inspiration in the weirdest places

I gnawed my fingernails down to the bone and I bit the side of my tongue until it bled. I didn’t notice it until a bit of blood dribbled out of the corner of my mouth; I probably looked like a murder victim.

There is something about physical pain that affects me so differently than emotional pain. I find emotion pain somewhat more distressing and debilitating, while physical pain you can combat with a shmorgasbourg of pills. I cannot cure my emotional pain, but in an attempt to do so, I lash out in other directions. I act out, aggressively. I attach myself to people and vices like barnicles; you have to practically kick me off to rid of me.

More recently, I have learned to express my emotional pain a little more differently. Walls that haven’t been around for a long time are rebuilt… fortified… and reinforced again. My emotional scars are not going to keep me from attaching again, but they numb the pain… the walls are my pain-killers.

-

In someone else’s warm arms, I instinctively pull away. He asks me what’s wrong but there’s nothing to say. Nothing is wrong. I give in. And in a moment of emotional disconnect, a brilliant epiphany occurs: I am no longer the person I used to be.

I emerge from a cocoon the next day, reborn with new wings. Shortly thereafter, I fly away. Free. I am now in a place that inspires happiness and makes me accomplish things I never thought I could do. I am suddenly the person I’ve been wanting to be since last summer, and my identity is no longer a siamese twin.

I’m young.

Sure, I’m not YOUNG young (I don’t fit into Limited Too’s clothes anymore, nor do I like what they sell) but I’m young enough that I still can’t get into bars without displaying cleavage or not know all the good hiding places in case the cops come to the house party.

However, I’m old enough to vote. I’m old enough to buy porn or cigarettes (not that I utilize this privilege.) I can get in to R-rated movies.

But the last thing I want at this age, in all honesty, is a baby.

The idea of unexpected pregnancy scares me. Almost as much as marriage at this age does. I am not at all prepared for the responsibility that either one of those things requires. I am fickler than most, and I feel that both of those things are fairly permanent situations.

So while perusing the pages of facebook - my favorite online distraction - I came across a name I did not recognize. Someone who’s face was familiar, and was friends with a lot of people I knew, but I could not place her name.

So I examine her profile, realizing we went to high school together, and that I do in fact know her. But why does her name strike me off guard?

Because her last name has changed. She got married.

In addition to the name change, her wall is full of congratulations and her latest photo album includes images of cut umbilical cords, scrunched tiny faces, and swaddling.

She had a baby.

Now I wish her as much luck as humanly possible. Only congratulations is in order. But it shocked me to know that someone who graduated from high school with me (and couldn’t be more than probably 10 months older) is married, and just gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. It makes me feel like a baby myself, like I couldn’t handle that much commitment in my wildest dreams; I have trouble keeping the television on the same channel…

I don’t know whether to be thrilled or terrified that I’ve reached the age where my peers are making the choices that truly define the rest of their life.

And on a personal, and truly ironic note, happy one year anniversary baby.

For some strange reason, I wasn’t allowed to drink Gatorade growing up. My parents never bought it and when it was provided to us, it was usually by a friend. I treated it like contraband… Gatorade was somehow a frivolous use of money, and heaven forbid if I am caught drinking it.

Thats not true, actually. My parents just seriously never bought us Gatorade.

Why deny me this simple pleasure, you ask? The answer is quite simple:
So I could discover it on my own in college when dying from illness and would be simply convinced that it was the juice of life and it would cure all ailments.

That’s it basically. I’ve discovered so many delicious flavors, and I have so many to go (I stay away from “blue and purple flavored” Gatorade because I hate it when my mouth changes color.) and I have simply not seen the spectrum of deliciousness.

If you have any new flavor suggestions, please don’t hesitate to mention them; I am in an “experimental” stage… of Gatorade.

Stay tuned for “Natalie’s Top 5 Gatorade Flavors” coming soon to a barely-read blog near you.

I’m sorry I’ve been out of commission for a few days. Today is the first day I’ve felt like I could possibly do more than lie very still and hope the pain goes away.So, in explaination of my absence, I give you: Natalie’s Emergency Room Evaluations! 

