Monthly Archives: September 2009

Smorgasbord of Weekend Activity: 9/26-9/28

I couldn’t get this damn gallery ordered the way I wanted it.  I appreciate the privacy option of WordPress, but I sure do miss the simplicity of Blogger.  I think I’ll try to figure out Flickr.  For the time being, feel free to sort through my weekend in images . . .  backwards though they may be.

Saturday, 1pm-6pm: Taste of St. Michael’s, St. Michael’s Orthodox Church: Princess Habiba performs Slavic and Arabic dance.

Saturday, 6:30pm-8:30pm: Who would’ve thought balloons could be terrifying?  Rocky decides she doesn’t want to go for a ride – “Mommmmeeee! It’s HOT!”  Loud, too.

Monday, 5:30am: My car, parked in front of our house, is totaled by a drunk driver.  Repeat offender.  She is going to JAIL.  Note – a few of you (Mags) may remember when this exact thing happened to Ru’s car, the same make and model, parked in front of our house in Austin.  I took lots of pictures because the police lights cast gorgeous eerie shadows.


In case you ever wondered what makes the universe spin . . .

. . . baby laughter.

Wouldn’t it be funny if this post-surgery mini-menopause, complete with hot flashes, unexplainable crying fits and “surprise cycles” didn’t go away?

OMG, I would laugh and laugh!

Universal Health Care, Equal Rights and Thou

I had my final post-op follow up yesterday.  In the course of that ten minutes, I found out that that last real bad stint of pain I had, pre-cyst-removal, was the pain of my fallopian tube being twisted over due to the weight of the cyst.  The pain was my body trying to tell me something was very wrong.  It twisted three times, and the pain was due to loss of blood flow to the ovary.  That was the moment I should have gone back to the hospital.  They would have taken another x-ray, perhaps another CT, gone right in and removed the cyst, and saved my ovary.

Instead, I took Percocet and stayed in bed for a week, the ovary went necrotic and died from the neglect.

I have no health insurance.  I can’t afford health insurance, not even the insurance they offer through my job, which is mediochre coverage at best, anyway.  It’s all we can do just to keep Ru and Rocky insured, through Ru’s job at the hospital.  We were already facing an $8,000 bill from my first cyst-related hospitalization, since the organization that was supposed to be helping me get emergency Medicaid spin-down lost my application, and nobody ever fucking bothered to tell me (I had been calling for three months to get a status report, and never got called back).

Plus, of course, I can’t be covered under my partner’s insurance, because even though we’ve been together for over ten years, have stuck together through incredibly trying times, are raising a child together, and frankly are more committed than most straight couples I know, we can’t have the rights afforded straight marriages because then the fundamentalists’ children would start fucking goats.

I knew on a deep level, that day, that something was very wrong, during that second wave of pain.  But going back to the emergency room just didn’t seem like an option, so I took some Percocet, went to bed, and waited it out.  Sure enough, the pain went away.  The pain went away because my ovary died inside me, and dead things don’t hurt.

And now, because I’m just a queer, and because somewhere in my mind I was making a choice between caring for my body and keeping my child fed, I am missing an internal organ.  I feel sick.

Am I missing something?

So, now that I have an account, I have to know: what’s all the hoo-ha about Twitter?  I’ve heard the word “revolutionize” about it one too many times.  I had to find out firsthand.  So far, I don’t get it.

Rukan still wants to think it was just a big mouse.

I caught the warthog-sound-maker, and it was, in fact, a small, juvenile rattus rattus.  She was very cute, with big dark moon eyes and long pink jointy toes, like piano player fingers.  I fed her crackers, named her Li’l Plague, and set her free in the park.

Words no can’t make right sense. Sleep bad made warthog sounds.

I’m blocked.  What a time to lose my mojo, when there’s so much going on in this pea pod universe called Me.

Being tired doesn’t help.  I stay up late reading excellent fiction and essays (Meta Watershed, the home for my brain and soul, these days. Pyosz, where have I been all your life?).  I get up early to get Ry ready for school and me ready for work.  Last night, Rocky woke up with terrible leg cramps, her poor little bones growing so fast, requiring 20 minutes of massage, 8 hours of cuddling and a dose of ibuprofen to alleviate.  Then, just a few minutes after she stopped crying and fell back to sleep, I heard what sounded like a warthog rooting around under her bed.  Ru has said she’s seen something scurry in there in the pre-dawn hours when she’s leaving for work, something she has sized somewhere between a mouse and a rhino, depending on what day you ask her.  By the cacaphony it set up last night, I’m guessing we’ve got ourselves a smallish-to-medium-sized rattus rattus.  So I spent the wee morning hours getting the live trap set up and trying to keep my cool, since the mouse-rhino was under Ry’s bed, and I was in with her.  I’m not the least bit afraid of rodents, except when it’s dark and the rodent is under the bed and I’m just not entirely sure it’s not a shadowy fanged demon just waiting for my feet to dangle over the edge, because it knows I’ll have to get up to pee sometime.

And now, once again, I must put off trying to write what’s been wanting to get written, because I’m just too tired to words make out come unweird.