This is my 2016 advice to you:
Don't break your goddamn jaw.
I did it for you so please, for the love of the bébé jesu, learn from my example.
I'ma tell you what sucks. Not previously realizing you have a real love of chewing and being able to open your jaw. Goddamn you hindsight!! Even the most delicious broth for days can cause one irrational dips in happiness. You can rinse like your gums owe the swishing water money and still not clear out all food particles (aka debris) which prevents your traumatized gums from healing on up (especially if you have necrosis of the gums). You can hate strangers for being able to drop their lower jaw for a burger's safe passage and seriously contemplate throwing a Big Mac in a blender. Envy snakes for their graceful ability to unhinge.
Also in the learning from me department - don't metaphorically chew off your own arm instead of asking for help. You are not the hero of this story. Until the end, whenever that is.
Do be grateful when every doctor asks to feel you neck and requests you do a range of motion that you didn't break your neck. You coulda, but you didn't. (Praise hand emoji)
Do rinse all the goddamn time though. Also, write down questions you muse about while holding down the couch so if you have a light crush on the resident you keep following up with you won't use the time thinking, 'Your eyes are so pretty.' (seriously, shout out to Mt Sinai for teaming with hot doctors! Shout out to Dr. Mike, you are a fucking fox. With pretty eyes)
The answer is no btw, the plates in your mouth won't set off any airport security so vacay away!
Also! Shout out to Drugs! For for painlessness and making you think you are saying flirty things while throwing sultry looks when in fact, your face is a balloon surround by ice logs to bring down the swelling. Loved the ice logs. Sure I'll blow you. a Kiss. ...We're not flirting? You're checking on my facial range of motion. Huh. Strike the previous sentiment. Unless you feel it too. Just me. Carry on!
Do work for a company that sends you gifts so when you're caught in a whirl of depression and not feeling like you deserve to be depressed since it's not the worst ever, you can bounce out of it enough to get back to self care.
Do listen to Kanye's Through the Wire - "I drink a Boost for breakfast, an Ensure for dessert / Somebody ordered pancakes, I just sip the sizzurp" (Weep. Preach Kanye) but stop if you start down a path of why am I not creating art from my strife and then follow that down a you suck as a person trail. So maybe mostly a don't. Ensure is expensive too and doesn't taste great, make your own smoothie. Way more happiness.
Oh! Also, don't think that after a couple weeks of being on saline and then broth think you can party like a rockstar as you will pass the hell out and make your friends think you are choking on your vomit and are about to die. They HATE that. I wasn't choking btw, my blood pressure dropped without blaming any herbs.
Keep your expectations low. You know you can't open your jaw! So when your doctor tells you to eat anything you want, please keep in mind they mean if it's wafer thin. And soft as hell. So not anything you want.
Find things that make you feel good, a lot of things since you will also spend a lot of time feeling bad. And not recognizing your own face. Also, don't get mad at people when they say you wouldn't know you had an accident! You look the same! They are trying to love you and just because you feel you look like Sloth from the Goonies, doesn't make it true and take love where you can get it.
Caramel sticks to dentures. I know, you didn't expect to learn that lesson so soon but there it is. Probably anything that you knew about braces is true, if you had them. I had perfect teeth....
Also don't be gross. Go get Polident. I know, it chafes to buy the denture cleaner you associate with your grandparents (rest in power Betty and Jim) but I mean, you know cleanliness is next to not looking like a crusty skag.
Get outside. It gets increasingly easy to say I'm going to leave the house then 4:00pm rolls around and you say it's too late to leave the house. Hiding gets more comforting, no one can see you feeling less than. It also starts to hurt and gives you the opportunity to make up really terrible stories about yourself that you won't be sure aren't true. They're not true. Nature will re-center you.
Do let yourself feel bad. Don't get into the suffering Olympics and denigrate your own experiences. Also, no one is staring at you. You're passing through their field of vision and they are as obsessed with their own lives as you currently are.
Do use those experiences to have more empathy for others. Think about how your Pollyanna ways make everyone think everything's okay and know that other people's "I'm fine" isn't super true either.
Do appreciate a health care system where for a multi-day stay, so many drugs, so much morphine, major surgery, follow-up checkups didn't cost you a thin dime. Thanks Canada!!
