I have been missing for some time now, but I think the hard work is finally coming together.

The man and I have been rehearsing like crazy and spending more money than we technically have. The 90DD show is one week away!

We have folks coming in from Ohio, Indiana, Florida, and our special guest is flying in all the way from California!

A friend of the 90DD and filmmaker known as Gory on the Repo! boards put together a promo film for us:


At first, I was completely terrified. That's a lot to live up to! After our most recent rehearsal, though, I'm stoked. We're going to nail it.

April 10, folks! One week!

*bounces off excitedly*

If you want to come, you can get tickets here:

Epilogue?

Epilogue.

There are just two more things I'd like to say before my story's finished.

Firstly, even if I knew exactly how everything was going to turn out, I wouldn't have missed Indy for the world. I had a fantastic time with awesome people. I got to chat with film makers, friends, and strangers. I got to ask questions that have been in my head for a very long time. I hesitate to say, "life changing," but talking with Terrance and especially Spooky Dan helped me come to some conclusions about where I want my life to go from this point forward.

It's my opinion that the real hero of the Lord of the Rings trilogy is Samwise Gamgee. While Frodo may have been the star, it was Sam who carried him when he couldn't walk anymore.

Nick is my Sam. Last night was rough, but I always knew I'd be okay, because Nick was at my side.

As the title indicates, if you have needle issues, now would be a good time to look away. I counted thirteen attempts to start an IV, as well as one shot and one blood draw.

Just after they had given me some Vicodin for pain, I was sitting semi-patiently in my wheelchair waiting for them to come get me to take X-rays. Suddenly, my foot started to spasm. This was not a simple Charlie-horse kind of thing. My foot had curled up like it had been bound.

The X-ray tech came, but decided to wait until we could get the spasms under control before taking pictures.

At this point, I started to crack a little bit. Looking at my foot, the twitching made my big toe and the ball of my foot look like an angry face. It totally reminded me of Statler, from the Muppets.


As the foot twitched, Statler was grousing in my head. It was completely hysterical to me, and I could not stop laughing. The doctor came in to check on me at that point. He apparently did not find it nearly as amusing as I did.

He decided to start an IV. He wanted to calm my twitching foot, and presumably get me to stop laughing like a hyena.

I have a device called a Port-a-cath, a titanium implant under my skin with a silicone tube that leads to the vena cava the large vein that feeds directly into my heart.

Normally this makes starting an IV a snap. A little poke and a push and we're good to go.

Sadly, this was not the case this time. The first nurse tried to access it twice with no luck. Then a second nurse came in to try. She also failed.

The doctor decided to just give me a shot of Valium without an IV, since it was being so difficult. So I roll over and get a shot in the ass. That hurt quite a lot. I found that very funny too. I mean, come on, it was a shot in the ass.

While they were waiting for that shot to kick in, they took me over to X-ray. One of the techs was very nice. The other was very not. The one who did not believe in gentle touches was, of course, the one who positioned my foot for pictures. She manhandled my ankle in ways that would have hurt even if I were not already in pain.

She also told me to "straighten out my foot." If I could have done that, I would have probably been on my way home by then. There were a great many creative expletives that I barely held in check during that encounter.

Some time later, when it was clear that the Valium was having no discernible effect, the doctor came in to try starting an IV himself. He brought with him an ultrasound machine, so he could literally see where all my veins were and have guidance as to where to stick the needle. This also failed.

That was, again, completely hilarious to me. By now, four people had tried and failed to start an IV, even with computer assistance. I was laughing like a loon again. I was also crying in pain and frustration.

The whole experience so far had been very rough on my husband. He was beginning to show signs of being severely stressed out. I apologized over and over that he had to be there and see me like this.

They decided to try starting an IV in my neck. They tipped the bed way back, so my feet were up in the air, and stuck a needle that felt about an inch wide in my neck. That hurt an awful lot. Then they shoved it in further. That hurt more. They believed they had finally gotten a decent line started though.

They were wrong. When they injected some more Valium in through the line, instead of going neatly into a vein like it was supposed to, it just gathered in the tissue. This created a huge, painful lump in the side of my neck. They removed that IV.

As the nurse was checking out my neck, I heard the doctor tell another nurse that there was, "nothing wrong," with my ankle. What he actually meant was that there was nothing broken. At the time though, it seemed like a complete denial that there was anything wrong with me.

I completely lost it. I sent Nick out of the room so I could have a breakdown without upsetting him further. He went for a walk, and I laughed and cried until I'd had enough emotional release to function somewhat normally again. I laughed because it was completely absurd that my foot cramp was defeating a whole staff of trained medical professionals. I cried because I was frustrated, angry, and still in unreal amounts of pain.

