode to Chapters, where I found the book on sale. We took a different bus route home and got off a few blocks from home as a chance to explore the new neighborhood. My puppy sniffed flowers while I admired cherry blossoms, and we found a nearby school that I could take him to play.
I have always trained my puppy not to stay near roads and, for the most part, he’s listened. Whenever we cross the street, I order him to wait until the moment I yell ‘let’s go!’ at which point he is free to run to the other side. This is meant to avoid him ever going onto the road without my permission and to get him off the road as fast as possible, and while he still needs practice, that evening he was being shockingly good. Each street corner we passed he improved, waiting patiently for my command that it was safe for him to cross and dashing speedily to the other side with me being tugged behind on his leash.
We made it to the last road before our house, and my puppy looked up at me patiently and expectantly. And I told him to go.
The beige SUV turned into our lane from the left in what must have been less than two seconds. I remember stepping back in horror, and watching the front tire just miss my puppy as he jumped back, and then watching the back tire go over his abdomen with a sickening crunch. The SUV paused before speeding away and my puppy screamed. I tried to pick him up and he screamed more as I cuddled him in my arms, and a passing motorist opened her door and told us to get in – she was driving us to the vet. I don’t remember much of the ride, except that my puppy grew quiet as I whispered to him that he was brave and strong and good, and that when we arrived I had been crying and my coat was covered in blood and fecal matter.
Twenty-four hours later, my puppy was able to come home. There are so many things to be grateful for: the girl who drove us, calling her mom for directions, without a second of thought; the vet’s that was there, waiting and open, less than ten minutes from home on a Sunday night; the veterinarians who cared for him as I tearfully filled out his paper work; the friends who sat with me and sent my puppy their love as he made it through that first important night; and of course my puppy who, despite his fear of shiny objects, proved himself to be amazingly strong and brave. He’s home now, and still broken, his medication making him sleepy but in less pain. His prognosis is good, with no fractures or ruptures, but he can’t run for two weeks, or play, and it hurts him to wag his tail. He licks where a bandage covers his IV wound, and then looks up at me sadly and without understanding. Tire marks and bruising cover his tiny tummy.
I had wandered my house, distraught, during the night he was in hospital, crying to a god that I didn’t believe in, ordering him to make my puppy okay – I needed him to be okay. And maybe, when the bruising and pain fade, he will be. He might not run the same, or trust me to keep him safe from cars on the road, and he might be a little less friendly to strangers. I hope no part of him understands what I’ve been reminded of, harshly – that good moods are just moods, and that happiness and whim are cruel precursors to a more triumphant fall. That training your dog to cross the road on command will just make your heart break all the more when you tell him to run, into a car making a careless right turn, before it speeds away while your crushed puppy screams.
Monday, February 23, 2009
God Hates Me: A Memoir
This story is refurbished...I wrote it about a year ago when the events transpired, so apologies if you've heard this sad tale before. BUT as my first glorious writing on how God is out to get me, it deserves a second perusal. Enjoy.
Part I: Hair
It was not so many months ago that I, in a fit of sunny philanthropy, decided that I would shave off my hair. The hair would be collected to make wigs for small, cancerous children (a good thing); I would be shaving my head in support of other friends who were also donating their hair (a good thing); my bald, brazen head would be a show of solidarity for current sufferers and survivors of cancer (a good thing); and finally, I would be raising several hundred dollars which would be donated towards cancer research (a good thing). So, overall, I thought this was a good thing. I was nervous, self-conscious, and generally girly with anticipation, but the good simply outweighed the bad ten-fold. I would be sacrificing vanity for the pursuit of selflessness, committing what in many cultures is a religious right of passage, and generally displaying through my hairless head that I, Ivy Donegal, thoroughly kick ass.
As the day approached, most friends applauded my bravery. Some feared for my sanity. And still others came up with a myriad of far-fetched excuses explaining why they, too, could not shave their heads. And it was good. On the day of sheering, many gathered in support and awe as the ominous razor was raised to my head and…done. Well, that was easy. Actually, I don’t look that bad, really. And I feel really good for doing a good thing. Yay, me!
