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bunkum
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Couple of months ago, some stuff began going wonky. I began knocking over glasses, dropping things, stumbling, that kinda thing. Few weeks ago, got hit with some serious vertigo, episodes lasting anywhere from a few hours to a few days. The last one wasn't letting up after a day, so I hit the doctor's office. They ran the usual bloodwork and such, said I wasn't pregnant or fisilitic (sorry to ruin any fantasies about boinking someone whose pregnant cooter was rotting off). Doctors began running a bunch of tests on me to see if I could keep my balance, tested my strength, checked out my gaze, that kinda thing. Sent me packing to the neurologist.
Since then, I've not been able to walk outside my house without a cane. At times, it's difficult to turn a page, pick up a pen, reach for the television remote, type, stay awake, fall asleep, keep my food down, you name it. Numb sometimes, tingly at others. A floating feeling sometimes hits me, and sound and sight soften. My temper's never been particularly sweet, but it's getting really nasty now. No ears ringing (ruled out inner ear things and meniere's and such pretty early on). It's pretty funny to watch me try to do a toe-to-heel walk.
But I got to take my first MRI and VEP. The VEP was my favorite: they put electrodes on your head, and take pictures of your brain through your eyes. Getting shot up with gadolinium for the MRI was pretty cool, though; kept thinking, "Number 64 is coursing through my veins!" Bad luck, though: the neurologist is away on vacation for the next week or so, and in the meantime, I have no clue what's going on. Medical staff has mentioned everything from MS or a brain tumor to migraines or a mild stroke. I'm pretty sure that the MRI shots show a horseshoe crab eating its way through my white matter.
Oh, and the lovely new lad broke up with me the day after one of my appointments. No hard feelings, for the most part; we really hadn't dated long enough to get anything going, but I feel a sort of wistfulness at the same time that I'm grateful to have some space to myself to sort all this shit out. Part of my touchiness has to do with being hovered over, but I don't think that would have been a problem with him. It's best, though, that if I'm crabby, I have some time and space to myself to get a spot of control.
If y'all are interested, I can keep up on the blog what all goes down with doctors, tests, and horseshoe crabs. It's all pretty curious to me. Parents aren't doing too well when I make light of the whole thing -- big-mouth sister was supposed to keep it to herself so that if anything was actuallly wrong, I could tell them myself. Similarly, didn't want them worrying like this if nothing major goes down. I'm surprised ... she's usually much better than this at being discrete.
Either way, mock the new asylum gimp!
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I don't mean die-die, but die to the world. The folks who sit there, either crying, laughing, or jerking off, after you've kicked-the-bucket, dropped-dead, passed-away, gone-to-heaven/gone-to-hell, been-absorbed-by-alien-poop, whatever. A memorial service. A few enemies pissing together on your grave. A full-fledged parade with people, dressed as lesbian clowns, fisting the horses drawing your sorry-ass down the street in a pink, sparkling coffin. Make sure it has racing stripes.
I wonder about that sometimes, and then I wonder why I care. Whoever truly loves me best will have the good sense to send my dead-ass down to The Body Farm in Tennessee so that someone can make good use of it.
Though I've avoided any pictures of New Orleans (I know how they affect me, and I'm dealing with quite a few local death-and-dismemberment situations as it is), I can't help but wonder what the fuck people will do for them? About who will have the time and the money, as well as the sanity, to follow any last wishes, or at least approach anything resembling last wishes, when designing memorials and funerals.
And again -- I wonder why it matters. These things are not at all for the dead, but for the living.
Still, I think I'd make a really pissy ghost, if my wishes were not followed.
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I was thinking back on some of the funnier blogs I've seen on the front page here, and how even something that had the potential to be dull was rescued, in part, by the presence of a camera.
Yeah, I have this tiny, ancient, crappy digital camera -- not sure if it works with my laptop yet, but that's neither here nor there. Point of the matter is ... putting together my weedwhacker would actually be a lot more interesting if I had pictures. Come to think, the aftermath of my using a chainsaw would be much better -- you could all have shots of my left thigh, severed and gushing blood. I could photograph the EMTs' blood-splattered faces. I guess photographing the process of cleaning my saddle would amuse few, save MstrG (leeeaaather).
I could have photographed the amazing amount of stuff that my friends crammed into their tiny, one-bedroom apartment, and which we somehow managed to help them move (it took 3 days, total, to get everything down the stairs). I could have photographed our pro-wrestler-wannabe friend balancing their kitchen table on top of his head ("I have a really flat head," he said.).
