Last Sunday I finally got to see the Frida exhibit in San Francisco. It was crowded, especially considering it was only ten on a kind of cold Sunday morning. I loved that so many people were there, pressing right up to the ropes, whispering (or not) to each other, pointing, marveling, reading the square little stories by some of the paintings. I feel like she lived and died with such wanting and longing. I have to believe that the love and wonder of all the people who adore her touches her in some unfathomable way. Or, you know, maybe I’m projecting just the smallest bit.
My favorite part was the walls of framed (and sometimes scribbled on) black and white photos. And the maybe thirty second video looping on a television against one wall.
I’m writing from my phone, waiting in an emergency room. I’ve been here an hour, not been checked in, and now my phone battery is about to give it up. I’m okay. Just have another fucking ear infection and don’t want to wait to deal with it. I brought the new issue of The Sun, but looking around I think I should have brought a fat novel instead. I am tired of realizing that hindsight is 20/20.
Look! It’s an update! From my computer and not my phone.
I finally got called in to get registered and, I like to think, because I was such a straight-shooter with the nurse: here’s my history in less than a minute, here’s what’s wrong now, all I need is two minutes with a doctor and I’m gone, the nurse said she’d ask one of the doctors to quickly see me so I could go. And, I scored and was out of there WITH my medicine three hours after walking in the front door. I’d be asleep now if I wasn’t such a dumbass that I gave away the vicodin from my last ear infection. I’m hurtin and so I am having a gin&tonic before I get in bed to help me not care. I should have been more stingy with my narcotics: sharing is overrated.
It was odd driving home with this ear infection really starting to kick my ass. I’ve dealt with this type of pain all my life but it never gets easier. It’s not like you can elevate your eardrum or not walk on it or something; it just really and truly hurts and it’s impossible to not be 99% to 100% focused on that fact when it’s at its worst. I was remembering times when I was a kid and had to get shots of penicillin in my butt. There was a time not too long ago that I had to wait overnight to go to the doctor and I remember that the girls were in the bath, and I stood there in the bathroom with my eardrum ruptured and disgusting, crying and rocking back and forth and going to the kitchen to sneak shots of the Jack Daniels that I’d bought to make whiskey-spiked biscotti, which were totally awesome, btw. Tonight I drove home the long way, because I spaced and missed the freeway. The long way took me past the hospital where both the boys were born. So long ago, but not really. Along the way a good old fashioned migraine got hold of the line of muscles between my ears going over the top of my head, and I saw stars in my peripheral vision. I stopped singing along with my iPod and said, Oh, HAI, migraine! U kin go now kthxbye! And then I laughed because my head hurt so bad that it was just funny. Only not.
And now I’m home and dosed up on antibiotics and drinking booze on an empty stomach in hopes of a night with at least a little bit of sleep. Maybe this time my eardrum won’t actually rupture, but I’m not too hopeful because it’s doing those crackly staticy sounds that always come before things go south on me.
I’m honestly not thrilled about starting the week this way. Life’s been a little bit uphill in the snow both ways lately and frankly I’m not interested in adding painful illness to the List of Shit, you know? I know better than to complain, though: complaining about shit is just a roundabout invite for more and I’m seriously good with what I’ve got going at the moment.
I miss laughing and cracking jokes. I need to take back the funny.