Over the past year, I’ve been in 5 different emergency rooms. I should clarify: twice for myself, three times for others. 3 in Boston, 2 in New York. So I think I have a pretty good handle on where to go, and where definitely to avoid. Let’s begin shall we? How about with the oldest… New York! 

1. NYU Downtown Hospital
Time: Approx 10am
Day: uh… pretty sure it was a weekend. can’t remember.
Waiting room: 20 mins. there was pretty much nobody in the waiting room
Time spent being seen: I was told about 5 minutes
Diagnosis: correct. (verses “inncorrect”)
Staff was: okay. not amazingly lovely or anything. i’m pretty sure they were a “too the point” kind of group.
Thoughts: Although I wasn’t the one being seen (supporting a friend) I would probably recommend this hospital. It was FAST in terms of Emergency rooms, and they got my friend a perscription written up uber fast. An “in and out” operation here. I suppose if it’s not busy, it’s the bomb diggity. I remember getting off the train and deciding to “chance it” with this emergency room, and it turned out being a pretty good experience.
Score: 3.5 out of 5 stars (sorry I’m a hard grader)

2. St. Vincent’s Midtown Hospital
Time: oh jesus like midnight or something horrendous
Day: psh. too late for me to remember
Waiting room: full of smelly people. I left my poor friend before he was seen (someone else was with him too, but I had to work in the morning.) I think I was sitting there for at least an hour and a half. maybe 2 and he hadn’t been seen yet. nurses and shit were just standing around. triage was empty. this place was rediculous.
Time spent being seen: psh. wasn’t there. I think they were there until about 4 in the morning. maybe later.
Diagnosis: inconclusive. he was there to get a test. they took forever. who cares. this hospital sucked.
Staff was: nice, but it looked like the security guard was doing most of the work.
Thoughts: never again. i hate midtown. i remember my friend saying it was a miserable experience as well. and i think the vending machine stole my money.
Score: 1 out of 5

AND TO BOSTON:
3. Bringham and Women’s Hospital at Longwood Medical Center
Time: sometime in the evening… my boyfriend had just been hit by a car on his bike so time wasn’t really the first thing on my mind.
Day: sometime in september. weekday. i think a wednesday.
Waiting room: fulllll. holy crap it was full. i waited about 15-20 minutes while the lady at the desk checked to see if boyfriend was allowed to have visitors. they let me in immediately after that.
Time spent being seen: uh, forever. I’m pretty sure we left sometime around 4am. But we were well attended and he was well taken care of.
Diagnosis: Super broken wrist. Needs surgery, STAT.
Staff was: Nice peeps. The doctor was nice and direct (even tolerated all of my questions and talking to my surgeon father on the phone for more specific info) but I’m not sure if I totally trust him because after he snapped my boyfriend’s wrist back into place on the first try (he mentioned he had never successfully done it before) he said “very niiiiice”, Borat-style. Boyfriend and I were terrified by this thought, imagining this doctor watching movies and having fun instead of studying how to fix people and doing surgery and such.
Thoughts: I would come here if I was in an ambulance, but I feel like if I was sick, I would be waiting in that waiting room for a looooooong time. Lots of sick people and weird crackheads. NO THANK YOU.
Score: 3 out of 5. I think we were there for like 7 hours or something. Might have been necessary time, but sometimes the nurses were kind of testy when I was demanding. Whatevssss.

4. Tufts Hospital at New England Medical Center
Time: Between 10:30 and 11.
Day: Sunday
Waiting room: EMPTY. I think I waited for about 10 minutes between triage and getting seen. (I was in a lot of pain so it seemed like FOREVER)
Time spent being seen: Hah. Like 10 minutes. They looked in my ears (I had a really bad ear infection) gave me some pills and ear drops, and sent me home.
Diagnosis: Correct. But my little brother probably could have diagnosed it.Staff was: effective. the doctor was nicest, my nurse was a beeezy. Good lord. She talked out of the side of her mouth and I couldn’t understand a single word she said (partially because I was deaf in one ear, partially because she talked out of the side of her mouth without moving her jaw.) The doctor was really nice, but the nurse was mean.
Thoughts: Def going back there. There’s no way I’ll get the same nurse again. Bwahaha.
Score: 4 out of 5. Highly recommended for those late-Sunday night emergencies. I will state, however, due to it’s location, it seems like a prime place for crack-addicts and homeless people. This is also taking into consideration that boyfriend and I watched a guy shoot up across the street after he asked us for a dollar. Nice.