You could have received before-and-after shots of my office during the annual chuck-and-clean event (I can see the floor now, and my dog no longer hops about all over my work.). That's not really fun, though, unless you count the fact that I did the initial cleaning while naked, to avoid having more laundry to deal with. Together, we could spy on the neighborhood kids (yay for Goatboy?) who try to set fire to things (petty arsonist shits). I could show you the look of terror on strangers' faces when I open the front door, and my dog tries to eat them. I only let her scare the evangelical types. Sometimes, they wander the neighborhoods, playing shit music on their guitars, while some of their buddies knock on doors to try to save our souls. I could have taken a picture of the weird-ass shit I took the other day.
Together, we could experience the joys of midgets with mullets who try to hitch rides. One looks like Richard Simmons, and also wears rainbow suspenders. I could show you just how poorly people drive here (stopping in INTERSECTIONS to check maps, deciding to suddenly turn in front of lanes of speeding traffic, etc.). We could all laugh at the ugly people who work in some of the offices on campus (i.e., the man/woman whose voice does not even help you determine what sex it is -- it has tits and stubble, and its voice alternates between male and female. It has a mullet as well.).
We could watch hummingbirds get drunk on my patio flowers. We could see who gets drunk enough to strip at the next party. We could catch bank robbers and other naughty people. We could become spies!
But, alas, these words will have to suffice.
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Two related events have significantly ticked me off at different moments in my life. First, being lied to about the nature of sin and forgiveness in 6th grade. Two years previous, I had made my first Sacrament of Confession. Then, in 6th grade, my religion teacher told me that all of my sins would be forgiven if I carried a rosary in my pocket. When I asked why we had made a Sacrament of Confession if the forgiveness of sins was as easy as carrying a rosary in my pocket, I was yelled at, told not to ask questions, and given a detention. I was already questioning the Catholic faith I was raised with, and already insecure in the notion that God existed. My parents and teachers somehow symbolized God for me, and I knew they were far from perfect; to believe the statement that God is all-knowing, all-loving, and all-forgiving as I was consistently told would have taken either a) a break from the hierarchical belief that authority descended from God or b) an insane leap of faith that flew in the face of experience and reason. The first option would take another year or two of living and growth. The second option was against my nature. Instead, I broke with God, and decided that He couldn't exist because his traits were not apparent in his representatives. Second, during my first year of graduate school, one of the school's track stars said that she prayed to God before every race, and that's why she placed in the top three for every race. I wondered what would happen to her faith if she lost a race. Would she think God had abandoned her? What has bothered me involves one or more of the following: - viewing belief in a higher power as some sort of cosmic cash machine (God has changed my life. I now have a better job because of my faith.)
- the reliance on a sort of feel-good, spiritual-candy vision of religion (Ain't God cool?)
- the notion that belief and faith cannot be subjected to objective reasoning (You just have to have faith. Don't worry about it.)
- the notion that "my-God-must-be-your-God" (This is what we face everyday in religious or spiritual debates) Answer to the first:
No wonder people feel alienated from a belief system. If only teachers and parents were more careful with children. Encouraged their curiousity. Had enough self-awareness and confidence to not set themselves up as gods, but as figures of authority who are fallible, but can generally be trusted. I do not advocate raising children without authority--far from it--that would remove the element of personal responsibility which is generally lacking in people. I simply would like to see people give children honest answers, or admit that they don't have the answer, rather than punish the child for it. I would like to see parents encourage children to explore nature, to make hypotheses and test their assumptions, to see developing a relationship with a higher power as being preferable to looking only for favors or for soothing a guilty conscience. Answer to the second and third:
All beliefs, whether atheistic, agnostic, or centered around religion or belief, must be tested at some point. This should be sooner, rather than later, in order to avoid sacrificing a belief at a moment of true struggle. I advocate spending a few years trying to prove the converse of whatever is believed. Fear not...I'm not telling you to believe in God. I'm asking that you challenge every assumption or belief that you hold dear, whether it deals with religion or deals with your system of ethics and morals. I'm asking that you evaluate every piece of information you receive, and test the warrant of every claim. Answer to the fourth:
I have no answer any more. I'm tired of all the prosthelytizing. I simply ask people to leave me alone, or explain that I already have set beliefs that will not change. Just yesterday, I was invited by an office mate to attend a Chi Alpha meeting with her. To those of you who don't know what Chi Alpha is, it's a cult-like Christian Fellowship group that operates on campuses. They target international students a lot because they are vulnerable in a new country. Once people get sucked into all the emotional candy provided, the leaders start controlling who gets to date who, and decrees whether they are "allowed" to break up with people or not. I've seen her come back from meetings alternatingly giggling and crying hysterically about "God's Love." Yikes. In short, I believe that religion offers a cozy system to many, but all organizations do that. I believe that it is up to us to figure out our own systems, but to do that, we must break free of what we know to be true. We must question, constantly, and never be satisfied even with "known facts." We must not be afraid to step outside of the lines periodically. We must accept that we are flawed, that we are often wrong in our reasoning. We must be devoted to the challenge.
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