Don't hate your dentures. You had a job that let you pay for them. They were an option open to you. They cause you to blend back into crowds and take away a whistling lisp. One day you will bite into a burger again. It's hard to be super delighted using a knife and fork for burgers and pizza but at least you are eating them. Also, Judgey Eyes! I'm not doing this to be super precious or not eat as much. Maybe I'm projecting judgement into your eyes. And I do appreciate the forced slow eating in a way. I'm all over the place.
As one of my favourite couples (oh hey L/D) say - Comedy always wins. Roll through everyone calling you Jaws, snaggletooth, Wires, etc. They're happy you weren't more badly damaged and they are bouncing back with you. Find the humour in the situation, it's there and it will get buried from time to time. That's cool.
Don't worry about implants, they're months down the road assuming you heal well. This is a life lesson in planning ahead and having a safety net fund, that will save you some worry. I didn't have one and so that'll be 2017's advice. Also, finding random streams of income so you can afford the $10K+ expense of a three, pleasepleaseplease only be three, implants. They are not giving them away.
Also, if you fracture your hand only get a splint so you can observe if your knuckle is healing in an 'L' shaped way. Half casts are the devil. Also, you can't push your bones back into place. You'll never get back the hours you try. It does lend itself however, to whatever story you want to make up if people notice and comment. Oh this? Yeah, I had to deliver a giraffe in Burkina Faso.
Never forget the power of a living room dance party. You deserve to be transported. And you didn't break your legs. When your gums reject a piece of bone randomly, get that shit dipped in gold and hang it on a necklace. Enjoy looks people give you when mention it's your bone. Also, ask them if they want some lotion.
Just in general, a mirror hung at your face height above your door handle with the words of the items you love to leave behind (teeth, phone, wallet) is incredible at making forgetting a thing of the past! Mostly.
I'm not done my journey with this, like I'm not done with anything really, but I appreciate the kindnesses shown, unexpected joys, laughter in the depths, new health habits.
I'm like Ma$e - can't nobody hold me down, oh no. I got to keep on mooooovin'
a haiku:
Not unbreakable
phoenix ability, rise
be unstoppable
xo
A
Friday, 10 February 2017
Tuesday, 3 January 2017
An Ode to my ride or die
It took a while for me to be able to write this without it sounding like the lead singer of a mid 90s emo band. Writing in overly melodramatic prose with limpid overtones would be a disservice to one so badass.
But, by gum, Moubebe deserves an Ode.
Moubebe was the best cat. I know everyone says this and I'm sure the others were really great. This is actually all about me.
She started off Moushti which, the long story long, is from when my friend Jason and I used to say OOUUUSSSHHHT when squeezing one another and ousht was the sound of Love. It was mousht when one needed more love. So the continuation of this when I got a bedraggled feline from the streets, was Moushti. Which kind of sounds like musty or if you're my puerile minded brother mouche-bag.
It evolved, as everything in my vernacular does, to just Mou, then Moubébé because she was clearly French. Then Moubébé Princess as only Royalty has the cojones to be stupefied at not immediately getting one's way the way she was. Not mad, genuinely bewildered at your lack of capacity to understand what she wants. Is this anthropomorphism? No. Moubebe was who she was.
Moubebe came to me as a literal thief in the night. I had dinner plans with friends of mine who were leaving the country as one of them had won a competition to do a one-year architecture internship in the Canary Islands. Yes, I only truck with the muckity-mucks. Anyhoo, they had their own cat they managed to re-home for the year as there was a 6 month quarantine process in place both coming and going from the Island.
Moubebe, being a literal street rat, took advantage of an open door and snuck into their apartment but being of the 2lb range was able to squeeze behind their bookcase thus making her reunion with the streets impossible.
I sat down to enjoy their scintillating company, fruits of the wine, various greens, and dinner. At one point something, that looked like poorly done taxidermy, jumped into my lap. She was awful.
