Thursday, March 02, 2006

Lemons and Seascape



Lemons and Seascape by Gustavo Schmidt. He really gives the blog some class today, huh. Like music/writing where my taste runs from classical to punk to classics to graphic novels (thanks to Mr. Gaiman), my taste in art is all over the place, too. I was turned on to Gustavo Schmidt accidentally when Failbetter Magazine showcased his work. Actually, I'm being really nice in giving you a link to Failbettter Magazine because sending a short story to them is like letting said short story fly out a window from the top floor of a New York City skyscraper on a windy day -- you'll never see it again nor learn into whose hands it fell and whether they liked it or not...well, you can pretty much assume they hated it and are now using the printed out version as wallpaper in their bathrooms if you really want to be honest with yourself.

But they do publish some great stories, damn it! And while stalking their site in the hopes that maybe my story would appear one of these days despite my never hearing from them, I stumbled on their Visuals section and that's where I "met" Gustavo.

I want one of his paintings.

Anyway, I needed something pretty to look at today because last night was the fucking night from hell. I woke up at 2:30 a.m. with back spasms that were almost unbelievable. Out of nowhere. And for sure when you wake up freaked out like that in the middle of the night, you just know you should be calling an ambulance because the pain is ten times worse thanks to your over-active imagination.

I tried to stretch out totally flat and not move, hoping the agony of whatever this was would pass while wondering how it happened. I theorized it must be the dog's fault. Even though Monty is a beagle mutt and not very big and I have a queen sized bed, he is a major bed hog. Somehow he manages to sprawl out in various positions which leave me with one inch of mattress and 3/4 of my body hanging over the bedframe.

But then I realized I was also nauseous.

I'll spare you the rest of the details -- no, no, it wasn't from Julie's gnocchi, which, by the way, were outrageously delicious -- but it appears I had a kidney stone. I had one over twenty years ago -- I guess a few years before Julie was born -- and let me tell you, giving birth without an epidural is far less painful. (I know this because Eric was almost born in a cab and there was no time for an epidural -- otherwise, I would have requested, as I did with Julie -- not just a mere epidural but morphine and a gun to shoot Gary)

I got lucky this time (again, I will spare you the details) but that prior attack sent me to the hospital for four days.

Quick funny story about that -- I had a total Homer Simpson moment when Gary rushed me to said hospital. We didn't know what the hell was going on -- we were really young, pretty much newlyweds -- and I was doubled over in pain. Same thing -- I woke up in the middle of the night with crippling back spasms and nausea. Except back then, we were really heavy partiers and we were paranoid to go to the hospital because we figured we'd get arrested ten seconds after they got my bloodwork results. But it soon became apparent, like, after I'd thrown up ten times in ten minutes and was writhing on the bathroom floor in agony, that I required some serious medical attention.

So Gary drives me to the hospital and I'm literally screaming the whole way, in between rolling down the window and sticking my head out doing you know what...and we get to the emergency room at like 3:00 a.m. and I'm in so much pain I don't care who the hell is witnessing my primal yells...at one point I was on my hands and knees howling like a werewolf. Naturally Gary had to stand there and give out insurance information, and that was (sob) before computers so it was an even more torturous process than it is now, and while he's doing that, because I'm making such a lovely scene, they whisk me into an examining room right off the waiting room. Just to give you a little more background information, Jefferson Hospital is in downtown Philadelphia and their waiting room is huge - it can probably hold 500 people, and there are rows and rows of plastic chairs. At 3:00 a.m. on a Saturday night, they were jammed packed with everything from drunks to gunshot victims (non-life threatening) to bartenders who'd cut themselves on broken glass.

Anyway, because of my symptoms, they pretty much diagnosed that it was a kidney stone right away. I mean, I was like twenty years old. A kidney stone was something that never would have occurred to me. In the meantime, they had me get totally undressed so they could wheel me to x-ray...I'm wearing nothing but a hospital gown which they told me to tie in the back but I couldn't because I'm a klutz and I was a klutz in pain.

And then they shot me full of morphine.

Well, the morphine went to work immediately and I finally stopped screaming. By the way, this whole time, Gary is still filling out forms. The nurses left me alone for around fifteen minutes to call an orderly or whatever to take me to x-ray and that's when I discovered that the morphine was not in fact working anymore and I needed another shot.

Totally stoned on morphine and not knowing it, I decided to go for a walk and find some more drugs on my own. And where did I go? Why, out back into the waiting room of course, wearing an untied hospital gown with no underwear and my entire ass hanging out. So in essence, I gave a twisted nudie show to drunks and gunshot victims (non-life threatening) and bartenders who'd cut themselves on broken glass.

All of a sudden I heard Gary's mortified "ROBBIE!!!!!" and to be honest, that's all I remember because I passed out and didn't wake up until a few hours later in a hospital bed hooked up to an I.V.

So you can understand why I went into full anxiety mode last night.

And needed some Gustavo Schmidt this morning. I love the title Lemons and Seascape -- it's very sensual and...sensory? Is that the word I want? Hmmm....you get the point I'm sure.

And now for some Beth Orton on my iPod and some serious writing.

Later,
xo