But such cheerful naivety is not long for this world.
It was some time a week or so after the event that I, admittedly, became cocky. My short buzz cut was such a success that I felt the need to pursue an even shorter, more radical haircut. So, alone in my home with my mirror, razor, and post-adolescent angst, I shaved my head. Completely. So not a single nub of hair remained. My smooth head, covered in razor burn, about seventeen cuts of various depth, and my own sense of pride, was bic-ed. And, still, it was good.
As the razor burn faded and my cuts healed, however, I began to sense that something was going wrong. My head, while still totally awesome in its bic-ed glory, was looking somewhat…angry. I tried my best to convince myself that it was, of course, nothing. Perhaps my skin was reacting to its first-ever exposure to the sun, or maybe this was simply an outbreak of normal, albeit embarrassing, hairline acne. Or maybe, perhaps, there is some special kind of razor burn that shows up a few days after all your other razor burn has healed and looks red and rashy and generally gross but goes away because I did a good thing and surely bad things don’t happen to good people who shave their heads for cancer?
According to my sunburn theory, I wore sunscreen. This made the rash worse. According to my acne theory, I used a loofah and cleansing creams and avoiding my beloved chocolate. This made the rash much worse. And while I was still hopeful that nothing was really wrong, an encounter with my fellow head-shaver, Meaghan, served to all but quash my hope completely. Her scalp was beautiful and white and intact. Mine was…not.
As the events above were slowly transpiring, my hair was, equally slowly, beginning to grow back. I thought this was a good thing. I looked forward to regaining the ability to use shampoo, I looked forward to the hair growth covering my confusing and uncomfortable scalp rash, I looked forward to rediscovering my natural hair colour. I was hopeful and optimistic, and so, quite naturally, God felt the need to intervene.
When I first noticed the circular area lacking in hair growth, situated near the front of my hairline, I assumed that I must have shaved there a bit more deeply there than the rest of my head. The term ‘bald patch’ did not even occur to me, even as the quarter-sized, hairless area was made increasingly obvious over time. I marvelled at how hair growth, like so many of God’s wondrous miracles, works in patchy and mysterious ways. I was increasingly wearing a hat or decorative babushka whenever I left the house, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t proud of my shaven head. I was simply…confused. As the rest of my hair grew, several other, smaller bald patches began to emerge. My rash continued to itch and spread. I considered buying a wig.
I booked a doctor’s appointment warily after encountering the term ‘ringworm’ on Web MD. Chronic psoriasis, alopecia, and possible permanent baldness were equally alarming possibilities discovered shortly thereafter. I reassured myself that, whatever this was, it could not be that serious. In psychology class we learned that hair loss could be precipitated and exacerbated by stress: surely that had to be it. I now began to wonder if all of my symptoms could be psychosomatic – could the stress of shaving my head cause temporary or permanent baldness? Could my continued stress over my rash cause a…rash? The timing didn’t quite make sense, but I was nonetheless intrigued.
I began to wonder what had happened to my original, donated hair. Apparently, it takes an average of five hair donations to make a single wig and my hair, which was dyed, would only be usable for wig-undergrowth, if at all. Web MD helpfully informed me that hair loss caused by chemotherapy (iatrogenic alopecia) is almost never permanent, but many other forms of hair loss, hypothetically affecting my own scalp, could be. I began to think of small, cancerous children as crafty, hair-stealing masterminds at the centre of a large multinational crime syndicate dedicated to the black-market hair trade. I saw my own hair, or what was left of it, being traded in back alleys by mafia overlords while small, cancerous children the world over sat in their hospital beds, counting stacks of money, laughing maniacally…at least, those that were still strong enough to laugh. Or sit up.
***
Later this week, I will go to the doctor. And he will tell me that I have a rash and several bald patches, to which I will respond: I know. He will tell me that it could be stress, an infection, or psoriasis praying on my supple, tiny hairs, to which I will nod, because: I know. And then I will shuffle off, dejected and uninformed, promising to book an appointment in two weeks so that the medical community can learn whether my condition has improved or gotten much, much worse. But, by this time, I’ll already know.
