There are not many things that I am really, really good at. I am adequate at many, decent at some, and good at few. But really, really good? Why, it's almost unheard of. That being said, I have discovered something I am really, really good at.
By this point, we all know I'm excellent at being sick. That basically doesn't even count anymore. However, being sick does play a role in my newly realized talent. So, um, yes. On with it.
I am really, really good at ruining holidays for myself.
Awesome, right? I totally think a $50,000 cash prize is headed my way somewhere in the near future. Although, if this talent is going to win me any contests, I'd better supply something to back my statement up. So here it is, a few of the more recent occasions that I've managed to make miserable:
1. It hasn't happened yet, but this Christmas will suck because I'm sick right now, and viruses generally take me and my incompetent immune system 4-5 weeks to fight off.
2. This past Thanksgiving, I spent the night before throwing up, and the day itself curled up on a couch with no appetite, refusing my grandmother's constant culinary offerings. (which, by the way constitutes an unforgivable crime in her household)
3. Halloween, I sat in my basement with my dog, because I have no friends.
4. My birthday 2005, 2004, and 2003, I was grounded.
5. Last Mother's Day, I slept all day (I was just released from the hospital a day before) and in doing so, convinced my mother that I hated her.
I'm only giving you five, because my skills are getting a little depressing. Happy Kwanzaa. I haven't screwed that one up yet....
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Friday, December 15, 2006
In which Krissy upsets herself
I started to clean my room today. When this occurs, it is not generally prompted by my mother's requests. Nor is it prompted by her threats ("No Martha Stewart magazine until your room is clean!"). Rather, it occurs only when I have the desperate need or want to find something long buried by piles of clothes or hidden in shoeboxes of random junk.
Today I remembered something, and realized how sorry I was to have forgotten it.
Wasting time on facebook, I began to think about (naturally) my friends. I started to miss them, like I always do, and I began to reminisce about last year, before moving to Maryland. Then I started thinking about my going-away party, and then I started thinking about the going-away gifts, cards, and letters I received. I suddenly had the urge to find them, to sit and reread what had been written.
And so my search began. I started with the bin I keep pictures in, and began removing albums and loose photographs. First I unearthed my Damn Yankees phone tree, then my G.I. medals. I hadn't found what I was looking for, but I was on to something else. I continued my search elsewhere, in shoeboxes, folders, and bins. Now I was looking for not only going-away letters, but, reminded of G.I. and my various E.R. and hospital visits, for get-well cards and pictures, and perhaps most importantly, a set of notes written on Hilton notepaper that I received at G.I. state finals last year. I thought about this more and more, about how I had almost missed it because of collapsing, how my mother drove me down by myself because I missed the bus for a doctor's appointment, and how, upon my arrival in Springfield, I was greeted so warmly by my friends. Sometime that weekend, several of my friends gave me notes or drew me pictures (a certain someone surprised me with fruit snacks). I kept those notes, and put them on my bulletin board when I got home. I remembered now how I had packed them, along with everything else pinned on that piece of cork, and everything else inside my room, in an assortment of boxes and bins one week last June. And now, digging in my closet in Maryland, I wanted to find those notes.
I can't exactly explain why I wanted to find them so badly, aside from sentimentality. All I know is that I tore through dozens of still-unpacked boxes that are housed in the back of my closet, under my bed, and stacked in corners of my room. I dug, frantically, through every receptacle that had even the slightest possibility of containing that for which I searched. At the end of all this, I sat.
In the middle of the floor, surrounded by throw pillows, unironed slacks, human Geography papers and more, I began to cry. I couldn't find them. I had come across some letters sent by friends after I moved, and read over them fondly, but they weren't what I needed to find. Wiping away my seemingly unnecessary tears, I began to understand why I needed to find the particular notes that I did. It was because if couldn't find them, every scrap of paper and photograph and unremarkable object that I had ever saved and placed inside a shoebox was random junk. If I couldn't find them, it meant that somewhere along the line of packing and moving and unpacking, I threw them away. I discarded something meaningful, irreplaceable, and truly valuable. I left myself only with random junk.
The phrase "random junk" is significant, because you see, I used to think of my shoebox stuff as "homeless mementos". I would occasionally keep something given to me by a friend, or made by a younger cousin, and stow it away in one of these boxes, because I had no other place to put it. But all of this time, I believed that I cared about my shoebox stuff. I believed that I kept it for a reason. Upon the realization that I had disposed of such wonderful gifts from friends, I could no longer continue thinking that kept that which was important or meaningful. At whatever point I started "cleaning out" my boxes to save space (or whatever reason I had at the time), I turned my homeless mementos into random junk.
