Frustrated. It started because of a book...

I've had a nice quiet long weekend with Mr. Salted; we went to see "Star Trek" and I didn't fall asleep, yesterday he grilled steaks, etc. etc. My ankle is hurting all the time now, and I'm not doing anything beyond the ordinary. I just take ibuprofen for it and listen to it pop when I walk. My last support group meeting is tomorrow night, and in a couple of weeks I'll have the six-month appointments with the nutritionist and exercise physiologist so we can resubmit to insurance for approval for surgery. I also found another dentist to go to; a friend of a friend is the hygienist. They won me over in part because they don't charge for nitrous. Sure, I have to drive an hour and a half, but if I like the dentist, I don't care! I'm going to try and stop the exercise physiologist visits for a while, at least until after I've had ankle surgery and am coming back from that; the last few months, it feels like I'm just setting fire to the copay money.

So, I read this book in a day and it frustrated me. The book is "Tweak" by Nic Sheff; the subtitle is "Growing Up On Methamphetamines". (His father, David Sheff, wrote a book about his son's addiction and their relationship, called "Beautiful Boy". I haven't read that one yet.)

Let me just say, I applaud anyone who has the courage and takes the time to write the truth about their life. I think the more books are out there that show what the world is really like from different points of view, the better. I wasn't as mad as everyone else seemed to be at James Frey, but I took creative nonfiction classes at university. As a writer, I err more on the side of writing your memoir as you remember and experience than what everyone else tells you happened, but that's neither here or there with this particular book.

The writing isn't bad at all--not terrible, but nothing particularly special, either. However, the attention to detail is fabulous, and it's a quick read. I read another review of "Tweak" on Visual Bookshelf or Goodreads that said every addict's story is the same. There is some truth in that statement, though I find it to be a gross overgeneralization.

I was frustrated by this book because its author had not only every opportunity in the world and two loving parents, but a seemingly endless supply of family friends and people that just fall out of the sky to help and care about him--and he's too deep into his disease to be cultivating those relationships, they are just there for him whenever he decides to need them. He says at various points in the book that he knows what he's thrown away and who he's hurt and how alone he feels, but then his parents are still there to pay for treatment and therapy and rehab and sometimes college and he still has their connections so that he can go on book tours with his father and have this fabulous career at the end. I felt manipulated when I finished the book--yes, addiction is harrowing, and the drug life is full of unsavory people and needless suffering and death--but how "on the edge" could this person really have been when he had not only a lot of advantages, but his youth as well? It was all just there waiting for him, whenever he decided to start appreciating it--it wasn't like he was just born into a mess he didn't ask for. Coming up from that, if you can, takes decades--and it ain't glamorous. I can attest that there's usually no book tour, with your father or anyone else, at the end.

I think this book frustrated me on a number of levels that have very little to do with Nic Sheff at all. Whether or not every addict's story is the same, every person's story has value. I don't care how rich or famous you are--I don't think anyone is born automatically more worthy or interesting than anyone else. There are a great many of people who could have been contributing more positively to society in any number of ways--if there had been someone there to pay for their rehab, their therapy, or help them to go back to school--or just love them unconditionally and try to keep them safe as they grew up. There are a lot of people who don't even get to breathe anymore because they happened to not be lucky or have the inner strength to keep plodding along through life and trying. The people who get to write these bestselling memoirs are, nine times out of ten, people who had some semblance of a safety net, whether it was parents, husband, Great-Aunt Matilda, or all of the above. I'm not just frustrated because of my own life and its path to date, though that certainly contributes to this rant...I'm thinking of a thousand tragic stories I've heard--and a million more none of us will ever get to hear. It doesn't seem fair that this is true when there is so much to learn from every person's life experience--including that of Nic Sheff.

I want to make this frustration I'm feeling now motivate me to try and do something more with my own talents, much as I have transformed many negative emotions and experiences in my early life into motivation to achieve as an adult. That's what I'm going to try and take away from this today.

Saturday 9: Hot Fun in the Summertime Meme

1. Is summer your favorite season? Why?

No way. It's my least favorite. I hate hot weather, I can't be out in the sun because I burn so fast, and I'm never comfortable.

2. Do you exercise more in the summer because you wear less clothing?

No, I exercise less because it's too freakin' hot already. Inside with the A/C on and some ice water is where I probably am.

3. Do you enjoy tanning or are you more concerned about the dangers of basking in the sun?

It is physically impossible for me to get a tan. I'm nine shades whiter than a white person, okay? Frog-belly white. Kraft mayonnaise white. You can see my veins through to the bone. I'm out there with umbrellas, sunscreen, hats. People laugh but I have pretty nice skin for a 40-year-old.


