Monday, November 10, 2008

Prednisone

... Is the worst thing in the whole wide world.

Funny how the doctor mentioned "being on edge" but failed to mention my "loss of appetite," "crazy insomnia," "joint pain in joints I didn't even know COULD hurt like this" and "wishing I was dead."

My elbows hurt from bending them to use my laptop...

This stuff is evil, I swear it. :(

My Steri-Strips finally came off (or were taken off, either way), and my scar is pretty grody. You can see where the staples were, and I have a fun little line down it. Maybe a pic later.

But sometimes when I move in the wrong way, I can still feel the stitches under the skin. It sucks, but the pain isn't as bad as this dull throbbing of the rest of my body.

Perhaps I can go to sleep now...

Good night. <3

Saturday, October 18, 2008

What's Been Goin' On

Well, this is it in a nutshell...





















Words can't describe it.

Sunday, October 12, 2008

Harumph

So...

This old couple told me that I reminded them of their dead daughter.

I don't know whether to be weirded out or flattered.

I'm leaning toward weirded out.

Saturday, October 11, 2008

Gettin' an MRI is Srs Bsns

"Okay, sign here,” the receptionist at Invision Imaging at North Florida Regional Medical Center smiled sweetly at me.

So I signed. She seemed trustworthy enough. I highly doubted this whole setup was an elaborate plan to steal my vital organs. I mean, I was just going in for an MRI. There would be no slicing me up or putting me to sleep. If they did something like that, I’d probably notice a thing or two was amiss and say something.

That would be ridiculous, though. I started to think about imaging specialists dressed in black, with their hair all slicked back (because that’s what all bad guys look like, of course; maybe they’d have long, skinny mustaches and top hats in order to better channel their inner Snidely Whiplashes), poised over patients’ bodies as they were stuck, helpless, in the MRI machines.
Those machines are so loud, nobody would hear them scream…

Smiley Receptionist broke through my thoughts. "And sign here."

"And here."

"And here… And here, and here… Aaaaaand here.”

I should probably be reading these forms more closely. I might have just signed away my spleen… or soul, or something.

Oh well. What’s done is done. They’ll have to fight me for them.

As I was walking back to the waiting room to sit until they called my name, Little Miss Smiley Receptionist’s voice rang out like a shrill bell, "Oh, and by the way, you'll have to take out all your piercings, including the one in your tongue."

Oh shit, why did she say just that?

Hearing the words "piercing" and "tongue" used in the same sentence directed at his daughter, my father, who was accompanying me through all this, swung around and "What's in your tongue?" couldn't come out of his mouth fast enough.

I was caught.

Slowly, I stuck out my tongue, and the 14 gauge barbell with pink beads that I had managed to keep hidden around my father for two long years was out on display for the whole world to see in all of its stunning glory.

The noise my father made could only be described as Eeeeeuuuugh.

I shot Perfect-As-A-Picture Little Miss Smiley Receptionist a look of death. It was like she wanted to get me in trouble; I just know she did.

Bitch. I hate her.

Whatever. Looking over at my father, his eyebrows were arched almost straight up to his hairline in his signature “I am not impressed with what is going on at all” look. The name that my mother and I came up with for that particular look, I just noticed, is quite a mouthful. He turned his back to me and walked through the door of the waiting room. I knew that I hadn’t heard the last of that.

I plopped down in a waiting room chair (Seriously, do they purposely make these as uncomfortable as possible?) in a way that couldn’t be any good for my back.

I think I just felt something pop back there.

Leafing through the pile of three-month-old magazines, I picked up a bright pink copy of Cosmopolitan and started flipping through the pages.

Advertisement.

Advertisement.

Advertisement.

Sex tips.

Advertisement.

Fashion dos and don’ts.

And more advertisements!

I refuse to read this nonsense any longer. I can feel my brain atrophy by the second.

I put the magazine back in the stack I got it from, placing it at the very bottom of the heap, so the thing wouldn’t trick any other unsuspecting people into wasting their time reading it.

Sighing, I looked around. I studied the other people in the room: my father, his eyebrows still arched up to high heaven, was watching the news on the waiting room television; a man, probably in his 50s, was wearing wraparound sunglasses indoors, even though it was cloudy outside; a woman with a mullet was showing complete disregard for the fact that those went out of style ages ago; and a young man in the corner of the room, was playing what sounded like a Simpson’s game on his Nintendo DS.

My father continued to watch the news. I think the plunging stock markets were making his eyebrows arch like that (or at least I hope so; it couldn’t still be because of my tongue). The old man looked to his left, then to his right, and then he busied himself with a copy of the Gainesville Sun, the paper making crinkling noises as he brought it up to his face. The young man with the video game… well, he just continued to push buttons on his game, with Marge and Homer making random comments as he did so.