I'm still looking, in binders and drawers and folders, for those couple of notes. I'm quite sure that they're gone, because I've searched everywhere I can remember packing that sort of thing. Because sifting through my memories like I have today has made me want to read them. More than that though, it has made me want to prove to myself that I was not so foolish as to cast off a crumpled letter, and to keep only what was framed or purchased.
Today I remembered something, and realized how sorry I was to have forgotten it.
Wasting time on facebook, I began to think about (naturally) my friends. I started to miss them, like I always do, and I began to reminisce about last year, before moving to Maryland. Then I started thinking about my going-away party, and then I started thinking about the going-away gifts, cards, and letters I received. I suddenly had the urge to find them, to sit and reread what had been written.
And so my search began. I started with the bin I keep pictures in, and began removing albums and loose photographs. First I unearthed my Damn Yankees phone tree, then my G.I. medals. I hadn't found what I was looking for, but I was on to something else. I continued my search elsewhere, in shoeboxes, folders, and bins. Now I was looking for not only going-away letters, but, reminded of G.I. and my various E.R. and hospital visits, for get-well cards and pictures, and perhaps most importantly, a set of notes written on Hilton notepaper that I received at G.I. state finals last year. I thought about this more and more, about how I had almost missed it because of collapsing, how my mother drove me down by myself because I missed the bus for a doctor's appointment, and how, upon my arrival in Springfield, I was greeted so warmly by my friends. Sometime that weekend, several of my friends gave me notes or drew me pictures (a certain someone surprised me with fruit snacks). I kept those notes, and put them on my bulletin board when I got home. I remembered now how I had packed them, along with everything else pinned on that piece of cork, and everything else inside my room, in an assortment of boxes and bins one week last June. And now, digging in my closet in Maryland, I wanted to find those notes.
I can't exactly explain why I wanted to find them so badly, aside from sentimentality. All I know is that I tore through dozens of still-unpacked boxes that are housed in the back of my closet, under my bed, and stacked in corners of my room. I dug, frantically, through every receptacle that had even the slightest possibility of containing that for which I searched. At the end of all this, I sat.
In the middle of the floor, surrounded by throw pillows, unironed slacks, human Geography papers and more, I began to cry. I couldn't find them. I had come across some letters sent by friends after I moved, and read over them fondly, but they weren't what I needed to find. Wiping away my seemingly unnecessary tears, I began to understand why I needed to find the particular notes that I did. It was because if couldn't find them, every scrap of paper and photograph and unremarkable object that I had ever saved and placed inside a shoebox was random junk. If I couldn't find them, it meant that somewhere along the line of packing and moving and unpacking, I threw them away. I discarded something meaningful, irreplaceable, and truly valuable. I left myself only with random junk.
The phrase "random junk" is significant, because you see, I used to think of my shoebox stuff as "homeless mementos". I would occasionally keep something given to me by a friend, or made by a younger cousin, and stow it away in one of these boxes, because I had no other place to put it. But all of this time, I believed that I cared about my shoebox stuff. I believed that I kept it for a reason. Upon the realization that I had disposed of such wonderful gifts from friends, I could no longer continue thinking that kept that which was important or meaningful. At whatever point I started "cleaning out" my boxes to save space (or whatever reason I had at the time), I turned my homeless mementos into random junk.
I'm still looking, in binders and drawers and folders, for those couple of notes. I'm quite sure that they're gone, because I've searched everywhere I can remember packing that sort of thing. Because sifting through my memories like I have today has made me want to read them. More than that though, it has made me want to prove to myself that I was not so foolish as to cast off a crumpled letter, and to keep only what was framed or purchased.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
I do not like to put a space between the can and not of cannot.
I am in the sort of mood to be quiet and read Jane Austen novels, the sort of mood to twist my hair up and secure it with a pen. Naturally, I should be drinking tea. And eating apple crisp. In bed, with flannel sheets and a big down comforter. Also, my dog should be curled up at the end of the bed, not smelling of dog.
Instead, I am blogging. And punctuating fragments as sentances. Soon, I will get between normal cotton sheets and blankets and pretend I am sleeping. I will not be. I'll accidentally kick my iron footboard, and it will bang against the wall, interrupting the quiet, which is the only part of my plan that will actually be carried out tonight. I'll get thirsty and sip from the waterbottle on the floor next to my bed, in the shoebox with all of my pills. I will shut my door to keep the dog out, because if I let her in she would only make noise and smell.
Good night.