5. Massachusetts General Hospital (MGH)
Time: 4am
Day: Wednesday morning (as in Wednesday at 4am, running over from Tuesday)
Waiting room: looks empty. smells empty… but is it actually empty? Triage saw me immediately and they took me in within 5 minutes of it. Triage nurse was SO nice… then they took me into a secondary waiting room next to the ED where a man in a wheelchair listened to his discman. I was the only other person in there. He asked if I minded if he rapped along with “SNOOP DOGG” cause it made him feel better. Okay, whatever. Little did I know he took on an alternate personality and started rapping at full volume, which was not good for my ear. He then continued to talk to me (while I tried to sleep on a folding chair) and then began to rap along with Eminem… so I went back into the ED and asked if there was anywhere else I could go. “Oh no. Is he singing again?” Yes. So they put me on a bed in the middle of the ED. seriously. in the middle of the room, not in one of those cute little bays where they keep sick people, but literally next to a doctor’s desk. You think it would have taken me less than 2 hours to really be seen then, dont you?
Time spent being seen: They saw me a lot, but let’s break this down. After almost 2 hours of lying in the ED, one doctor pushed on my stomach (I had severe stomach pain, hence the ER) and then another doctor pushed on my stomach, and then someone put a VERY PAINFUL IV in my arm, then took blood, (this is all happening in the MIDDLE OF THE ROOM MIND YOU) and I run away to pee in a cup, then after 2 hours, I’m put in a side room, which looks like it’s usually used for medical supplies (seriously) and am told by the very nice flamboyant man who moves my bed (with me in it) that I might have to be moved in case they need the room, because I’m the most “stable.” Great.
Diagnosis: Acid burn due to Advil. However, this is after the first doctor told me Mono, the second told me kidney stones, and the third just smiled and told me it was going to be alright (he was really nice) while I cried.
Staff was: Very nice. Sympathetic. They were super busy and obviously kind of stressed, but they were very nice and kept checking on me (probably because I was the only person in there under 65 and I was crying.)
Thoughts: Once I was in a “room” it was a fairly good experience, except that it was 6am, it was VERY loud, and a shift changed happened while I was there so there were like 300 different people I was dealing with and could probably only recall 2 names or so. I would say go if you’re in an ambulance or if you have a stroke. I heard them talking a lot about strokes; they seemed to be very knowledgeable.
Score: 3.5 out of 5. Waited wayyy too long. Once I was seen, awesome, except for the very painful IV.

So I hope my experiences help you with you future decisions on which emergency room you wish to attend. I’ve found the whole thing to be a very fascinating experience, considering as a child, the ER didn’t really exist when my dad (”Dr. Lewis!”) brought me in. I wish you all healthy lives and hope that you never have to have as much emergency room experience as me.

In kind of a gray cloud today.

Revelations are a funny thing. It’s unclear where they come from or why they happen. Mine are usually spontaneous - not in any way inspired by God - but happen when eating baby carrots, lighting a candle, or putting on sunglasses.

There are few people in my life that I truly love; these are the people in my life I could not survive without, who know me in my darkest hours. However, I do love a lot of people. I don’t believe that my love should be reserved for few, because everyone deserves to be loved, and the people who need it most are the ones that believe they don’t. I’ve found love in weird places. I’ve found it in aperma -stoned criminal who listened to me cry and told me that it would be okay when I needed it most. I’ve found love in a friend who shared his bed when it wasn’t even big enough for him alone, held me when I cried (even when he was attacked and accused of causing it), and brought such simple joy into my life that my gratitude cannot be measured in dollars, pounds, or gallons - only calories, the energy and light that he brings into my life. I’ve found love in a group of ducks by the side of the Willamette River, who discussed philosophy , coffee, cigarettes, and how to rate a girl on a scale of one to ten. (I found love in a tender kiss that haunts me in a way that only true caring can cause.) I found love in an absentminded prodigy, who’s creativity and spark inspires me to be the best artist I can be; his love never falters, never fails, never seems to waiver, even when I push it away. And last but not least, I’ve found love in a group of friends who seem to pull me out of the cave I’ve dug for myself with a glass of wine and uplifting spirits.