Clearly not having maintained good nutrition, she was thin. This also resulted in old cat fur, the kind that is both greasy and dandruff-y. She was disgusting to touch since I wasn't sure she was an incubator for heretofore unheard of diseases, and I could feel every single one of her bones with skin stretched too thin. Also, really noise-y with a creaky squeak. Not being a total dick I didn't shove her to the ground but made polite inquiries if it could be removed. My really attractive hosts were delighted not to have the intruder behind a giant bookcase and that she has 'picked' me. I was vehement that she chose nothing and I would be leaving sans a clearly in need of several hundred vet dollars urchin.
However, the gods of wine and cheeba conspired to convince my friends that I DID want that thing to come with me. They packed her into a cat carrier and me out the door slipping the handle into my hand just before the door clicked into place. Being of not the sober-est mind, it didn't occur to me to knock on their door nor to abandon her so home we went.
I actually had forgotten the events of the evening until a broken bike horn interrupted my slumber and tiny lacerations were starting to be noticeable on my face. It was the kitten from last night, coyote ugly style. Only there was no awkward clothing shuffle as a guest was politely excused. Side eyes and utterances of, "you're gross" didn't deter the amount nor volume of her communication.
She was bundled off to the vet for the aforementioned hundreds of dollars in vet bills, including an abortion for no longer viable litter she had. She lived hard, that girl, in the few months she was an alley queen. However, once done she started to gain weight, for her, she never got larger/heavier than six whole pounds. We carried on our merry twosome way.
We lived together for a year before I got itchy feet and wanted to move to the West Coast. I gave up my apartment, moved us into my parents for three weeks before boarding a plane for Vancouver. We moved 4 times in six years and she never minded. She would do a typical belly low to the ground cautious tour of the apartment and boxes before coming to crouch by where I was and then finding a place not far off to sprawl out.
She loathed all other animals and I can't help but wonder if it's Hojo's fault. Not the hotel chain, our dog. Who was found at the hotel chain. We're creative. She was still pretty friendly when we had our three-week stint at my parents before heading West. She tried to befriend the dog who was knocking on Methuselah's door when we were there but he would lift a paw at the exact moment she would be in full back arch and lean to rub up against him and she would end up on the floor. Which, in itself, was pretty surprising as Hojo literally was the definition of chill. Except for my brother's childhood friend Randy who I always wondered if he would grow up to be a serial killer as he was essentially the only person Hojo would rouse himself from his usual doorstop position to turn into a frothing Cujo. Bizarre. Also, note to self, look up Randy.
Anyhoo, Moubebe was a proverbial lone wolf. Never did she act out when I did abandon her for 4 - 5 day adventures. I'd leave her extra everything and bowls filled with ice and then come back to her being all, "You again, eh? Well, welcome back! I will take this amount of loving and some treats and then hover around you."
I took a million photos of Moubebe (You : duh) and while I am prone to hyperbole, I think over the course of 13 years, that number isn't so wild. I also spent hours every month deleting 80% of the exact same photo. She was photogenic as hell, not just because I say so, people agreed. Her eyeballs were golden opals, flashing with fire. She was savvy with her insouciance. She only shredded items when I wasn't home. She knew, SHE KNEW, the things that would upset me so would be flagrantly rude until I got home and then would be extra loving. Not always a red flag which is how she perpetually lulled me into slavish complacency. I was her staff, without complaint. It was my pleasure to make her happy. How she communicated to me where she preferred the pink fuzzy blanket and that she liked water best on windowsills, I do not know. But I did know, and I did it.
Part of the lore of Moubebe would include the month we cat sat for my best friend (forever). Ophelia was more than persona non grata. She was the Pablo Escobar to Moubebe's DEA. And taking Ophelia down was all Moubebe could think about. People actually felt nervous when in between Oph and Mou, it wasn't often to them in the same room, as Moubebe practically vibrated with a murderous intensity. Poor Ophelia, while no pushover, was simply not a street fighter and Moubebe could have been the Crips go to assassin, there was little mercy in her soul. Her eyes were stuck in permanent dilation the entire month and ever fixed on her target. It was exhausting. When it was over, Moubebe gave me the cold shoulder for a whole hour to let me know she was not happy. I'm not sure whether over the visit itself or for never having accomplished her goal.
I keep half apologizing when I speak about her saying, I know she's just a cat. Only, there was no just about Moubebe. I don't even care if it causes anyone to roll their eyes but she was one of my soulmates. She gave me love in endless amounts and we had little friction, ever. I never doubted she loved me even when cats are famed for their indifference.