Because, you see, God has a problem with me. He’s never been overly fond, if my childhood ear infections are any indication, but I think his general dislike of all things Ivy began some time around my nineteenth birthday. (Coincidentally, I think the exact date corresponds quite closely with my conversion to atheism, but no matter.) And while God may be known for many things - His generosity, His undying love, or His affinity for turning people to pillars of salt – his most striking feature, abject cruelty aside, is his sense of patient, exacting irony.
So, in two more weeks, I will have lost all my hair. And my scalp shall be completely covered in a wretched, horrifying rash, at which small children will point and scream. Society will eventually shun me and I, with only my disfigured head for company, will wander the Earth, unknown, unloved, and miserably alone. And God, atop his silver-lined cloud with his glass half full, will laugh and laugh. Because God, you see, is an Asshole.
Part I: Hair
It was not so many months ago that I, in a fit of sunny philanthropy, decided that I would shave off my hair. The hair would be collected to make wigs for small, cancerous children (a good thing); I would be shaving my head in support of other friends who were also donating their hair (a good thing); my bald, brazen head would be a show of solidarity for current sufferers and survivors of cancer (a good thing); and finally, I would be raising several hundred dollars which would be donated towards cancer research (a good thing). So, overall, I thought this was a good thing. I was nervous, self-conscious, and generally girly with anticipation, but the good simply outweighed the bad ten-fold. I would be sacrificing vanity for the pursuit of selflessness, committing what in many cultures is a religious right of passage, and generally displaying through my hairless head that I, Ivy Donegal, thoroughly kick ass.
As the day approached, most friends applauded my bravery. Some feared for my sanity. And still others came up with a myriad of far-fetched excuses explaining why they, too, could not shave their heads. And it was good. On the day of sheering, many gathered in support and awe as the ominous razor was raised to my head and…done. Well, that was easy. Actually, I don’t look that bad, really. And I feel really good for doing a good thing. Yay, me!
But such cheerful naivety is not long for this world.
It was some time a week or so after the event that I, admittedly, became cocky. My short buzz cut was such a success that I felt the need to pursue an even shorter, more radical haircut. So, alone in my home with my mirror, razor, and post-adolescent angst, I shaved my head. Completely. So not a single nub of hair remained. My smooth head, covered in razor burn, about seventeen cuts of various depth, and my own sense of pride, was bic-ed. And, still, it was good.
As the razor burn faded and my cuts healed, however, I began to sense that something was going wrong. My head, while still totally awesome in its bic-ed glory, was looking somewhat…angry. I tried my best to convince myself that it was, of course, nothing. Perhaps my skin was reacting to its first-ever exposure to the sun, or maybe this was simply an outbreak of normal, albeit embarrassing, hairline acne. Or maybe, perhaps, there is some special kind of razor burn that shows up a few days after all your other razor burn has healed and looks red and rashy and generally gross but goes away because I did a good thing and surely bad things don’t happen to good people who shave their heads for cancer?
According to my sunburn theory, I wore sunscreen. This made the rash worse. According to my acne theory, I used a loofah and cleansing creams and avoiding my beloved chocolate. This made the rash much worse. And while I was still hopeful that nothing was really wrong, an encounter with my fellow head-shaver, Meaghan, served to all but quash my hope completely. Her scalp was beautiful and white and intact. Mine was…not.
As the events above were slowly transpiring, my hair was, equally slowly, beginning to grow back. I thought this was a good thing. I looked forward to regaining the ability to use shampoo, I looked forward to the hair growth covering my confusing and uncomfortable scalp rash, I looked forward to rediscovering my natural hair colour. I was hopeful and optimistic, and so, quite naturally, God felt the need to intervene.
When I first noticed the circular area lacking in hair growth, situated near the front of my hairline, I assumed that I must have shaved there a bit more deeply there than the rest of my head. The term ‘bald patch’ did not even occur to me, even as the quarter-sized, hairless area was made increasingly obvious over time. I marvelled at how hair growth, like so many of God’s wondrous miracles, works in patchy and mysterious ways. I was increasingly wearing a hat or decorative babushka whenever I left the house, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t proud of my shaven head. I was simply…confused. As the rest of my hair grew, several other, smaller bald patches began to emerge. My rash continued to itch and spread. I considered buying a wig.