Why doesn’t he turn that blasted thing down?

“Ms. Jawad? We’re ready for you.”

I hobbled through a hallway (making sure to glare at the receptionist she-devil as I walked past) and into a changing room, where the nurse asked me all sorts of questions I had heard before.

“Weight? Height? How’d this happen? How would you rate the pain on a scale of one to ten? Where exactly does it hurt? Does your foot go numb? Do you sense any weakness in your leg? Do you have any difficulty doing daily activities?”

I answered them all just as I had answered them those many times before. “About 140 pounds. Five foot ten. I fell off my bike, flew over the handlebars. It’s about an eight right now, but it varies between a five to a ten. My whole leg hurts. Yes, it does go numb, especially when I’m driving. Yep, it’s a lot weaker. And yes ma’am, I do.”

You’ve always got to throw a ma’am in there somewhere.

Once that was done with, she gave me the run-through. No metal anywhere (but fixed retainers and braces are a-okay), no clothes, put this robe on, put all of your stuff in a locker, and bring the key with you.

Sounds easy enough.

After removing the metal from my 11 piercings (Hah, there’s more that my dad doesn’t know about!), I stripped down to my underwear and surveyed the over-starched hospital issue robe.

It was huge in the way that four of me could have fit inside of it. And it hung wide open in the back.

I have never been happier to not be wearing a thong in my life.

I put it on, and tied it up as tight as I could to protect my underwear from being seen by everybody.

At least they’re cute.

… Much unlike the robe itself. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of ugly light blue that smelled like hospital.

After locking up my belongings, a nurse showed me into a room, and there it was.

So, Machine, we meet again.

The nurse explained that the process would probably take about half an hour.

Thirty minutes.

Thirty long minutes where I can't move at all, where I am stuck in the noisy, hulking beast. A lot can happen in that time period. I could have a pizza delivered to my house, or I could watch a sitcom, and if I was traveling at 70 miles per hour, I could cover a whole… 35 miles.

The nurse left the room, and it began.

“It” was all quite unceremonious. The man operating the MRI machine looked nothing like my cartoon villain idea of a bad guy, which made me breathe a sigh of relief. I think my organs did the same. I don’t know why I expected more from him, but what I got was this: “Okay, your head goes there in between those things, that ‘pillow’ is for you to rest your legs on, and these earplugs will help with the noise.”

Oh yes, the noise. All the noise, noise, noise, noise.

After I positioned myself on the machine and put my earplugs in, he said, “Oh wait, we’re going to put these foam pads beside your head to keep those earplugs in your ears.”

Great. Now I can’t move my head at ALL.

I started to move through the tunnel of the machine. No matter how many times I go into one of these MRI machines, the first few seconds are always terrifying.

Okay.

I’m in, and I can’t move for a while. This is all right. I can do this. No sweat.

“Doing all right in there?” the man operating the machine’s voice that seemed to come out of nowhere asked.

… God, is that you?

“Um, yeah. I’m okay. Just a little cramped,” I answered with a strained laugh.

“Okay, well if it gets too bad, just holler.”

Really? Holler?

Has he ever been inside one of these machines? I doubt my hollering would be heard over the din of this hulking beast that is holding me captive.

It started up.

Whirrr click click.

Not too bad.

WHIRRRRR CLICK CLICK CLICK.

Okay, a little worse…

BOB BOB BOB BOB BOB BOB WHIRRRRRRRRR CLICK CLICK WHIRRRRR.

Oh lord, and I have to be in here for how long?

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Teh Ragin' Cajun

Oh, James Carville, you're so silly.

Everyone should deal with their problems... CAJUN STYLE.

Friday, October 3, 2008

Seventeen- What??!

$17,294.24

That's how much it's going to cost.

This morning was awful.

Thanks a bunch, Shands... and thank you, Assurant Health.

Feeeeeck.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

May 12, 2003 / 11:10 p.m.

“They’ve got machine guns! They’ve got machine guns!”

She didn’t know him by name, but he was another guest at the dinner party; the party that they shouldn’t have even gone to in the first place. It was a weeknight, what were they doing out so late?

Why did it sound like there was thunder a few minutes ago when the desert night sky was clear? Why did a flare just shoot up into the air? Why was this man running towards them like a bat out of hell, shouting about machine guns? Who are “they?” And why do they need guns? What’s happening?

Too many questions. No time to think. React. Get inside. Where is my son?

The host struggled with the keys. Seconds lasted an eternity as the party guests pushed forward, trying to get away from the unseen, unknown horror.