4. You are on the beach when a waiter appears for your drink order. What do you ask for?

Water, probably. I've had a few enjoyable days drinking Mudslides or something lovely like that, but alcohol just makes me hotter.

5. Do you camp in the summertime?

No way. Too old to sleep on the ground. Don't like bugs. Allergic to bees. My idea of camping is a room at the Travelodge.

6. What was your favorite summer vacation as a kid?

They were not my happy time. I'll just leave it at that.

7. Do you enjoy sleeping outdoors?

No, though I have a couple of fond memories of doing it as a kid...in Becky's yard with the boom box on the long extension cord, looking up at the stars and listening to KISW.

8. Do you throw a summer barbecue every year?

You're funny. This quiz is making me feel like the most antisocial misanthrope on the planet. My husband likes to grill. It annoys me because it takes too much effort but I just let him rock on with his bad self. The meat tastes good, anyway,and he cleans up afterward.

9. Have you ever been to a nude beach? If yes, what did you think?

No. It wouldn't faze me, but it wouldn't be anywhere I'd want to be on purpose.

A meme that's about a week late

1. Who do you think is sexy?

My husband, and guys like him—smart, sweet, thoughtful, funny, just plain good people. Good fathers, sons, husbands, friends, brothers. Guys who shovel the walk so you don’t have to.

2. When does it become love?

You just know.

3. Are you a good dancer?

I’m not bad. I have fun. :)

4. What magazines do you read?

People, Utne Reader, Consumer Reports, Rolling Stone, International Figure Skating. I like Bust and a lot of others. Magazines are fun. “Beauty” magazines are verboten chez moi; all they do is tell you to feel insecure so you buy the products they advertise and keep buying their magazines in hope of redeeming your not-nearly-fabulous-enough self. And who the hell needs that? Not me.

5. If you could have any name, what would you call yourself?

The one I have. I picked it. :)

6. Have you ever ridden in a limo? If yes, when?

I never have.

7. What is something you really like to do?

Read, write, take pictures, sleep, laugh.

8. Last chance: Who wins Idol, Kris Allen or Adam Lambert?

Well, as it turns out, Kris! I thought it could have gone either way.

9. If you had to, what animal would you choose to be?

Any cat a certain couple among my friends own. Theirs only drinks Brita water!

Quiet week

The ten-year date from the last blog hit on the day of my group meeting, and I felt under the weather and just didn't want to go, so I played hooky. They had all done a sugar detox, anyway (including no artificial sweeteners) and I was in no mood to justify myself or do much of anything else. I watched bad TV and chilled out, talked to a couple of my nearest and dearest on the phone. It was all good. The last meeting of the group is next week.

The weather has been just beautiful the past few days. I don't spend a lot of time outdoors, but I still appreciate it. It fills the house with natural light; I love to watch the cats jockeying for the sunniest spot under the big living room skylight so they can bake their brains out.

I've been scanning a lot of old pictures for people, and that has been fun. I LOVE to play in Photoshop and can waste hours doing it. I've toyed with the idea of an eventual photo restoration business, but everyone has imaging software now so I don't know how feasible that idea really is. I enjoy it as a hobby nonetheless and have improved a lot of old photos for my friends and family.

I'm eating and feeling well. I'm still eating some things that contain sugar, but not to excess--not even every day. Today I did get a Jet Tea smoothie--something I used to live on that probably has no nutritional value--and am just savoring it slowly, knowing it could be the last one I ever have. That's how I'm looking at it as we use up the last vestiges of things in our house that contain sugar. I know what's coming. I'm researching the food options I will have as soon as I have a surgery date and slowly incorporating them into our pantry and my diet. Asparagus has become my favorite vegetable--fiber AND protein! W00T! Seroquel seems to be working pretty well as a sleep med.

I'm not weighing myself. The only reason I own a scale at all is because we went to Mexico in 2007 and had to weigh our luggage. The ex-bulimic in me still thinks scales are evil, at least for me. I flat-out refuse to let that number tell me what kind of day I'm going to have--or, God forbid, what my worth is as a human being. Unfortunately, that is where my brain tends to go if I get in the habit of weighing in.