By the time Nick got back (he had called Shae to let her know that we were safe), I was mostly rational again. They tried starting an IV again, and with two new nurses working simultaneously (one trying to start a line in my foot, the other in my arm), they actually managed to get a line started.

They gave me a whopping dose of Demerol and some fluids, which eventually stopped the twitching. Apparently I had become a bit dehydrated during the ordeal.

After that, they gave me a nifty Air Cast* which is way more comfortable than an Ace bandage and sent me home.

The last part of the saga will be a short epilogue.



*

Now we're finally getting to the meat of the story. Yay!

I've been awake for about 36 hours, I'm in ungodly pain, and I'm finally being wheeled in to the waiting room of the ER.

Now is a good time for me to mention that I'm no stranger to pain. I get hospitalized pretty frequently with abdominal pain from my genetic disease. They always ask how I'd rate my pain on a scale of one to ten. Generally, I tell them it's about an eight. This is true. I wouldn't have gone to the hospital if I weren't in a lot of pain. However, I'm a very stoic person. Even with that level of pain, I pretty much function normally with no outward sign of my agony.

The pain I was in with my ankle, however, was not even in the same universe. That best simile I can come up with is that it felt like there were a thousand tiny vikings hacking at the tendons in my foot and ankle like they were trying to fell a tree.

So Nick wheels me in. I fill out the usual paperwork, having to stop and think about things like how to spell my name because the pain is just so massive.

I was sitting in the waiting room, waiting for the triage nurse to see me. Hospitals hate the words "quiet" and "slow" because there's a superstition that if you say it, all hell will break loose. However, there were hardly any other patients.

The triage nurse was apparently chit-chatting with a patient that was being discharged. I'm not at all a violent person. If you step on my foot, I will apologize for being in the way. Listening to her BS about the weather and giggle while I was waiting in pain really made me want to strangle her, though.

When I was finally wheeled back to a room, the doctor came in very quickly. He was incredibly polite, and even better, asked me right away what kind of meds worked for pain. He had them ordered pronto, and I was given Vicodin to help me out.

"Hooray!" thinks I. "We're finally making progress. They're going to stop the pain, and I can go home and sleep."

Sadly, that's when everything started to go wrong.

This post is simply to make sure everyone is familiar with how and why I was injured in the first place. I also want to cover the trip from Indianapolis to here.

As most of you know, I've become more than a little obsessed with Repo! the Genetic Opera. For those unfamiliar, it's a rock opera (heavy emphasis on opera) set in the near future. Organ failure had become a worldwide epidemic, and a company called GeneCo had cornered the market on organ replacement. If you can't make your payments, GeneCo sends the Repo Man to harvest your organ so they can re-sell it.

As part of my obsession, I had seen Repo! several times at the Music Box theatre in Chicago. I also joined the the Repo! message boards. Through both of those things I met a bunch people who were sorta/kinda local who also really enjoy the film.

Shae, her husband Gregg, and another girl from the boards put together an awesome shindig at the the Repo! Roadtour 3 Indianapolis stop. As an after-party, they had rented a hotel room across the street.

Nick and I didn't want to miss the fun, or hanging out with such incredibly cool people. We drove out to Lafayette, IN, where we met up with most of the people and headed out to Indy for the show.

I had twisted my ankle the weekend previous. It was not a bad sprain, just enough for me to require crutches. Unfortunately, the weather had been pretty bad that day. The streets and sidewalks were pretty icy and slushy. Every time I tried to cross one of these slippery areas, my crutches slid out from under me Bambi on the ice (starting at about 0:43). My choices were to fall on my ass and/or face, or use my bad ankle to not fall over. I ended up putting my ankle through a great deal of abuse throughout the day and night.

The party was incredibly fun. There were about eight of us hardcore Chicago Repo! Army folks, Terrance Zdunich and Darren Smith (who both wrote and starred in the film), Spooky Dan*, and assorted other cool people. I drank heavily, that becomes important later.

I didn't sleep that night. In the morning, everyone woke up a bit slowly, and several of us headed back to Shae and Gregg's house to sober up, eat something, and head to our various homes. This didn't occur to me till we were back in Chicago, but the reason my ankle began to hurt a lot just then was sobriety. At the time I thought I must have done something new to injure it.

Everyone who was left at that point noticed I was in a bad way. Shae saved me by offering me some pain meds for the car trip home. Sadly, they began to wear off when we were still about an hour and a half from home. At that point, the pain in my ankle became something nearly primal in intensity. Tears just would not stop streaming down my face.

At that point, Nick told me that we were going to the ER when we got back to Woodstock, and he wouldn't consider any other option. At that point, I was so beyond trying to fake not being in pain or putting my own needs aside so he could get some sleep first that I agreed.