I booked a doctor’s appointment warily after encountering the term ‘ringworm’ on Web MD. Chronic psoriasis, alopecia, and possible permanent baldness were equally alarming possibilities discovered shortly thereafter. I reassured myself that, whatever this was, it could not be that serious. In psychology class we learned that hair loss could be precipitated and exacerbated by stress: surely that had to be it. I now began to wonder if all of my symptoms could be psychosomatic – could the stress of shaving my head cause temporary or permanent baldness? Could my continued stress over my rash cause a…rash? The timing didn’t quite make sense, but I was nonetheless intrigued.
I began to wonder what had happened to my original, donated hair. Apparently, it takes an average of five hair donations to make a single wig and my hair, which was dyed, would only be usable for wig-undergrowth, if at all. Web MD helpfully informed me that hair loss caused by chemotherapy (iatrogenic alopecia) is almost never permanent, but many other forms of hair loss, hypothetically affecting my own scalp, could be. I began to think of small, cancerous children as crafty, hair-stealing masterminds at the centre of a large multinational crime syndicate dedicated to the black-market hair trade. I saw my own hair, or what was left of it, being traded in back alleys by mafia overlords while small, cancerous children the world over sat in their hospital beds, counting stacks of money, laughing maniacally…at least, those that were still strong enough to laugh. Or sit up.
***
Later this week, I will go to the doctor. And he will tell me that I have a rash and several bald patches, to which I will respond: I know. He will tell me that it could be stress, an infection, or psoriasis praying on my supple, tiny hairs, to which I will nod, because: I know. And then I will shuffle off, dejected and uninformed, promising to book an appointment in two weeks so that the medical community can learn whether my condition has improved or gotten much, much worse. But, by this time, I’ll already know.
Because, you see, God has a problem with me. He’s never been overly fond, if my childhood ear infections are any indication, but I think his general dislike of all things Ivy began some time around my nineteenth birthday. (Coincidentally, I think the exact date corresponds quite closely with my conversion to atheism, but no matter.) And while God may be known for many things - His generosity, His undying love, or His affinity for turning people to pillars of salt – his most striking feature, abject cruelty aside, is his sense of patient, exacting irony.
So, in two more weeks, I will have lost all my hair. And my scalp shall be completely covered in a wretched, horrifying rash, at which small children will point and scream. Society will eventually shun me and I, with only my disfigured head for company, will wander the Earth, unknown, unloved, and miserably alone. And God, atop his silver-lined cloud with his glass half full, will laugh and laugh. Because God, you see, is an Asshole.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Ah, Vengeful and Torturous God, We Meet Again
Today...
10:20 Optometrist’s appointment. I am getting headaches, and I think I need glasses. The optometrist agrees. She examines my eyes and quizzically notes that my pupils are different sizes. She tells me I need to go to a neurologist. I ask…why? There are a lot of potential reasons, apparently, but the ones that stick out for me are: Brain tumor, Brain Tumor, BRAIN TUMOR…there was Aneurism, too, but it just doesn’t have quite the same effect. I pick out pretty frames, I pay hundreds of dollars, I rush back home.
1:20 I am twenty minutes late for my psychiatry appointment. I apologize profusely…I had this eye thing, and Brain Tumor, and then the bus took soooo freaking long and I was only home for three minutes to feed my dogs and… My psychiatrist nods sympathetically. I then begin talking about My Angst. My Angst of the day involves my mother, and how when I was a wee muffin (five or six) my mother told me that she didn’t want me and wanted to put me in foster care, and how I remember playing with my dolls sadly and telling them that they were bad and that I was sending them away for being so bad…and how, while I know objectively that this memory is heartbreakingly sad, I don’t feel sad, or angry, or really anything. I cry, though this doesn’t help me feel any less emotionally stunted.