The ankle is bothering me a bit; I mostly stay off it unless I have to grocery shop or something. I have to be especially careful on our porch steps--there are four or five. If there is an elevator available, I use it. I have a harder time going down stairs than up them, though I have stumbled doing both directions in the fairly recent past with my ankle issues. I saw the little girl next door staring at me yesterday as I steadied myself with one hand against the wall going down the stairs to my car. (I have this irrational fear that the neighbors think I'm a drunk. I buy a case of beer at Costco for Mr. Salted every now and then--I hate beer and drink NONE of it, and only indulge in booze at all maybe three or four times a year. I rarely leave the house, I keep weird hours, and I always wear sunglasses. I also haven't had a job for a few months. I'm not one to care what the neighbors think, but I have nosy ones, many of whom don't seem to have much to do. Sigh.)

I have some pictures to work on today and I'll probably do some writing. I feel so fortunate to have all this quiet time before the weight-loss surgery to get my head together. A friend paid me to write a resume for her--bought the groceries this week!

Ten years after

"I loved my friend.
He went away from me.
There's nothing more to say.
The poem ends
Soft as it began-
I loved my friend." --Langston Hughes

Today is the tenth anniversary of the date my best friend died. Despite my best efforts not to focus on this, it has been on my mind all week. (I call him my best friend because we were friends from age six on, and the whole concept of "best friend", for me, is very much something rooted in childhood...I have a number of amazing friends and they are all the best in whatever unique way they are. Really, he was more like a twin brother, emotionally speaking.) I think maybe this anniversary has been on my mind because it's two digits' worth of years he's been gone now, and a decade is a long, long time.

He was an absolutely amazing person, someone who still makes me laugh every day in memory. He was smart, sweet, goofy, and kind. I never laughed or cried harder with anyone before or since, and there was no one more fun to go dancing with. He remembered everything, even and especially if it was embarrassing, and he was an incredible mimic. He loved words and could make up parodies of songs at the drop of a hat. He loved classic Looney Tunes, "Dallas", "Golden Girls", and cowboys. He was a nurse by trade, and the letters and cards he had from the families of his patients would make Chuck Norris weep.

When we were both in our late 20s, he left a bad relationship and relocated cross-country, ultimately ending up helping me leave one of my own. After all that happened, he and I were roommates for a couple of years, and we had a fantastic time living together. I'll always, always be thankful for that experience.

I've been trying to write a book about his life and our relationship for the last ten-plus years. I was actually writing about the friendship years before he died, when I was in school getting my writing degree, and I always got positive feedback on that writing. I haven't ruled out fiction--I did publish one short story that was loosely based--but it somehow didn't feel right. Then I thought I would write a memoir--more his than mine--but in writing it, I found that it was as much or more my story as his, which has definitely stalled me at times. (I'm very inspired by Augusten Burroughs and Haven Kimmel's memoirs of themselves and other people at the same time--"A Wolf at the Table" and "She Got Up Off the Couch" in particular. "Angela's Ashes" by Frank McCourt, too. Lots of them.)

So what I have done so far is just write a couple of pages--a vignette here or there, thinking I would try to get them out and put them together later. I feel like I can't write anything else until I get this story written. One day not long ago I wrote the following, thinking it would be the end of the book; maybe it should be the beginning, or maybe it's just me clearing my throat, in the literary sense, and it shouldn't be in there at all.

At any rate, I really wish you could have known him. The world is a better place because he was here for a while.

****

So much is different now, ten years after. So much is the same.

Since you’ve been gone, I’ve had a pedicure, been on a cruise, actually attended and mostly enjoyed a high-school reunion, been divorced, been remarried, had a tubal pregnancy and several miscarriages, had a hysterectomy, gained weight, lost weight, bought and sold a home, changed my address and my job three times, got some medication, lost a couple of cats, got a couple more cats, learned about good tequila, stopped giving a shit, and started giving a shit. I’ve hated myself and I’ve loved myself and I’ve become closer to some people and further away from others and I’ve found some peace, but there’s still so much that I seek and know I may never find. I think sometimes I could have been anything if I’d been born into a different family--but that, I’m afraid, is true of almost everyone who was ever born in the first place.

You never met the husband that I have now. He’s so laid back, gentle, kind, good, funny; I know you would have absolutely adored each other. In almost intangible, subtle, yet not at all creepy ways, he reminds me of you--but I also admit I make a conscious (or subconscious) choice to see you in everyone I hold dear.