Instead, I am blogging. And punctuating fragments as sentances. Soon, I will get between normal cotton sheets and blankets and pretend I am sleeping. I will not be. I'll accidentally kick my iron footboard, and it will bang against the wall, interrupting the quiet, which is the only part of my plan that will actually be carried out tonight. I'll get thirsty and sip from the waterbottle on the floor next to my bed, in the shoebox with all of my pills. I will shut my door to keep the dog out, because if I let her in she would only make noise and smell.
Good night.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
What an eyesore
"Oh, how bizarre, how interesting and bizarre..." says Dr. Tong, examining the technician's findings. I'm sitting, slightly elevated, in an optical exam chair. Dr. Tong leans over charts filled with measurements (of what? I don't know) and my mother wrings her hands nervously. "Well," he says, "you have fourth-nerve palsy." I lean back, and for a reason I cannot recall, mutter "I gots me some palsy." to myself.
Dr. Tong continues, explaining exactly what the condition is. To paraphrase, a specific nerve/muscle combination that controls my left eye is screwed up. He stands up, takes a series of prisms from a drawer, and walks over to my mother's chair. "Using these prisms," he says, with a precise and oddly-emphasized English characteristic of non-native speakers, "I will simulate for you the way Kristen's eyes see the world." He lines up the prisms and holds them up to her eye. "Oh, my," my mother said, screwing her face up in concentration. "How on earth does she..." Her sentence goes unfinished. Dr. Tong removes the prisms and asks her what she saw. "Well, everything was doubled," she began. "But not just that. One half of something would be over here," she gestured to her left. "and the other half would be somewhere to the right and above it! I don't know how Krissy possibly sees." Dr. Tong nods. "Hold on," I say, "I don't see like that. I mean, I'll get double vision when I look in certain directions, but it's nothing so drastic as that." "Ah," Dr. Tong turns to me, "But it is!"
He begins pointing things out about me, things like my crooked glasses and the way I tilt my head slightly to the left. My mother tells him that the glasses are nothing, that I've always had crooked glasses, I have since I was in preschool, and so that couldn't possibly indicate anything. Growing more passionate with his speech, Dr. Tong responds. "Precisely!" He takes out some angle-measuring device and, holding it up to my glasses, mutters a rapid series of complex measurements to himself. "Her glasses are crooked at the exact angle to partially alleviate her condition! And you say they have been like this since she was young?" "Well," my mother says, "We always thought she was just rough on them." "Kylie always thought I had crooked ears.." I add. Dr. Tong is fascinated. "It all makes sense." he says. "The way you have bent them is therapeutic to your eyes. It moves things for you. Do you remember how your mother said things looked split through the prism?" I nod. "Well, by tilting your glasses, the lens moves things closer to where they should be. It is remarkable though, for a patient, even subconsciously, to have made these adjustments, especially from a young age!" "Oh. But if that doesn't entirely remedy my condition, how come I see fairly normally?" "Well, you tilt your head to the left, and while it is only a slight tilt, it contributes to the effect of the tilted glasses. Aside from these outward remedies, the rest is done through muscular compensation. You say that you have been diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome?" he asks. "Well, yes," I answer, "But I think that has more to do with the Ehlers-Danlos* syndrome than anything else..." "This may be true," Dr. Tong continues, nodding, "But the muscles of your left eye are working five, perhaps more, times as hard as your right eye in order to straighten out your vision. While it does not seem like your eyes could make you feel tired, this could be a major contributor to your already existent problem. You may not feel strained at this point in your life, but somewhere down the line, perhaps sooner than you think, the constant fight to see will take a toll on you. It will be too much." My mother looks at me, but I don't quite know what to say. "Furthermore," Dr. Tong continues, "your head tilt is dangerous, especially since you have Ehlers-Danlos. Over time, the vertebrae in your neck will stop looking like they are discs, and start looking like they are wedges. Your bones will change shape." "She's already in physical therapy for her back and neck!" my mother blurts out, looking overwhelmed. "Well," Dr. Tong says, "Let us explore the treatment options."
I sit back, waiting for the expected round of drugs that usually comes my way when doctors discuss my treatment options. "You have three options." Dr. Tong begins. "You can have surgery, wear prism glasses, or do nothing. I strongly warn you not to do nothing, because while it may not seem like an insurmountable challenge to overcome right now, fighting this disorder will only become harder for you. Surgery is your best option." "Well, we don't really want surgery." my mother says. "What are the prism glasses?" "The prism glasses use special glass, prisms, to shift the problem. You must be aware though, that the problem is not corrected, it is merely shifted. As Kristen currently sees, her vision to the right (with glasses) is fine. The center is mostly fine, but she occasionally sees double, and her vision to the left is awful. What prism glasses will do is shift the problem so there is no problem in the middle, less problem to the left, but the right, where there was no problem, will now have some problem. That is why I recommend surgery." Alright, but exactly what does the surgery entail?" my mother asks, clearly unsure of herself.
