The Everywhereist

Rand refuses to believe I have a bad side.

Photographically speaking, I mean. He knows I have a dark and sinister and downright evil side to my personality - that could never be disputed. It shows itself in full force when I’m stuck in traffic, when too much time has elapsed between my consumption of snacks, and during both the regular and playoff seasons of the NFL.

During those moments, my husband will stare at me with the same wariness you would a wild badger that you’ve suddenly discovered in the backseat of your vehicle as you zip down the highway. It’s a mixture of where-the-hell-did-that-come-from and I-need-to-get-out-of-this-situation-as-quickly-as-possible.

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Not all trips go smoothly.

I’d like to say that they did. I really do. I’d like to tell you that every single journey is a cakewalk, that my hair looks consistently wonderful and blows in the wind as my husband and I frolick through fields hand-in-hand.

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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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I become a huge, unmitigated dork whenever anyone points a camera at me.

Okay, fine: I’m a huge, unmitigated dork in most circumstances, and that includes when someone points a camera at me.

See?

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Have you ever returned from a trip, or a party, some sort of special, I-really-should-take-photos kind of event, and realize that you took barely any photos at all?

You may have a handful of them, but they are blurry or poorly-composed or they make you think “Why in god’s name did I take a photo of that?” or “Please, for the love of Pete, let that be someone’s elbow and not … gah!”

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Do you ever look back at events, with the hindsight of years gone by, and wonder how exactly you were able to get through them?

In high school, a friend of mine commented on this phenomenon. She and I had gone to Homecoming (with our respective dates) a mere two weeks or so after another friend of ours had died.

“How did we do that?” she asked me much later. “How did we go to a dance after all that?”

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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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