At least once a day, I will laugh or become furious at something only you would understand. The world keeps moving, and everyone seems younger, more so all the time. The cracks under my eyes keep getting wider—and so does the rest of me, despite my best efforts to the contrary. I still can’t sleep properly. A lot of the time--perhaps more than I should--I feel really, really old, and really, really tired, so that hasn’t changed. But: I can still hear music, take a picture, smile at a dog, dance, laugh so hard my stomach hurts, give people goofy presents they would never buy themselves, watch bad TV, marvel at figure skating, savor chocolate, maybe even write some words that will, hopefully, mean something to someone besides me one day.

Above all else, I can still love. Most days, I want to live, and even feel lucky to be here. When it comes to your life, all the well-worn clichés apply—your life was too short; a light went out; the good die young. You left forever—-maybe even on purpose. You took your freckles, your laugh, and your dance moves with you. But you know what else? You changed the world. You mattered.

Maybe that means I matter too.

Price-gouging dentist

I went to a dental practice on Friday who fully tried to price-gouge me. I went in there for a routine cleaning and the suspicion of perhaps two cavities. I went on the recommendation of a friend--who goes to see the head dentist--but they stuck me with a new "associate" that was in la-la land. It was just what I needed this week (not). I'm one of those people who needs nitrous for you to touch my teeth at all--which I told them about 50 times--and these fools (the hygienist and the dentist) were digging around in there willy-nilly until I was tearing up from the pain and about ready to punch one or both of them. They kept fluttering, going off to confer together and then coming back to me. "Are you sure you're flossing? Why are your gums this sensitive? Your insurance seems to have an unlimited cleaning allowance...you should come back every three months until we get you up to speed. It's been a WHOLE YEAR since you saw the dentist." (You would have thought it'd been ten years and I had rampant meth mouth or something. It was to laugh. Anyone who knows me knows what good care I take of my teeth--I'm borderline pathological about it.)

They also told me I needed twelve fillings. TWELVE. (They did concede that some of them were tiny, but still oh so urgent.) My maximum dental plan allowance is $2K per year and of course this whole proposed cluster was going to cost $3K. I told them I couldn't afford it. They handed me a loan application. (!) They outlined an entire treatment plan that would have involved cleaning part of my mouth and filling part of my mouth over four appointments, telling me they were trying to save me money so I wouldn't have to pay for the nitrous so many times. I didn't end up with a cleaning or any fillings--"they didn't have time"--but I ended up being there for two bloody hours anyway. They were in their office chattering and eating lunch together before I'd even gotten out of the building.

I told them several times that I had not had a job in months and also had major surgery coming up but they didn't budge on their grand plan. In the real world, no one has four digits to drop on dental care willy-nilly. I said, "Can we not just take care of the most pressing issues now and wait until later on the more minor ones?" Nothing. I heard crickets.

I hadn't slept the night before at ALL and was literally home under a blanket weeping once I got there. My logical mind had left the building. (Sleep deprivation and overload will do that.) I was thinking, What can I sell? What can I do? Why is this all happening? Thankfully, my dear and lovely friend--who also happens to be an RN--gave me a call at precisely the right moment and talked me down. We both know a recently graduated dental hygienist who knows about the dental schools and such, and the hygienist and the RN concurred I was being gouged and I should go elsewhere. I was instructed to get my films (which were only available in digital form) and either come to the practice she works for or find someone more local to me who was based in reality.

The receptionist played dumb ("you need these for your gastric bypass surgery?") but finally emailed them to me. They are interesting, and weird-looking. I thought it looked like my skull was made of smoke and started humming "Within You Without You" involuntarily, thinking of the Beatles in India with the Maharishi and hookah pipes.

All I can say is: thank goodness for good friends.

Susan Maria Leach, "Before and After: Living and Eating Well After Weight-Loss Surgery"

I've been feeling much less "jaggedy" today, thankfully. I've been reading "Before and After: Living and Eating Well After Weight Loss Surgery" by Susan Maria Leach, which I guess is one of the hallmark books in the WLS canon, so to speak. I really liked the first 100 or so pages, which mostly consisted of her journal and journey to before and after, an FAQ-type deal, and the first protein shake recipes. She lost me a bit on her recipe recipes, though. I don't cook at all and am far from a "foodie".(I was serious when I asked why can't I just eat baby food with protein powder. If food's only going to be fuel, do I really care anymore?) She still has great suggestions and insights and it's definitely a valuable book for someone going throught this process--I'm going to get my own copy soon (my nutritionist lent me this one). I think it's definitely worth reading for anyone considering weight-loss surgery. She has a website at http://www.bariatriceating.com/ that looks like a great resource, not only for recipes and such but also because she test-drives protein bars and things like that. I'm really glad that so many things can be ordered online--many products seem to only be carried in the most out-of-the-way places.