"Well, we don't actually take the eyeball completely out..." says Dr. Tong.
And so it looks like I'm getting eye surgery pretty soon. (I don't know how long it takes to get an appointment.) It also looks like I gots me some palsy.
Dr. Tong continues, explaining exactly what the condition is. To paraphrase, a specific nerve/muscle combination that controls my left eye is screwed up. He stands up, takes a series of prisms from a drawer, and walks over to my mother's chair. "Using these prisms," he says, with a precise and oddly-emphasized English characteristic of non-native speakers, "I will simulate for you the way Kristen's eyes see the world." He lines up the prisms and holds them up to her eye. "Oh, my," my mother said, screwing her face up in concentration. "How on earth does she..." Her sentence goes unfinished. Dr. Tong removes the prisms and asks her what she saw. "Well, everything was doubled," she began. "But not just that. One half of something would be over here," she gestured to her left. "and the other half would be somewhere to the right and above it! I don't know how Krissy possibly sees." Dr. Tong nods. "Hold on," I say, "I don't see like that. I mean, I'll get double vision when I look in certain directions, but it's nothing so drastic as that." "Ah," Dr. Tong turns to me, "But it is!"
He begins pointing things out about me, things like my crooked glasses and the way I tilt my head slightly to the left. My mother tells him that the glasses are nothing, that I've always had crooked glasses, I have since I was in preschool, and so that couldn't possibly indicate anything. Growing more passionate with his speech, Dr. Tong responds. "Precisely!" He takes out some angle-measuring device and, holding it up to my glasses, mutters a rapid series of complex measurements to himself. "Her glasses are crooked at the exact angle to partially alleviate her condition! And you say they have been like this since she was young?" "Well," my mother says, "We always thought she was just rough on them." "Kylie always thought I had crooked ears.." I add. Dr. Tong is fascinated. "It all makes sense." he says. "The way you have bent them is therapeutic to your eyes. It moves things for you. Do you remember how your mother said things looked split through the prism?" I nod. "Well, by tilting your glasses, the lens moves things closer to where they should be. It is remarkable though, for a patient, even subconsciously, to have made these adjustments, especially from a young age!" "Oh. But if that doesn't entirely remedy my condition, how come I see fairly normally?" "Well, you tilt your head to the left, and while it is only a slight tilt, it contributes to the effect of the tilted glasses. Aside from these outward remedies, the rest is done through muscular compensation. You say that you have been diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome?" he asks. "Well, yes," I answer, "But I think that has more to do with the Ehlers-Danlos* syndrome than anything else..." "This may be true," Dr. Tong continues, nodding, "But the muscles of your left eye are working five, perhaps more, times as hard as your right eye in order to straighten out your vision. While it does not seem like your eyes could make you feel tired, this could be a major contributor to your already existent problem. You may not feel strained at this point in your life, but somewhere down the line, perhaps sooner than you think, the constant fight to see will take a toll on you. It will be too much." My mother looks at me, but I don't quite know what to say. "Furthermore," Dr. Tong continues, "your head tilt is dangerous, especially since you have Ehlers-Danlos. Over time, the vertebrae in your neck will stop looking like they are discs, and start looking like they are wedges. Your bones will change shape." "She's already in physical therapy for her back and neck!" my mother blurts out, looking overwhelmed. "Well," Dr. Tong says, "Let us explore the treatment options."
I sit back, waiting for the expected round of drugs that usually comes my way when doctors discuss my treatment options. "You have three options." Dr. Tong begins. "You can have surgery, wear prism glasses, or do nothing. I strongly warn you not to do nothing, because while it may not seem like an insurmountable challenge to overcome right now, fighting this disorder will only become harder for you. Surgery is your best option." "Well, we don't really want surgery." my mother says. "What are the prism glasses?" "The prism glasses use special glass, prisms, to shift the problem. You must be aware though, that the problem is not corrected, it is merely shifted. As Kristen currently sees, her vision to the right (with glasses) is fine. The center is mostly fine, but she occasionally sees double, and her vision to the left is awful. What prism glasses will do is shift the problem so there is no problem in the middle, less problem to the left, but the right, where there was no problem, will now have some problem. That is why I recommend surgery." Alright, but exactly what does the surgery entail?" my mother asks, clearly unsure of herself.
"Well, we don't actually take the eyeball completely out..." says Dr. Tong.
And so it looks like I'm getting eye surgery pretty soon. (I don't know how long it takes to get an appointment.) It also looks like I gots me some palsy.
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