Of course, Moubebe got cancer. While I railed at myself for not taking her sooner to the vet, I would have been crazy enough to sign her up for the complicated and dangerous surgery and rounds of chemo had I caught it earlier, which wouldn't have been good for either of us.
I have since invited two more furry individuals into my life. I didn't think I was ready but then my friend Tiff sent me a picture of Khloé, who had lost her human momma three months earlier and was being beaten up by the three sibling felines she was adopted by. I tried for one whole hour to say no, I'm not ready. Then I called to meet Khloé and we were two. I knew I wanted to have two cats as I am a nomad at heart and needed Khloé to have company I might not necessarily provide. Enter, Deathspike from Toronto Cat Rescue. I forgot how aggravating a kitten could be. He makes me laugh at his bumbling toddler ways and Khloé is being less cagey with me which feels like winning. She's full of love if I am on the couch or the kitchen carpet, dubious anywhere else in the apartment. Our team vibe is being fleshed out. Right now, the two of them are no Moubebe. I miss her every day even three months later but we'll figure it out and I'm glad they're with me.
To borrow from my Scottish people, 'Wha's like us? Damn few and they're a'died."
I love you, Moubebe. Forever and ever.
A haiku:
Larger than legend
Warrior in Valhalla
We will meet again
xo
But, by gum, Moubebe deserves an Ode.
Moubebe was the best cat. I know everyone says this and I'm sure the others were really great. This is actually all about me.
She started off Moushti which, the long story long, is from when my friend Jason and I used to say OOUUUSSSHHHT when squeezing one another and ousht was the sound of Love. It was mousht when one needed more love. So the continuation of this when I got a bedraggled feline from the streets, was Moushti. Which kind of sounds like musty or if you're my puerile minded brother mouche-bag.
It evolved, as everything in my vernacular does, to just Mou, then Moubébé because she was clearly French. Then Moubébé Princess as only Royalty has the cojones to be stupefied at not immediately getting one's way the way she was. Not mad, genuinely bewildered at your lack of capacity to understand what she wants. Is this anthropomorphism? No. Moubebe was who she was.
Moubebe came to me as a literal thief in the night. I had dinner plans with friends of mine who were leaving the country as one of them had won a competition to do a one-year architecture internship in the Canary Islands. Yes, I only truck with the muckity-mucks. Anyhoo, they had their own cat they managed to re-home for the year as there was a 6 month quarantine process in place both coming and going from the Island.
Moubebe, being a literal street rat, took advantage of an open door and snuck into their apartment but being of the 2lb range was able to squeeze behind their bookcase thus making her reunion with the streets impossible.
I sat down to enjoy their scintillating company, fruits of the wine, various greens, and dinner. At one point something, that looked like poorly done taxidermy, jumped into my lap. She was awful.
Clearly not having maintained good nutrition, she was thin. This also resulted in old cat fur, the kind that is both greasy and dandruff-y. She was disgusting to touch since I wasn't sure she was an incubator for heretofore unheard of diseases, and I could feel every single one of her bones with skin stretched too thin. Also, really noise-y with a creaky squeak. Not being a total dick I didn't shove her to the ground but made polite inquiries if it could be removed. My really attractive hosts were delighted not to have the intruder behind a giant bookcase and that she has 'picked' me. I was vehement that she chose nothing and I would be leaving sans a clearly in need of several hundred vet dollars urchin.
However, the gods of wine and cheeba conspired to convince my friends that I DID want that thing to come with me. They packed her into a cat carrier and me out the door slipping the handle into my hand just before the door clicked into place. Being of not the sober-est mind, it didn't occur to me to knock on their door nor to abandon her so home we went.
I actually had forgotten the events of the evening until a broken bike horn interrupted my slumber and tiny lacerations were starting to be noticeable on my face. It was the kitten from last night, coyote ugly style. Only there was no awkward clothing shuffle as a guest was politely excused. Side eyes and utterances of, "you're gross" didn't deter the amount nor volume of her communication.