*who makes completely awesome puppet videos

Most of you are new here. My usual audience hovers around three people. This is fine. Look around; make yourself comfortable. You'll find that nothing like this has been posted here before, and if there are gods that like me, nothing like this will ever happen again. This is unusual for me, and if you come back in three months looking for another epic tale like this, you probably won't find it.

I'm going to mention some of you by name. If this bothers you, you can let me know* and I'll edit to keep your name out of it.

My html is abysmal. I'm usually far too lazy to parse links/images/etc. My writing probably isn't much better. I'll likely wax philosophical on this thing, but generally my writing is utilitarian.


This is probably going to seem very self-centered. I'm not a diva, but most of what's interesting in this story, I think, is what's going on in my head. If you don't care about that, move on. I won't be offended. There will be no quiz later. I just want those who are interested to have a place to find it, and I don't want to have to repeat it in a lot of different places.

Lastly, I'm on some heavy painkillers. I am very grateful to be on heavy painkillers. However, they are making my head a bit fuzzy. I apologize in advance if this is hard to follow.



*You can message me here, e-mail me at Sharraunna-at-yahoo-dot-com, or PM over at the Repo! boards where I am Gearsinger

When I was in public school, science was pretty dull for me.  I understood the concepts and got good grades, but I never really felt a pull to look more deeply into things.  After reading Engineering and the Mind's Eye by Eugene S. Ferguson, I think I know why.

Most of what I learned in school, especially in physics classes, felt theoretical despite being very basic.  What I mean is that we memorized a lot of laws and formulas without ever examining the practical applications thereof.

Engineering and the Mind's Eye is mostly about how modern physicists and physics curricula have strayed from the intuitive and creative aspects of science and toward a more mathematical approach.  While I understand that creativity is much harder to teach than formulas, I think that colder approach takes the wonder out of science.

Were I allowed to have hands-on experience when learning the laws of physics, I would have not only learned more fully, but it would have helped me understand the principals in a practical way.  I've only recently begun to develop my scientific instincts, because of only recently allowed myself to tear things apart to see how they tick.

Given how many things I've invented recently, it makes me very sad that I didn't start sooner.

My blow dryer just died.  I hadn't even realized I was attached to the thing.  I rarely even used it.  I'm kinda bummed now, though.  It followed me through all my moves, from Colorado to Nebraska, all over Florida, and now to Illinois.  That makes it ten years old, at least.

Rest well, faithful electronic companion.

Somebody call the Pope!  Posting twice in one day is obviously a sign that I'm possessed.

*ahem*

Anyone who know me knows that I'm an information junkie.  I want to know everything about everything.  That's a bit of problem at the moment, as there is a mystery in my own blood that I can't solve right now.

I've always known that I was rough 1/4 American Indian--Powhattan and Potwatomi specifically.  That's a bit of a curiosity, as the Powhattan tribe is native to the New York area (there the tribe Pocahantas came from), while the Potwatomi are indigenous to the Oklahoma area.  I'm sure the story of how members of those tribes came to be together in the Missouri area.

Unfortunately, it's not a story I can hear.  The side of the family--my paternal grandfather's--that passed on the native blood is not one I've ever had conatact with.  Said grandfather was psychotic in the clinical sense.  I could work around that, were his name a little less common than dirt.

It's very frustrating for me to have questions without easily available answers.

If I were to describe myself in one word, the word would be "why."  I'm constantly asking why things are the way they are.  It must drive my poor husband batty.

More than I ask others why, though, I ask myself.  "Why do I feel that way?"  "Why does that evoke the specific response that it does?"  I like to think that that sort of introspection is good for me.  It's my belief that if everyone examined themselves regularly and were accountable to themselves, the world would be a better place.

That brings me to my other theory on improving the world:  empathy.  I think the vast majority of the world's problems could be solved if we just realized exactly how our decisions affected those around us.

I'm trying to re-learn the Spanish I've forgotten since high school.  I remember quite a bit, but I've forgotten the grammar and conjugations.  Right now, though, my pronunciation sucks.  I'm especially having difficulty rolling my "r"s.  To practice, I've been saying a passage recommending by the Spanish instruction book:

"El perro de San Roque ne tiene rabo, porque Ramón Ramirez se lo ha robado."*

All that "r" rolling (the double "r" in perro, and all the "r"s beginning words) is driving my poor cat insane.

Sorry Tyger!



*"The dog from San Roque doesn't have a tail, because Ramón Ramirez has stolen it."

Spring always makes me feel more religious.  Winter is a season for pragmatism (am I warm?  do I have enough to eat? etc.).  Spring, however, is a time for all sorts of awakenings.