3:05 I am late for a job interview. I wander upstairs and get lost - I can’t remember the name of the woman I’m meeting. Finally she rescues me. I had applied to this organization over a month ago - two of my friends work there, in supported housing for the mentally ill, and get paid good money to play on Facebook during overnight shifts. I want to be paid good money to play on Facebook, and it sounded like a good, low key match to compliment my stressful doom-filled job.
This woman informs me that…no. We don’t want you to work in our supported housing. We want you to work in our community outreach and drop-in program. Also, this isn’t an interview, the job’s yours if you want it. It will be better if you work full time, but casual to start is good. Let me describe how this job embodies all of your hopes and dreams.
Seriously…what just happened here?
3:55 I make it to work with five minutes to spare - I'd already called them to let them know I would probably be late because of my total failure at life, and also bad traffic. I am still filled with shock and glee, my mood resolutely happy, though a little concerned by all the black helicopters. I’ve noticed at least four over various parts of the city all day, hovering weirdly, making life creepy. I remember how strangely slow the buses seem…and then I remember the same odd, creepily slow transit in London on the day of the bombings. (I was living in London and slept through the first set, but was traveling to work when the second [failed] suicide attacks happened two weeks later. I met the bomb squad, and the Israeli prime minister. I drank too much. It was a good summer.)
I check my friend the interweb. There are no reports of bombings, or protests, or anything at all that can explain the weirdly congested traffic and the circling black helicopters. I wonder if the Americans have invaded and no one else has noticed.
I finally find an article from the week before mentioning the start of training operations for the Olympics Security Force, which is largely the American military. Some operations are entirely covert, and some visible to the public, playing out a number of scenarios…I assume that this must be it. I feel pissed off that I was forced to relive my experience of domestic terrorism for no good reason…and also sort of disappointed. I know that is wrong…but…I do find catastrophically monumental world events kind of exciting.
7:30 Our cook is in a foul mood. I ask a different coworker if I’m maybe being rude or at least sort of annoying, because our cook is responding to every word I say as if I’m spraying her with holy water. It’s completely perplexing and I’m taking it personally…she is doing the opposite of everything I say the moment I leave the room. She is not putting enough desserts on the dessert trays and ignoring me when I tell her so and then getting mad at me when I ask for the second dessert tray because the first one is gone already. She is ignoring me when I suggest limiting the amount of choice in the meal in order to deal with the huge backed up line and our shortage of volunteers (we need six, we have two, can we maybe only have one choice of salad at a time when there's three types of bread?). She ignores me when I suggest she takes her break soon so that we all have time to take a break, and she rolls her eyes at me when I ask…really? Eye rolling? What the Freaking Hell, Cook??
I ask the other coworker what is going on. She has no idea but agrees the cook is way out of line. She notes that I am the senior staff member on that night - I am supposed to be in charge. I am incredibly perplexed by the cook's behaviour...I ask what I possibly could have done…I was in such a good mood…I helped out and was nice and was asking her about her day…WHY??
Before leaving the centre, the cook looks at me with a smirk and a giggle when an intensely high young girl mentions suicide. I do not think I like the cook.
10:00 The same very high girl is on the floor in tears. I’ve been helping her all night - I set her up with a shower and bandaged her bleeding abscesses, and I snuck her Polysporin and eye shadow and an extra cookie. She is sweet and intelligent and she does not want me to feel sorry for her, but she’s also in the fetal position and talking about wanting to die, so it’s hard. She wavers between intense anger towards a fellow participant who was rude to her, sobbing apologies, and wondering why her family never loved her. She tells me that she had seen a doctor who refused to prescribe her Ceroquil - a daily medication people take for anxiety. My coworker tells me she’s also very high on crack, which provokes anxiety and erratic behaviour. My black little heart is breaking. She insists she should kill herself, and maybe that other girl, too. When I try and sit close to her she begins banging her head against a wall.
