The Everywhereist

Sunday was a landmark of sorts, and it passed without me realizing it.

That, I suppose, was most significant at all. Sunday was the four-month anniversary of my surgery.

At some point, I’d stopped counting the days since my brain surgery, and then the weeks, and now, it seems, the months. Rand had left town the day before, so I mostly sat around, working on our Halloween costumes, and yelling at the football game that was playing on the T.V. in a vain attempt to pretend that he was still home.

It almost worked. Turns out, I’m nearly as adept at taunting Tony Romo as my husband is.

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(My apologies for the gap in posting. I had intended to get up several blog posts yesterday, but instead I systematically poisoned myself.)

Carving out some quality time in Dublin.

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After the fussing and fueding that accompanied our Ireland trip, Rand and I decided to institute something we call “date night”. I know some of you are reading that and wondering why the hell a childless, petless, gardenless (I threw gardens in there because they sound like a lot of work) married couple would need a date night.

Or, in the words of my dear friend Sarah …

“Screw you. You don’t have kids. Every night is date night.”

(It was said with love, I swear.)

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Greetings, replacement refs!

I wanted to talk to you a little bit about the officiating that’s gone on so far this season in the NFL.

It probably seems weird that I, a travel writer, am weighing in on this issue. I realize I’m sort of unqualified to do so. I’ve never played football, and I’ve only seen one game live, but I can scream “HOW IS THAT NOT A HOLDING VIOLATION?” at the TV with the best of them.

And besides, not having an extensive football background doesn’t seem to be stopping anyone else from being an expert this season, right? My opinion is just as valid as that of the real estate agent calling the Monday Night Game, or the menagerie of farm animals in striped shirts the league has ready to officiate the playoffs (I will give them this: that is a great way to boost ratings among toddlers. “PUPPY PUPPY PUPPY!” will be shouted across living rooms throughout the land while adult fans of the game will weep into their beers).

Yes, yes. Fine, Anton. You can be the line judge.

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So I’m weighing in.

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Hanging out in the hospital exam room.

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I was hoping that brain surgery would teach me a thing or two. That I would wake up from my operation with some sort of hidden knowledge that’s only accessible to those who’ve had their skulls cracked open.

It’s not that I thought I’d wake up speaking French or anything (though I wouldn’t have been against that. I’ve always wanted to learn French). Rather, I imagined I’d groggily rub my eyes and look around with a new appreciation for the world around me. My new perspective would prevent me from getting upset about the small stuff.

I thought that after brain surgery, I could rise above the trivial crap we often find ourselves miring in.

And for a while, that was the case. They say that your true self comes out when you are heavily medicated, and my true self, to everyone’s surprise, was an absolute sweetheart. I loved all my nurses, even the blond that Rand had dubbed “the nasty one” (“You just don’t understand her like I do,” I said, drooling onto my gown). I declared my mother the best mother – NAY, the best HUMAN – in the entire universe. I was even tempted to call a few people that I hated and tell them how I had changed my mind about them, how I was wrong to suggest that if they were a crossword puzzle clue, they’d be “a four-letter word that starts with ‘c’ and rhymes with punt.”

Trust me, no one was more shocked than I about my new-found niceness and goodwill.

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Rand and I have been home a lot this summer.

This is in part due to the fact that we hate to leave Seattle when it’s finally sunny here, and partly because I needed to let folks dig around in my brain. (You know how it is – when people have been digging around in your brain, you want the comfort of your own bed and an endless supply of pajamas. Also, pudding. Lots of pudding).

The nice part about being home for the summer is that I am able to catch up with all those friends who live in Seattle, but who I rarely see. Like my friend Mike. Here is a photo of the two of us, and our respective loves:

We decided to do awkward prom photo poses. Mike’s the one wearing plaid who isn’t Rand.

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One of the nice things about brain surgery is that you can pick out all sorts of clever things to say for when you come to. I had a few quips lined up (“I have a splitting headache!”, “Who wants morphine? I do! I do!”, and “Which of you bastards tried to tip my surgeon to ‘throw in a lobotomy’ while he was in there?”) but it was my friend Natalie who gave me the winner.

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It’s been six weeks since my surgery.

My surgeon said that it would take about six weeks until I felt completely like myself again. Six weeks until I was more or less recovered. And he was right. I feel like myself.

More or less.

I feel more tired. And more sensitive. Literally. I have a soft spot. Like babies do.

And I am less … tumor-y. And less headache-y. Are those even real words? I’m not sure. And I’m less concerned about whether or not they are.

Here’s what my head looked like right after my surgery:

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For several days, there were staples in my head. I wish there were a more technical term for them, but there isn’t. They were not sutures or metallic head brackets or anything like that. These were good, old-fashioned, industrial-size staples, like the kind you’d find at the hardware store.

Miraculously, I don’t remember most of them going in, save for one. I do remember that last one, because it felt like … well, it felt like someone putting a staple into your head. The poor doctor wielding the staple gun apologized repeatedly.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “This is why no one likes me.”

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