Then it hit.

Everybody was pushed through the doorway by the blast, and for a moment, there was absolute chaos. The glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room – the room they were sitting in no more than fifteen minutes ago – shattered into millions of tiny glittering pieces, and for one brief moment, it appeared to be raining diamonds. People were falling over each other, stumbling, tripping on the hallway rug, trying to steady themselves, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

My Sammy, my baby… I can’t let anything happen to him.

She fell to her knees and her son fell in front of her. She instinctively wrapped her body around him, trying to shield him from – from whatever it was that was happening, holding him as close as she possibly could. She could feel things hitting her back: not the shards of glass that were flying from the windows into her skin, but substantial things… legs of people tripping over her as the blast propelled them forward, and other things that she couldn’t identify.

Later on, her husband would tell her that as they were making their way through the front door, he had turned around and looked to his left. He saw the wave of the explosion make its way towards them from where it started, over by the pool area, before he could feel the wave of it crashing into him.

The noise seemed to all fall away, and it was as if she was suspended underwater. Movements were slow and uncoordinated. She could barely breathe. She was afraid to open her eyes, for fear of what she would see around her.

Sammy! Is he okay?

The hostess obviously had the same thought. “My children!” she shrieked as she ran up the stairs to their bedrooms. Her husband was a few steps behind her, as everybody else in the confused dinner party went to the family room at the back of the house. She scooped her son up in her arms and carried him back there. Her son was looking up into her face, bewildered. His eyes wide, he clung to her tightly.

The curtains were drawn – thankfully these windows were still intact – as everybody came in. The room soon radiated with the warmth of about twelve terrified people. It was as if it became its own entity.

Somehow, at some point while they were in the family room, the lights were turned off. She didn’t recall when it happened, but she looked around, and each and every one of them was shrouded in darkness. The only light in the room came from people’s cellular phones as they tried to get a hold of their loved ones; some calling, some texting.

One woman stood out, huddled in a corner under a table. Her facial features were lit up by the two inch screen of her phone, her eyes glowing eerily as she licked her lips, and large blue tears streamed down her face while she pounded out a message to her husband.

“No idea what just happened…” “ An explosion, I think…” “Yes, we’re okay… for now,” “The windows are completely gone.” “…Guns.”

Bits and pieces of conversations. Shouldn’t we be quiet?

“Yes dad, I’ll call you when we find out more… You too, good bye.”

The last one was her husband; the loudest of the bunch, of course, easiest to pick out. Wasn’t that always the case? Or was it because his voice had simply broken through her thoughts?

“We need to get on the floor, away from the window in here,” someone said, “just in case that wasn’t it… just in case something else happens.”

Did it matter who said these things?

They all complied. They settled themselves against the walls, huddled up against one another, her son pressed up to her left side. She could feel his heart beat, could hear him breathing. He was there, and he was alive, and that was the most important thing.

My baby, my child, my Sammy. What is he thinking through all this? I can’t stand to see him going through this. What’s going through his mind? He’s sitting there so quietly… hasn’t said a word.

Her husband put a hand comfortingly on her arm as they sat there in the darkness (It truly was darkness at this point; nobody was using their telephones anymore. They were just sitting as quietly as possible and waiting.), and then suddenly he pulled his hand back, wincing in pain with a sharp intake of breath.

“You’ve still got glass in you…”

She looked down at her arm. She hadn’t even noticed.

It was at that moment that her husband realized something was terribly wrong. Up until that point, it was nothing but confusion; chaos. Even if everything had seemingly calmed down outside, for they could no longer hear gunshots ringing out into the night, their minds were all stumbling about, grasping on to anything that made sense. For her husband, the glass embedded in his wife’s arms was enough to bring it all back into sharp focus.

Gingerly, he tried to take the shards of glass out, but she held up a hand to stop him. “No,” she said. “I don’t want to bleed any more than I am, so just leave it there for now. We can deal with it later.”

Time passed with them quietly sitting. There was nothing to do but let her mind run free, faceless terrors popping up in every corner of her thoughts. Not knowing the full extent of the damage outside, she could only imagine.

If it did this much damage to us in here, how bad is it where the bomb went off? I don’t think I want to know…

Ten minutes could have passed, or an hour and a half. She couldn’t tell. In the darkness, time seemed to stand still. She was tired: tired of being here, tired of not knowing what was going to happen next. She held her son close to her, ignoring the pain in her arms, as she felt his steady breathing.

Sammy, I’m so sorry you have to go through this. I’m sorry, baby… I’m so – Wait, what was that?

