#127
Last night, I dreamed that my dad came home.
He’s still in the hospital.
on blood thinners and other difficulties
The “on chemotherapy and other difficulties” redux!
So for those of you who have been asking (and I do thank you for asking), here’s what’s wrong, what’s been eating me lately, whatever.
My dad’s in the hospital again. The long and short of it is that he needs to have a feeding tube (go google “gastric feeding tube” or something along those lines) because he can no longer swallow. His chemo was changed about a month ago from a cocktail of taxotera, carboplatin, and cetuximab, to what he’s on now, 5-flourouracil. The drug or the change in drugs or some interaction or the way it makes his tumors swell or his mucusitis or something has led him to not be able to swallow anything anymore (again! this happened on the first round of chemo, before the t/c/c cocktail).
So, anyway, he’s in the hospital because he needs a feeding tube. He was starving to death, and the feeding tube will help. Okay.
Remember that blood thinner we fought so damn fucking hard to get?
Now think. What would happen in surgery (like the kind you need to place a G-tube) to someone with medicinally thinned blood?
He or she would bleed out.
So the doctors, in their infinite wisdom, are letting -nay, making- him just sit there. So he’s just sitting in a hospital bed downtown. Alone. They’ve put him on vitamin K to help thicken up his blood whilst they wait for the rest of the Lovenox to leave his system. Damn it.
His doctor is on vacation. Obviously, I understand, everyone needs a break now and again, but this is highly annoying. Nothing will get done until he’s home and able to treat my father.
I hate this. I hate hospitals. The last time he just sat in a hospital bed and waited for something to happen, he got deep-vein thrombosis (threatening pulmonary embolism!) and a hospital-acquired staph infection.
I don’t want that to happen again.
I hate this.
my choir is doing a setting of
this poem. For the contemporary festival. Get excited. To be performed sometime in may or june, with the lovely mezzosopran-ish Nadia on the big/shiny/only solo. Needless to say, I’m extremely excited that we’re moving away from crap pseudo-whatever and onto something I actually like.
So!
THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS
by: W.B. Yeats
-
WENT out to the hazel wood, - Because a fire was in my head,
- And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
- And hooked a berry to a thread;
- And when white moths were on the wing,
- And moth-like stars were flickering out,
- I dropped the berry in a stream
- And caught a little silver trout.
- When I had laid it on the floor
- I went to blow the fire a-flame,
- But something rustled on the floor,
- And some one called me by my name:
- It had become a glimmering girl
- With apple blossom in her hair
- Who called me by my name and ran
- And faded through the brightening air.
- Though I am old with wandering
- Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
- I will find out where she has gone,
- And kiss her lips and take her hands;
- And walk among long dappled grass,
- And pluck till time and times are done
- The silver apples of the moon,
- The golden apples of the sun.
passing musical epiphany thing
okay so this is random and brief but before the music ritards and i lose it
i’m listening to philip glass’ metamorphosis five (BECAUSE I’M A DORK THAT’S WHY) and my hand is on my neck and my watch is near my ear and it’s ticking in time. forgive the lack of punctuation and capitalization, ladies and gentlemen, but this is really cool.
i’m very pleased with this.
also, in the world of modern and repetitive, today I discovered german techno made of remixed birdsong. rule of the internet: if you can imagine it, it exists. even if it is some blonde guy you’ve never heard of yammering on and on in german over birdsong computer-parsed to have a thudding beat. i mean, what? i am, however, absolutely intrigued. this guy has something. i’m not sure what, but something. more later.
apparently it’s video week at T&T
I really liked this, mostly because when I describe myself as a feminist, I get those “wow, you’re a fem-separatist/ feminazi/ man-hating ball-busting asshole” looks. It’s refreshing to catch a brief feminist-organization video with guys in it, with confident, short-skirtedwomen in it. What a joy.
And I felt like sharing.
So I did.
worth your time.
Watch. Think.
#121
If you’re a dancer, you’ll never stop dancing.
As soon as you start, you start wanting to get better. You’ll point your toes, and you’ll tap under your desk and chassé down the halls, whatever. You’ll crunch and press and stretch until you’re up to it, and you’ll have to try really really hard to not strangle those jocks who insist that dancers aren’t athletes. We do them one better- athletes and artists.
It’s okay; we all know that they wouldn’t last an hour in a swing class. You just know that they would be all hamhanded, incompetent leaders, pathetically shoving some poor girl’s lower back hither and thither.
But if you love it, it follows you everywhere. You’ll always be conscious of how you sit, how you stand, how your thumbs look. When you’re walking your dog, you’ll look down and realize that you’re walking in three against the two of the pavement (music freaks, you know you’ve done that). You’ll pull your spine up like there’s a string running from your head (heard it; haven’t you), you’ll pull your navel to your spine (heard it; haven’t you), and you’ll walk toeheel down the street.