So, now that I'm thinking spiritual thoughts, I thought I'd share a parable that illustrates one of the fundamental differences between warrior-path pagans and the more pacifist types.

I've heard this story told about Heathens, Druids, and SCA members, but when I first heard it, it referenced Wiccans, so that is how I will repeat it.

A group of deep-south, good-ole-boy KKKers heard that those fluff-bunny, tree-hugging Wiccans were going to have a ritual out in the woods.  These boys decided it would be a grand farce to drive out there in full white-sheet regalia, put a cross up, and generally scare the granola out of those silly hippies.

So they drive themselves to a clearing not far from the bonfire and drumming happening in the woods, and ready themselves to have a little fun.  As they burst through the trees, they find themselves at the sharp ends of more than a few swords and a spear or two.  One of the celebrants speaks up, saying, "If you boys put that cross up, you're going to be hanging from it.  I have the nails in my truck."

The Klan-ers wisely turned tail and fled.

Now, when this story was told on a pagan mailing list I was on down in Florida, the response were interesting.  Many members were absolutely horrified that these fellow pagans would lower themselves to threatening violence rather than coming to a peaceful accord.  The others, myself included, were filled with glee at the thought.

That, folks, is the basic difference between pacifist pagans (many Wiccans, for instance) and warrior-path pagans (Heathens, ADF druids).

As you've probably read, Heath Ledger died this week of an apparent overdose of sleeping pills.  I'm taking it pretty hard, for mostly irrational reasons.

He was an actor that, while not necessarily the best in the business, was always enjoyable to watch.  He always seemed like he was having a marvelous time doing what he loved.

Why am I feeling so badly about his death?  Remember, I said it was irrational...  I feel partially responsible.

Anyone who has known me for more than ten minutes could probably tell you I'm a huge fan of the Joker.  He's easily among my favorite fictional characters, and has always resonated with me in a way I can't exactly describe.

Literally the night before Heath Ledger's death, I thought to myself, "If he screws up the Joker, I'll kill him is his sleep."  Ouch.  Obviously, I didn't mean it, but given the circumstances...

Also, to get into the very dark version of the Joker he wanted to portray, based largely on the fantastic graphic novel The Killing Joke, Heath Ledger spent a month in isolation in a hotel room.  This is when he developed insomnia.

Would he have gone to all that trouble, would the film have been made at all, if there weren't huge fans like me?  I don't know.

Gods, I feel awful.

So I manned up and told him.  I could tell he was upset.  Then today he says he wants to follow me back to CoH.  This can't be good.

I really really don't want to get his hopes up about us getting back together.  It's never going to happen.

It's not that I don't like him or don't want to hang out with him.  I'm just very happy where I am.

How shall I be not-boring, I asked myself.  Myself told me this is a perfect opportunity to show off my scads of useless knowledge.  So, along with whatever autobiographical meanderings I may get up to, you get a daily dose of trivia.

Today navel oranges and the apocalypse are on my mind.  No, they really don't go together.

*The navel orange comes from a mutation of a sweet orange in 1820.  The navel is actually the outer vestiges of a conjoined twin orange growing within the larger one.  Since navel oranges don't produce seeds, they can only be bred via grafting.

*The Mayans were good with calendars.  So good, in fact, that their calendars are accurate up to today and beyond.  However, they end abruptly at 12-21-12.  The Mayans, and later the Aztecs, believed that the world has been and will be created and destroyed many times.  December 21 of 2012 is said to usher in an era of peace, balance, and harmony with the land.

I haven't the foggiest idea what I mean to accomplish with this journal.  Maybe I'll be less weird if I put my thoughts on the internet instead of letting them simmer in my head.  Digital therapy would be quite appropriate for.  Even more so if I typed it on some sort of hand-held device from the middle of nowhere.

What I do not want, however, is to be dull.  And for gods' sakes, someone shoot me if I begun to blog like a love-sick fourteen-year-old.  It's astounding how many earth-shattering heartbreaks some girls can go through in a week.

It's true.  I'm a coward of the first order.

See my ex (that break-up is a cowardly tale in itself, which I'm not typing with my right wrist in a brace, no way, no how) got me to play Lord of the Rings Online with him.  It was fun for a while, but now I'm bored.  I miss being a super hero.

Of course, I'm far too much of a wuss to tell him.  Le sigh.

Okay.  I get it.  I'm the last human being on the planet to not have either a LiveJournal or a MySpace page.

Now I do.

The blame for that lies squarely with Usula Vernon (http://ursulav.livejournal.com).  She made it seem so simple and painless.

So here I am, gimpy right paw and all--there was ice, which I stepped on. 

I wanted to inflict upon my readers-to-be the brightest and most tacky theme available, but it turns out that they are too bright and too tacky even for me.  I'm astounded.