Okay, so I am less filled with personal tragedy atm, but just know there's like, a very low possibility that in five days you will not see me enacting new and dramatic renditions on the unfairness of life as I know it.
This is the full sense approach to post-bronchitis (sort of) life; this will be my reminder why I don't smoke.
1.) taste - here are the the things that taste bad == EVERYTHING. In the spirit of experiment, and because let's face it, I do this shit when I'm feeling particularly sorry for myself, I have licked sugar straight from palm and salt straight from palm to see where this could be going. Despite the fact they were noticeably themselves, my taste buds are registering them as Unholy Evil. Also Unholy Evil: broccoli, coffee, pepsi (which is also--I don't know how this happened?--no longer sweet), hamburgers, bread, butter, candy, air.
2.) smell - we are not even talking about this. I'm either not able to smell (see congestion) or I'm picking up likee, mold and the stench of death and destruction in a post-apocalyptic world. IDEK.
3.) other stuff - nausea, yeah, and weird nausea wiht no particular focus. Like a--floating nausea, if you will, that only comes by when doing tasks like fixing one's hair, showering, or expressing an opinion on the Weather Channel.
[...yes, I have had the weather channel on for a few--days now? It's very soothing.]
4.) fatigue - okay, yes, I know this is a normal thing and I'm lazy, so I shouldn't notice this? Yet I do.
5.) weight loss
This one is complicated, and has like, a lot to do with I spent my teens and twenties functionally near emaciated due to a high metabolism (and athletics. and cheerleading. And depression. blah blah blah). If there is one thing that burns out your ability to look at supermodels and think oooh, pretty, it's seeing your cheerleading pictures at similiar height and weight and feeling vaguely nauseated and kind of terrified of your own cheekbones Also, my sister is like, under 100 and trust me, it's revelatory. So there is like, been a faint sense of half-shame with the general sense of looking at pictures and feeling pleased and comfortable. And then there's that thing where my bra size went up an entire cup? I am not going back, okay? I'm just not. And yet. Between my thyroid and bronchitis and everything, I'm not--comfortable again.
Right. Done with that.
From tzikeh's LJ, quoted from GQ
He has been an ally of blacks, American Indians, the poor, the sick, the aged, the mentally ill, starving refugees worldwide and immigrants. He has been an outspoken liberal, unafraid to take the controversial positions—on issues such as busing, abortion, gun control, the Vietnam War (late but forcefully), the nuclear freeze and capital punishment—that other senators clearly avoided.
I don't know if in all the world there's a greater way to be remembered.
I'm going to show you my privilege.
This is the sixth time in three years I've had bronchitis. It's the fourth time since I was twice hospitalized for atypical pneumonia, which is still an unending mystery in my medical records. I am one of those in America who can afford to get sick. I can afford to get sick and afford to get well again. All it takes is a card I carry in my purse and my social security number.
There are some--truly amazing things about death courts and not having control fo your health and just--right, sure, I know that's important things going on there. But here is where I will explain what was the most importnat thing to me in my life.
In November 2006, I got out of bed still groggy, crossed the room, and realized I couldn't catch my breath. When I sat down, I couldn't draw a deep breath. On the drive to my doctor, I started losing consciousness in the car. When my mother half carried me to a seat, she took my purse, my wallet, and she took my medical card, and in less than a minute, I could breathe again. Thirty-five seconds of that was me not able to understand what they were trying to do with that goddamn mask.
I could breathe, and I was taken to an ambulance, admitted to a hospital, and handed over to every specialist who thought my x-rays looked cool. And there was delicious food. I'm going to say now, for the uninsured, this is not typical. I know because one of my earliest clients as a welfare caseworker were a Stage Four liver disease, a schizophrenic, a pregnant family, a cancer survivor, a single guy with a shitty job.
Let me shorten this: here is what I cared about that day I woke up and the pneumonia struck. I didn't actually give a really good shit about anything but remembering what it felt like to breathe. So you know, if someone, somewhere, will tell me how we can achieve universal health care that will be bipartisan? I am all over that. However, I'll be honest; I don't actually care.
We have waited, and we have hoped, and we have watched, and we have been promised, and we have been failed. We have been failed. This is the meaning of duty: to do what is right when it is not easy; to do what is true even when it is hard; to do what is needed rather than what is desired; to recognize your own weakness and try to be better; to be afraid and then stand up and do it anyway. Pass the health care bill. And shove it through the teeth of opposition to get it there.