And I love it.
the poet speaks of hills and other difficulties
Those who’re not as dorky as I: linkage will help. You’re welcome.
Today was a good day. There was couscous and asparagus and oh my god, guys, it’s spring, so berries. Dude. Berries! Blueberries and strawberries and blackberries. You have no idea how happy this makes me. Perhaps it’s an outgrowth of being related to a foodie, but good produce is one of the best things ever. And love winter though I do, the whole I-am-devoid-of-fruit thing is a bummer. It’s finally kiwi season, plum season, peach season, and mango season again. That’s a joy. Mango in plain Greek-style yogurt (pick your poison; this is mine- it’s one of the best things ever, and great with fruit or cereal) is as close to ambrosia as we earthly humans will prolly ever get, really nice perfume excluded.
If the time of year were right, today would have been called Indian Summer. It’s not- Indian summers happen between the start of fall and the start of winter. This is, of course, the dawn of spring, but I mean- it was amazing outside. Cold enough to retard your fingers, but warm enough to picnic and bike around the harbor without shivering. Clear and cloudless and around 47ºF all day. (I’ve been told that I’m a winterbeast. A temperature in the mid-40s is completely picnic weather. I don’t know why. Blame the layer of fat, I guess. I’m well-insulated. And I love the cold. But this isn’t cold.)
And, of course, I got to see the ever-fabulous Julia today, so all’s well.
The eternal father figure has been having a tough day, and I… I mean, it sucks. I hate it that he’s constantly coughing. Julia visibly flinched. I’m sorry that he has to hack and croak so much, and I’m sorry that I forgot that it skeeves people out who aren’t used to living with it. Ka-oy.
In other news, riding my bike for an hour a day is the best thing I’ve done for myself in ages. Any bike snobs out there- now is your chance to rip me to shreds. I ride a Giant Rincon. Yeah, laugh. I’d love to try a single-speed, but I ride off-road at least a half-hour every day, so things without vaguely fat tires are out of the question.
Carbon Leaf makes great biking music.
I’ve also become even more of a media junkie. Daily reads now include:
New York Times/ International Herald Tribune
Arts and Letters Daily/ the Chronicle of Higher Education
Wired Science
Joe. My. God.
Gizmodo
the full blogroll over —> that way and down
Der Spiegel’s English section
Le Monde, to the degree that I can understand it (I use a dictionary every few sentences.)
Utne Reader, when it updates
Washington Spectator
and listening to NPR and the BBC. I love my shortwave radio this much. It’s obscene.
But it’s good.
Don’t you all love it how I blog so much more on vacation?
When I don’t have school, I get a lot more posted. And I know that that makes you all swoon with joy. I’m sure. Mhmm. Yes.
But what I realized to a deeper degree than ever before today was that I really, really miss my friends. I guess it’s one of those things that come along with having friends who travel.
I found myself mentally attaching pieces of music to the people who’re currently on other contintents. T&T has a stringent no-names policy for lists like this (certain people excepted, only because they’re awesome- rachel, pip, julia, you know who you are), but a brief list of pieces I’ve settled on is in order, I believe. Maybe I’ll go by middle initial? Nah… persona?
Adams’ Short Ride in a Fast Machine, for the hyper one
Glass’ Metamorphoses, for the brooding one
Tallis’ Spem in Alium, for the complicated-but-transparent one
Beethoven’s Seventh, for the exuberant one
Debussy’s La Mer, for the soft and warm one
Schubert’s Winter cycle, for the fairy princess, don’t ask
Schubert’s Arpeggione sonata, for the one with the hands
and so on and so on. I could go on forever. Some pieces scream for certain people. What do you hear me as?
In that vein (man, we’ve gotten off the point), I got new music today. Spoon’s Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga and Carbon Leaf’s Indian Summer. Rachel, thanks so much for introducing me to Carbon Leaf. Love. Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga is also wonderful. It’s a good day.
But the point was sappy teenage angst! So, nu? It takes a few days away from my friends to make me realize just how sane they keep me. And how much I rely on them. And how much more I need to practice, listening to all of this music. G’yaaaaaaaaaaah.
I don’t know. It’s good, but I’m starting to get sick of not seeing them. I needed the time alone, but I’m done. I guess it’s time to dive into my vacation work.
“remember kids,
grammar is the clothing you wear when you’re writing.”
And the clothing you wear on the internet.
Don’t you dare leave the house in a sweatshirt and ripped jeans. I want to see you in a tailcoat. I want to see you in a tuxedo.
That is all.
P.S. I really do want to see every in a tuxedo. Go look up Marlene Dietrich in Morocco- Every girl’s crazy about a sharply-dressed tall lady singing in French in white-tie and hat. Tuxedos are attractive. =D