Outside the family room, out in the hallway, there were footsteps. Heavy, clumsy footsteps. Were they getting closer? It did sound as if they were. They stopped right outside the family room, and they heard the faint *click* as the doorknob turned.

Everybody looked up, terrified. What was on the other side of that door? Would their last minutes alive be spent huddled together on the floor in a dark room?

No. Thank God, no. The host opened the door and peered in, asking if anybody wanted some water. It was as if the whole room was holding its breath until that moment, and it let out a collective sigh when they realized who it was.

“Go back upstairs to your family. We’re fine,” said somebody across the room. (But are we, really?) She couldn’t make out the face, but the voice was very familiar. It sounded like the man they had over for dinner at their house a few weeks ago. Or maybe she was completely wrong. Who knew?

The host came back into the room. Somehow, with the scare he gave them earlier, everybody was a little less on edge.

“My next door neighbor just came in; he said it’s all over.”

Just as they had somehow turned off, the lights seemed to magically turn back on. Funny how these things happen. People were shakily standing up and brushing dust and other things off of themselves.

She stood to get up, to try to pick out the tiny pieces of glass anchored in her arms (and back, it felt like). But as she stood up, her son, who had been sitting there quietly this whole time, looked up at her, held tightly onto her leg, and said, “Mommy…”

She sat back down and held him in her lap. The glass could wait; her son needed her.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

This is an Update


... And this is what Naudia looks like when she's intently watching The Weather Channel.

Go figure.

HAI GUIZE! <3

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Epic Poem

I wrote this about a year and a half ago, and it's awful and stupid but it made me smile.

THUSLY, IT IS EPIC.


Am I going?

Or am I not?

I can honestly say

That I know not.

What do I do,

What can I say,

To just take

This pain away.

Shitty poem,

Horrible rhyme,

Writing it

To pass the time.

Is it working?

Don't think so.

But who the hell

Am I to know?

"She's a good girl,

Crazy about Elvis.

Loves horses,

And her boyfriend too."

Oh wait!

That's not mine.

But copyright infringement

Happens all the time.

Sunday, June 29, 2008

Signs

"There's like 26 states between here and there, now THERE'S a sign."

Yeah, probably.

I'm done.

The only way that I could be in more pain is if I took a baseball bat and whacked my leg incessantly.

I can't wait until we go back to Florida and I can get this show on the road. I want to start my classes again, and just not stop until I finish. I want to get this done, and I'm going to do an amazing job, because I know I can.

So many different things...

"Sham."

Move over, Ann Curry. MOVE OVER.

Saturday, June 28, 2008

Wonder

So, what now?

I'm pretty sure this happy facade will crack soon; you can only pretend for so long. It's beginning to get weak and strained, and worn around the edges.

Keep going, keep going, keep going, keep writing, keep writing. Keep your sanity. Get it out, don't keep it in. I kind of knew something like this was coming; I was too upbeat yesterday for my own good. It hasn't even been that long... but I can't stop trying.

It will change soon, I promise.

... I hope.

There will always be hope.

Take that, Oscar Wilde.

Yes, I am aware that I switch between talking about myself and talking to myself, but that's pretty typical of me lately.

Friday, June 27, 2008

Warning: Sappiness Ahead

There's so many things that I've learned through all that's gone on, and the best part is that I hadn't even realized that I had learned them until recently. Looking back, I am so thankful for all that has happened in my life, and in the lives of those closest to me.

I realize how important those that I let into my life are, and I know that without their help, I wouldn't be where I am today. Everybody makes an impact, no matter how big or small... or how good or bad that impact is. I'm trying this new thing where even if someone leaves a horrible mark on me, I'm going to find a way to make it positive. So far, so good. I'm tired of crying, I'm tired of feeling that things are all my fault when they're not, and I'm tired of not feeling good enough when I know that I am.

The past... is the past. I've learned to live and let live, and to just let go. There are important things, certainly, but dwelling on the past doesn't do anybody any good. At first I thought that all of this would just make me angry, upset, and hurt... but far from it. This week has opened up my eyes to so much, and I'm happy that it did. Yes, it hurts... It hurts so damn much, but the pain isn't one that I can't deal with. It's a hopeful kind of hurt; the kind of hurt that gets better over time... the kind that you can smile through and not feel like a phony. Maybe it's unreal, but maybe not.

I understand the importance of embracing every moment of life, and not having regret. "Live every week like it's Shark Week," said Tracy Jordan to Kenneth the page, and it makes sense. Why worry about what could happen when the here and now is what we've got? Nothing is for certain, and it could all end tomorrow, so I refuse to let myself get caught up in the things that I haven't done, or the things that I could've done differently.