She was bundled off to the vet for the aforementioned hundreds of dollars in vet bills, including an abortion for no longer viable litter she had. She lived hard, that girl, in the few months she was an alley queen. However, once done she started to gain weight, for her, she never got larger/heavier than six whole pounds. We carried on our merry twosome way.
We lived together for a year before I got itchy feet and wanted to move to the West Coast. I gave up my apartment, moved us into my parents for three weeks before boarding a plane for Vancouver. We moved 4 times in six years and she never minded. She would do a typical belly low to the ground cautious tour of the apartment and boxes before coming to crouch by where I was and then finding a place not far off to sprawl out.
She loathed all other animals and I can't help but wonder if it's Hojo's fault. Not the hotel chain, our dog. Who was found at the hotel chain. We're creative. She was still pretty friendly when we had our three-week stint at my parents before heading West. She tried to befriend the dog who was knocking on Methuselah's door when we were there but he would lift a paw at the exact moment she would be in full back arch and lean to rub up against him and she would end up on the floor. Which, in itself, was pretty surprising as Hojo literally was the definition of chill. Except for my brother's childhood friend Randy who I always wondered if he would grow up to be a serial killer as he was essentially the only person Hojo would rouse himself from his usual doorstop position to turn into a frothing Cujo. Bizarre. Also, note to self, look up Randy.
Anyhoo, Moubebe was a proverbial lone wolf. Never did she act out when I did abandon her for 4 - 5 day adventures. I'd leave her extra everything and bowls filled with ice and then come back to her being all, "You again, eh? Well, welcome back! I will take this amount of loving and some treats and then hover around you."
I took a million photos of Moubebe (You : duh) and while I am prone to hyperbole, I think over the course of 13 years, that number isn't so wild. I also spent hours every month deleting 80% of the exact same photo. She was photogenic as hell, not just because I say so, people agreed. Her eyeballs were golden opals, flashing with fire. She was savvy with her insouciance. She only shredded items when I wasn't home. She knew, SHE KNEW, the things that would upset me so would be flagrantly rude until I got home and then would be extra loving. Not always a red flag which is how she perpetually lulled me into slavish complacency. I was her staff, without complaint. It was my pleasure to make her happy. How she communicated to me where she preferred the pink fuzzy blanket and that she liked water best on windowsills, I do not know. But I did know, and I did it.
Part of the lore of Moubebe would include the month we cat sat for my best friend (forever). Ophelia was more than persona non grata. She was the Pablo Escobar to Moubebe's DEA. And taking Ophelia down was all Moubebe could think about. People actually felt nervous when in between Oph and Mou, it wasn't often to them in the same room, as Moubebe practically vibrated with a murderous intensity. Poor Ophelia, while no pushover, was simply not a street fighter and Moubebe could have been the Crips go to assassin, there was little mercy in her soul. Her eyes were stuck in permanent dilation the entire month and ever fixed on her target. It was exhausting. When it was over, Moubebe gave me the cold shoulder for a whole hour to let me know she was not happy. I'm not sure whether over the visit itself or for never having accomplished her goal.
Of course, Moubebe got cancer. While I railed at myself for not taking her sooner to the vet, I would have been crazy enough to sign her up for the complicated and dangerous surgery and rounds of chemo had I caught it earlier, which wouldn't have been good for either of us.
I have since invited two more furry individuals into my life. I didn't think I was ready but then my friend Tiff sent me a picture of Khloé, who had lost her human momma three months earlier and was being beaten up by the three sibling felines she was adopted by. I tried for one whole hour to say no, I'm not ready. Then I called to meet Khloé and we were two. I knew I wanted to have two cats as I am a nomad at heart and needed Khloé to have company I might not necessarily provide. Enter, Deathspike from Toronto Cat Rescue. I forgot how aggravating a kitten could be. He makes me laugh at his bumbling toddler ways and Khloé is being less cagey with me which feels like winning. She's full of love if I am on the couch or the kitchen carpet, dubious anywhere else in the apartment. Our team vibe is being fleshed out. Right now, the two of them are no Moubebe. I miss her every day even three months later but we'll figure it out and I'm glad they're with me.
To borrow from my Scottish people, 'Wha's like us? Damn few and they're a'died."
A haiku:
Larger than legend
Warrior in Valhalla
We will meet again
xo
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