I do not want to call the police. I do not want her to be cuffed, or hog tied, or thrown in a psych ward against her will. I do not want her to meet more doctors who will treat her like dirt because she’s native, or who refuse her anxiety meds because she’s homeless. I do not want the Vancouver police, with their fondness of tasering the mentally ill (and beating up racial minorities), anywhere near this girl or our centre. The week before, I paid off a $600 ambulance bill resulting from some well-meaning friends dialing 9-1-1 after I’d called them in tears and then turned off my phone…the police barged in to my house a half hour later with large guns and tasers, asked my roommates if I was violent, told me I’d get a criminal record if I didn’t go willingly in an ambulance to the hospital…where I went and was released two hours later. I do not want to call the police.
I call the police, and spend ten minutes on the phone relaying the young girl’s every movement as she wanders around the room, distraught, sits down, bangs her head against the wall, gets up again. She asks for a snack so she can leave. I apologize and say I’ll get it once I’m off the phone. The police arrive. She cries and sobs and yells while I cower in the kitchen and feel ashamed. They ask her if she has anything in her pockets, and she tells them she has her crack pipe. She reaches for it and they promptly restrain her and place her in cuffs…she keeps crying and notes that her nose needs to be wiped, please, I need to wipe my nose, I’m crying, what am I supposed to do, can someone help please…Ivy, Ivy, where are you, please…
I go to the staff room because I think we have tissues there. I can’t find them. It takes me ten minutes to find the stash I keep in my locker, buried, and by the time I’m on the floor again she is already out the door.
I wander the centre and mop the floors and feel like a zombie. I want, want, want to cry.
I go home.
10:20 Optometrist’s appointment. I am getting headaches, and I think I need glasses. The optometrist agrees. She examines my eyes and quizzically notes that my pupils are different sizes. She tells me I need to go to a neurologist. I ask…why? There are a lot of potential reasons, apparently, but the ones that stick out for me are: Brain tumor, Brain Tumor, BRAIN TUMOR…there was Aneurism, too, but it just doesn’t have quite the same effect. I pick out pretty frames, I pay hundreds of dollars, I rush back home.
1:20 I am twenty minutes late for my psychiatry appointment. I apologize profusely…I had this eye thing, and Brain Tumor, and then the bus took soooo freaking long and I was only home for three minutes to feed my dogs and… My psychiatrist nods sympathetically. I then begin talking about My Angst. My Angst of the day involves my mother, and how when I was a wee muffin (five or six) my mother told me that she didn’t want me and wanted to put me in foster care, and how I remember playing with my dolls sadly and telling them that they were bad and that I was sending them away for being so bad…and how, while I know objectively that this memory is heartbreakingly sad, I don’t feel sad, or angry, or really anything. I cry, though this doesn’t help me feel any less emotionally stunted.
3:05 I am late for a job interview. I wander upstairs and get lost - I can’t remember the name of the woman I’m meeting. Finally she rescues me. I had applied to this organization over a month ago - two of my friends work there, in supported housing for the mentally ill, and get paid good money to play on Facebook during overnight shifts. I want to be paid good money to play on Facebook, and it sounded like a good, low key match to compliment my stressful doom-filled job.
This woman informs me that…no. We don’t want you to work in our supported housing. We want you to work in our community outreach and drop-in program. Also, this isn’t an interview, the job’s yours if you want it. It will be better if you work full time, but casual to start is good. Let me describe how this job embodies all of your hopes and dreams.
Seriously…what just happened here?
3:55 I make it to work with five minutes to spare - I'd already called them to let them know I would probably be late because of my total failure at life, and also bad traffic. I am still filled with shock and glee, my mood resolutely happy, though a little concerned by all the black helicopters. I’ve noticed at least four over various parts of the city all day, hovering weirdly, making life creepy. I remember how strangely slow the buses seem…and then I remember the same odd, creepily slow transit in London on the day of the bombings. (I was living in London and slept through the first set, but was traveling to work when the second [failed] suicide attacks happened two weeks later. I met the bomb squad, and the Israeli prime minister. I drank too much. It was a good summer.)
I check my friend the interweb. There are no reports of bombings, or protests, or anything at all that can explain the weirdly congested traffic and the circling black helicopters. I wonder if the Americans have invaded and no one else has noticed.