I have no idea what I'm going to do with the rest of my life, and I'm working for something, and it's exciting and amazing and terrifying all at the same time. I'm ready for whatever life can dish out at me, because I, good people, am one tough cookie, and nothing is going to get me down. Yes, there will be hard times, and yes, it's going to be a long and hard road, but I can get to where I need to be, regardless of how long it takes.

Somehow, whenever expats get together here, the subject of the Riyadh bombings always comes up. I'm not sure how it starts, but it always ends in this feeling of absolute dread, and I always learn something new about it. My whole family could have been gone in an instant, and as much as I complain about them, I love them all so much, and am so thankful for them.

I'm thankful for everybody that has made their way into my life, and maybe right now I'm looking for something that may not even exist, but that's not going to stop me, or turn me into a bitter, disillusioned wretch.

I spent the evening talking to an old Algerian man, and it was such a good experience, because he's been through quite a lot, and he's been all over the world.

I want to travel the world one day... and have crazy stories to tell, too.

One day...

I still have hope. Silly, silly me.


Is this what growing up is?

Saturday, June 7, 2008

Letter to the male population of Saudi Arabia

Dear Sirs,

I am writing to you in regards to the treatment of women within your country (Yes, your country, because it sure as hell isn't ours). I know this will fall on deaf ears, but it has to be said. Somewhere. Even if it never reaches you, let it be known that this is unacceptable. By far, you should be ashamed of yourselves for letting it go on like this. You should be even more ashamed of yourselves for making US pay for everything.

Why do we have to cover up? Why do we not get to experience the simple freedoms that you take for granted? Protection of our virtue, you say? It's nice to know that you even have a committee that does that for us, in their Suburbans and with their short thobes and long beards, because God knows we can't do it ourselves. Oh, NO.

Here's an idea: how about YOU don't look? How about you work with us instead of against us all the time? How about you realize that the vast majority of the problem is men's complete and utter lack of control?

Why should i apologize for not accepting this subservient role that you have so kindly bestowed upon me?

Here, I'll apologize for a few things. I'm sorry. I'm sorry you're so closed-minded that you believe women don't belong working here. I'm sorry that you're so backwards you think this is all right. I'm sorry you need to have control over us at all times, or else your pathetic little egos will deflate. I'm sorry that I am not what you expect me to be, and that I never will be. I'm sorry that I feel this way, because I know others must feel it too.

Who are you to say that I belong in this position, and that I should do this, or not do that?

... And why is this bothering me so much?

Thursday, May 22, 2008

What's the Matter?

What's the matter??

I don't know.

You tell me...

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Homeward and Onward














Yay finally it stopped being a butt and let me upload the last two pictures!

I.

Am.

Home!

Thursday, May 8, 2008

London Calling

But seriously, who's listening anyway?


I'm very... very tired.

Monday, April 28, 2008

Don't Bother

It's late and I'm tired, and maybe if I just get all this out, I'll be able to rest.

I hurt.

So damn much, and I don't know if it's going to get any better.

And that's frustrating as hell.

And those that mean the most to me are far away... I hate going to sleep alone. I hate waking up alone. I hate being awake late at night with nothing but NPR to keep me company. Eating alone, driving alone, alone alone alone.

The sooner it is that I get to see them, the worse it gets it seems...

I just don't get it.




There was actually a hair on my notebook, and I didn't notice until I got that picture on my computer and tried to wipe it off.

Ridiculousness.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

'Til Friday










Nutty bars and burritos.

Om nom nom.

... I'm hungry.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Where Are My Glasses?

I don't know why it hurts so much.

Regardless of the reason, I need to buck up and get this work done.

It'll be much ado about the framing of a rape in the media, and the effects of the Colbert Report on the ever-widening knowledge gap in our society (for the next few days, at least). No, these two are not related. And then I'll be done. If I make it, I can rest.

And then seventeen more until I get to visit... THE KINGDOM.

There's this one spot on the highway right before you get to Riyadh, where you go over a hill, and you can see the lights of the city stretch far to the left and right... as far as you can see. And with the surrounding desert shrouded in darkness, the lights stand out that much more. They're magical.

It used to be that when I saw those, I knew I was home.

Now, all I need is my family to know that I'm home. Because home isn't a place. I know I've said this before, but it's the people around you. Those people that just make you feel comfortable and content.

I can't wait to get this show on the road.

...

A DAMNED SQUIRREL JUST JUMPED INTO MY SLIDING GLASS DOOR.

-_- Heart attack plz.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

Oh, Snap.

"Flavored vodka is for sissies and pregnant women. You'll get what you get."

Mhmm.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008