Gynomite!

moment 2

It’s 2007, and I’m in the hospital, smack dab in the middle of my “big sick”. It’s early morning. I’m woken up every morning at 4am by the blood draw folk, who take various containers of blood from me, and at 5am by the xray people, who sit me up in bed and take xrays of my chest. The cold metal I have to put my back against to get the xrays wakes me up permanently, and from then I just lay there, exhausted and bored and lonelier than I’ve ever felt. At 6am breakfast arrives, and I feed myself with some effort, as my hands still don’t really work. I usually follow breakfast with a bout of weak crying. Early mornings are the hardest. I am used to curling up in bed with Kumail at 6am, I’m used to being able to curl up, and I am unused to this much pain and terror. My entire life has changed over the span of two weeks, and I can’t really even grasp any of it. The Today show, which before made me want to vomit, is a welcome relief when it starts, as it’s at least distracting. Today’s guest is Stevie Nicks, who is scheduled to perform. I don’t know why I didn’t expect it to happen, but after a brief ass-kissing by Matt Lauer, she stands there, flanked by two musicians, and I hear the first strains of Landslide. I’ve never known heartache so profound. Stevie sang “can I sail through the changing ocean tides, can I handle the seasons of my life?” in her husky, aging voice, and I just broke, as I had been asking myself the same questions. I’ve never cried that hard in my life. I cried for myself, for my family, for my friends, for my parents’ dog at home without them, for my old life, for my independence, for my scarred body, for my lungs, for my heart, for everything. I cried, and when the song was over, I stopped. I supposed that if I was really asking myself if I could handle the seasons of my life, and if I had to have an answer, the answer would have to be yes. I was going to have to be okay with what was happening to me. And like it was any other day, I pulled myself up to sitting and reached for a magazine by my bed, muttering “It’s going to be ok” over and over like a mantra.

moment 3

It’s 2000, I think, and Amber, my pudding sister for life, and myself have taken a Greyhound bus from NC to Atlanta. Why didn’t we drive? I don’t remember. Anyway, the trip was horrendous, and deserves it’s own blog altogether. We went down there to visit our friend Josh and to see the CURE!!! The trip was a blast, with Josh’s cracked out roommates and leather couches and weirdness, but managed to make it to the show, and stood in line for an hour or two with the rest of the gothed out crowd. Once inside, we took advantage of our relative youth and aggressive tendencies, elbowed our way to front row at the show, and waited and waited and waited. I always thought it was a cliche, but when the lights FINALLY went down, and when the first strains of guitar started, my breath caught in my throat, and I ceased feeling the push of the crowd around me, the screams in my ears. It felt religious. When Robert Smith began singing, I found myself wiping tears from my eyes, wondering why I was crying. I looked over at Josh and Amber, and they were both crying too, smiling like jackasses and absently wiping their own eyes. All of our eyeliner had streaked down our faces. It was a gorgeous moment. If only I could remember what song was playing…

moment 4

It’s 1994, and I’m 15 and at Hellenbach, the natty terrible club we hung out at in my hometown. It’s 2008, and I’m at Don Hill’s at the Mondo dance party. It’s 2004 and I’m at Holiday Club in Chicago. It’s 2002 and I’m at a warehouse in Atlanta. It’s 1999 and I’m at a rave. It’s every moment I’ve ever had on a dance floor where the energy, music, and my mood match up just right to make me feel like I thought adulthood was supposed to feel, free and powerful and crazy and amazing. And I’m dancing.