Somewhere in side, I still seem to question love and what it represents to me. Whether it’s just a bunch of chemicals, or it’s just a light bulb that’s turned on or off, depending on the weather.

I’m making a list, and checking it thrice; I’m never sure where love will hit me, but I am sure that I will hold my loves dearly to me. Even when I’m lost and can’t be found.

My mother met my father in western Massachusettes in the 80s. My mother was working in a private practice as a hand therapist and my father was just completing his residency at Boston Medical Center in the South End. They married in 1984 and moved to Oregon, where my father was offered a position. Although my mother quit her practice when they moved west, I was conceived into a world where medical care was generally free and was practiced in my parents bathroom or on the living room couch.
My father was a surgeon and would sometimes work long hours to fit multiple surgeries into one day. He was the only spine surgeon in the area, and patients would travel hours to seek treatment. My mother had taken on the role of housewife and made sure dinner was ready when he got home. Like clockwork, he would appear at the dinner hour and help with the final touches on the meal.
He was generally in charge of carving the meat. Lamb. Pork. Steak. Poultry. Regardless of the size of my father’s mammoth hands, the knife would become the scalpel, and perfectly portion protein was prepared.
I stopped eating steak by the time I was 14. At dinner, my father would explain the procedure of the day (if any) in detail.
“We had to deflate his lungs.” He said through bites of beef. “They were like marshmallows. After we fused his spine back together, we reinflated them. Like marshmallows in a microwave.”
He would make another cut into his steak, and red juice would flood the plate. The rice would absorb it, and the plate would be soaked in symbolic blood. It was surgery at the dinner table.

When I was fifteen, there was an outbreak of whooping cough at my high school. My parents were quickly informed by the administration that I had been sitting next to one of the infected students in French class, and I should be tested. When I started displaying cough-like symptoms, there was a Sunday morning trip to the hospital for a test.
“Isn’t the lab closed?” I asked.
“I’m going to take care of it.” My dad replied.
All sorts of lab tests had been conducted in my parents’ bathroom, so it wasn’t clear why a trip to the hospital was necessary for this one. As a child, these tests taught me not to fake sick.
“Maybe she has strep throat…” my parents would whisper in front of me. I knew what that meant. It meant a peel of a sterile plastic cover, a crack of chemicals in the handle, and the longest q-tip ever being scraped against the back of my throat. By later that afternoon my parents would know if we were infected. However, on “I’m (cough cough) sick…” the threat of a strep throat test was enough to get my siblings or me to the bus stop on time.
“Do you have to take my blood or something?” I asked.
“Nope.” My father was surprisingly tight lipped about the procedure I was about to experience. He unlocked the lab and led me inside. Sterile and dark, it was like a psychopath’s killing room. He turned on the lights, revealing special tools and examination equipment. He pulled some sort of testing stick out of a drawer I hadn’t noticed and peeled off the sterile cover. It was like the strep throat test, but on a curved metal wire; like an aluminum q-tip.
“So this is like the strep throat thing?”
“Nope. Sit here.” My father pointed to a counter top. I hopped up and it made me about eye to eye with my 6′2″ father. “Tip your head back.” He put his hand on my forehead and tilted my head away from him. “Take a deep breath.”
Inhale. Exhale. Now there is a giant q-tip in my nose.
I screamed and my father removed it from my nose.
“What?!”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“This is the test!”
“Are you testing my patience? What the fuck are you doing with that thing?!” I didn’t usually curse at my father, or any employee of the hospital for that matter, but sticking a 5″ q-tip all the way into my nose was not an awesome Sunday morning.
“I have to stick this all the way into your nasal cavity.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope. Sorry, Nate.” My father had a look on his face as if he was being forced to torture puppies. “Lets just get this over with and then we can go home.”
“You stick that thing in my nose again and I will kick you in the balls.” I was a terrified cat. Ears back. Hissing. I guarantee that if my parents had just sent me to the hospital to get the test done by myself, I wouldn’t have threatened any other doctor with ball kicking. Something inside gave me permission to throw a fit because it was my dad.
“Come on, Nate.”
“Dad, I don’t have whooping cough.”
“We have to test you. Your mom…”
“Fuck what Mom said.” Ears back. Hissing again. I started to cry. I really didn’t want that q-tip in my nose.
“Lets just get it over with. I’ll do it fast.” He promised.
“Nooooo…” I whined. I was fifteen going on four.
My father tipped my head back as I gripped the edge of the counter. The little q-tip bumped the inside of my nostrils as it explored my nasal cavity. It finally hit the back of my throat, that spot where you can feel snot dripping right before it slides down the back of your throat. It’s a part of your throat that things don’t usually touch, nor are you aware that it actually exists. It made my head feel hollow, empty inside. I think that was scarier than the test itself.
He took the q-tip out and patted me on the shoulder. I wiped tears from my eyes.
“See? That wasn’t so bad.” He knew it had been. Tears stained my cheeks. “Let’s go get a frappachino.”

