Before my experience with, well, death, I considered myself a cranky old lady who was a mild version of the ‘well, actually’ dude that everyone hates. I had a mania for the truth in part because I grew up with very unreliable narrators (my parents). My mother forgets the bad things that happen or spins them in a way to make them positive. Years later, when i mention the original incident, my mother will look at me incomprehensibly as if I had grown another head. My father, on the other hand, has selective memory as well as genuine memory issues. He will forget things even if you tell him several times–and that’s something he’s interested in. If he has no interest in it in the first place, then you can forget about him even attempting to remember it.
As a result, I am overly nitpicky about details that don’t matter. That actually runs in the family, but I’m the only one who will admit it. I didn’t realize until I was in my late thirties that I could not rely on my mother’s memories any more than I could my father’s. It was a jolt, but it also was a relief. I spent so much time wondering if I was crazy because my mother would out-and-out deny things I knew had happened. One minor example is when I graduated from college, I was magna cum laude. I was pretty damn proud of that. After my graduation ceremony, my mom said that if I hadn’t gotten a B in my Intro to Psych class, I probably could have graduated summa cum laude. Needless to say, that deflated me and I was no longer proud I had graduated magna cum laude.
I asked my mother about it several years later and she had no recollection of ever saying it. In fact, she claimed that there was no way she could have said something like that. When I insisted that she had said it, she replied, “Well, if I did say something like that, it was probably to make you feel better in case you were feeling bad about not getting summa cum laude.” Which is utter horseshit, of course. It was clearly something she had made up on the spot and even if it were true, it’s not a good rationale for saying something like that. It’s my mother in a nutshell, though. Introducing something superfluous into the conversation, based on a worry that she has or would have.
My point is that because of this, I developed a hyper-awareness of telling the truth. That ended when I landed in the hospital. Why? Because I was high as a kite for the whole week I was awake and for the first week I was home, too. During the latter, it mostly meant that I felt no pain and was beaming in benevolence at everyone. Everything was wonderful (I still maintain that the ice water in the hospital was the most amazing thing ever), and I had no complaints. Halfway or so during the second week at home, however, the meds left my system and I crashed hard.
I still didn’t hurt, per se, but I was acutely aware of the aches in my body that hadn’t been there before. I was also not as trippy-dreamy as I had been before, much to my dismay. That second week in the hospital (first week was me unconscious) was me chasing the dragon between reality and a made-up world. I Some of the things I thought were real but weren’t: there were two cabals running the ICU; there was a mobster who needed me to get my angiogram because he needed to change how his face looked; one of the nurses was propositioned by a rich man to be his mistress to pay for her schooling–and those are just a few off the topo of my head.
It took me an embarrassingly long amount of time to realize that I was tripping balls. The problem was that I was able to speak clearly and coherently so it never occurred to met that some of the things I was seeing and hearing were figments of my imagination. Another amusing one was that I was tweeting to Ian by writing in the air with my finger. What was I trying to tweet? How fucking fantastic the ice packs were for sleeping . I ‘wrote’ that I was going to buy stock in it when I got out of the hospital and why didn’t anyone tell me that ice packs were fucking amazing?
Because of being heavily medicated, I was also deeply appreciative of everything when I first woke up. I raved about how amazing the iced water was and demanded that ever nurse who entered my room bring me a fresh glass. Amazing was my word of choice, by the way. Everything was amazing, which made my brother chuckle. This was after I got over the shock of being unconscious for a week, of course. Not that I really got over it, but I did accept that it happened to me.
Once it was explained to me what I had gone through, I was profoundly grateful to my medical team for keeping me alive and bringing me back to consciousness. There were so many things that could have and should have gone wrong, and yet, they managed to bring me back nearly whole. Also, all the people who sent me good vibes, prayers, good chi, positive thoughts, etc., was astonishing. I believe that it’s 1/3rd of the reason I made it through the ordeal, however, with the other two reasons (in addition to my excellent medical team) are taiji and luck.
I spent the first week at home bombed out of my mind. As the drugs left my system, my gratitude remained, but my natural sarcastic side came back as well. I wasn’t a saint before I went into the hospital, and I’m certainly not one now. I appreciate things I’ve never appreciated before–like mornings–but I’m still irked by small things that I really shouldn’t let bother me.
I know that I’m extremely lucky to be alive without any permanent damage. I know that the fact that I can walk, talk, and type as well as I could before (not to mention think) is a blessing. But, I hate that I’m expected to be put on a happy face all the time and just shine gratitude. I’m still a human being with my flaws and foibles. I’m not anyone’s inspiration p0rn to wank off to when they’re having a bad day. I understand that people want something good in a very shitty world, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have a bad day once in a while.
I’m glad to be alive. Massive shout-out to my medical team for the fabulous job they did on me. However, I’m still going to be me, sarcastic nature and all. That’s an equally important part of me.