I finally find an article from the week before mentioning the start of training operations for the Olympics Security Force, which is largely the American military. Some operations are entirely covert, and some visible to the public, playing out a number of scenarios…I assume that this must be it. I feel pissed off that I was forced to relive my experience of domestic terrorism for no good reason…and also sort of disappointed. I know that is wrong…but…I do find catastrophically monumental world events kind of exciting.
7:30 Our cook is in a foul mood. I ask a different coworker if I’m maybe being rude or at least sort of annoying, because our cook is responding to every word I say as if I’m spraying her with holy water. It’s completely perplexing and I’m taking it personally…she is doing the opposite of everything I say the moment I leave the room. She is not putting enough desserts on the dessert trays and ignoring me when I tell her so and then getting mad at me when I ask for the second dessert tray because the first one is gone already. She is ignoring me when I suggest limiting the amount of choice in the meal in order to deal with the huge backed up line and our shortage of volunteers (we need six, we have two, can we maybe only have one choice of salad at a time when there's three types of bread?). She ignores me when I suggest she takes her break soon so that we all have time to take a break, and she rolls her eyes at me when I ask…really? Eye rolling? What the Freaking Hell, Cook??
I ask the other coworker what is going on. She has no idea but agrees the cook is way out of line. She notes that I am the senior staff member on that night - I am supposed to be in charge. I am incredibly perplexed by the cook's behaviour...I ask what I possibly could have done…I was in such a good mood…I helped out and was nice and was asking her about her day…WHY??
Before leaving the centre, the cook looks at me with a smirk and a giggle when an intensely high young girl mentions suicide. I do not think I like the cook.
10:00 The same very high girl is on the floor in tears. I’ve been helping her all night - I set her up with a shower and bandaged her bleeding abscesses, and I snuck her Polysporin and eye shadow and an extra cookie. She is sweet and intelligent and she does not want me to feel sorry for her, but she’s also in the fetal position and talking about wanting to die, so it’s hard. She wavers between intense anger towards a fellow participant who was rude to her, sobbing apologies, and wondering why her family never loved her. She tells me that she had seen a doctor who refused to prescribe her Ceroquil - a daily medication people take for anxiety. My coworker tells me she’s also very high on crack, which provokes anxiety and erratic behaviour. My black little heart is breaking. She insists she should kill herself, and maybe that other girl, too. When I try and sit close to her she begins banging her head against a wall.
I do not want to call the police. I do not want her to be cuffed, or hog tied, or thrown in a psych ward against her will. I do not want her to meet more doctors who will treat her like dirt because she’s native, or who refuse her anxiety meds because she’s homeless. I do not want the Vancouver police, with their fondness of tasering the mentally ill (and beating up racial minorities), anywhere near this girl or our centre. The week before, I paid off a $600 ambulance bill resulting from some well-meaning friends dialing 9-1-1 after I’d called them in tears and then turned off my phone…the police barged in to my house a half hour later with large guns and tasers, asked my roommates if I was violent, told me I’d get a criminal record if I didn’t go willingly in an ambulance to the hospital…where I went and was released two hours later. I do not want to call the police.
I call the police, and spend ten minutes on the phone relaying the young girl’s every movement as she wanders around the room, distraught, sits down, bangs her head against the wall, gets up again. She asks for a snack so she can leave. I apologize and say I’ll get it once I’m off the phone. The police arrive. She cries and sobs and yells while I cower in the kitchen and feel ashamed. They ask her if she has anything in her pockets, and she tells them she has her crack pipe. She reaches for it and they promptly restrain her and place her in cuffs…she keeps crying and notes that her nose needs to be wiped, please, I need to wipe my nose, I’m crying, what am I supposed to do, can someone help please…Ivy, Ivy, where are you, please…
I go to the staff room because I think we have tissues there. I can’t find them. It takes me ten minutes to find the stash I keep in my locker, buried, and by the time I’m on the floor again she is already out the door.
I wander the centre and mop the floors and feel like a zombie. I want, want, want to cry.
I go home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