Once during my freshman year of college I returned home and visited my old high school. It wasn’t really my old high school because they had knocked down the old building and built a new one in it’s place. It doesn’t feel like high school, but going back to visit my old teachers I cared about was important to me.

I went back and visited Ms. Carman, my old writing teacher and mentor. She seemed happy to see me, interested in what I was doing with my life, and kind. She didn’t have a lot of time to spend with me, so I left and went to visit another one of my English teachers.

I entered the classroom, exchanged hellos with her, and sat down. We talked, I told her about what I was doing at school, and she let me know what was going on in her world. She was acting a little funny and I asked her if something was up.

“We don’t really think about you after you leave here.” She said.

I didn’t know how to respond. It was a weird thing for her to say to me, especially after I made an effort to come visit and told her how much I wanted to see her.

Do they really not think about us after we leave? We think of them sometimes… they’ve had such an impact on our lives. I spent almost every year of high school with this teacher and I’ve had no impact on her? (I’d have to say I probably did.)

I think about what she said every once and awhile, and remind myself of how she hurt me with those simple words. I make an effort to remember the people I’ve met and make sure to acknowledge them in the future. I guess she’ll always have an impact on my life then, whether make an effort to remember her or not.

I’ve done a really terrible job maintaining the site. My beezy. I’ll try in the future to keep a little more up to date. Just a quick rundown of what’s happened since then:
- moved back from New York, to Oregon (got my wisdom teeth removed), and then back to Boston.
- still very much in a happy relationship
- survived first semester and moved into the second
- decided to move back to new york this summer

Overall, things have been pretty fantastic. I’m taking an amazing non-fiction writing class this semester and hope to post a wee bit more. Been getting in some great reading and watching as well. Here’s some recommendations for those following along…
Watch:
- Hot Fuzz
- Law and Order (always a classic. always fantastic.)
- Flight of the Conchords (omg.)
- There Will Be Blood
Read:
- E.B. White (nonfiction short stories)
- This Boy’s Life
- House of Sand and Fog by Andre Dubus III
- W magazine  

Keep enjoying life. The sun is starting to return to Boston and it does nothing but make me smile. 

In the near future, I’ll be picking up my life (again) and leaving New York.

Things haven’t been perfect, sure, but things havent been bad either.

I’ve loved working at Partizan Entertainment. It has - by far - been the best internship experience I’ve had to date. I’ve learned so much, and had such a great time through it all.

I’ve found a friend I now feel like I could never survive without (and don’t know how I made it this far without him in the first place.)

I’ve managed to keep in touch with my man and not feel like I’ve been so far for so long.

I’ve figured out which friends are in it for the long haul, and which ones only stand by until you fall. The ones that have stuck by me through thick and thin are the ones who know me. I love them more than words can describe.

I’ve learned my limits of stress. I know how hard I can push myself - literally how much weight I can carry - and when I need to stop, check myself, and chill out.

This summer had its highs and lows, but over all, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Sorry this is so… emo. Packing makes me sensitive.