There's this thing called writing where one puts one's thoughts down either on paper or some sort of computerized device. It's vaguely familiar to me after months of, shall we say, introspection and privacy, but as I sit at my new writer's desk with my patron-saint-of-funny Julia Louis-Dreyfus candle lit for good juju I'm beginning to remember the feeling. That part where my fingertips seem to be connected directly to my brain (and what an interesting image that conjures) and the process doesn't feel like work. Ahhhh, there it is. I KNEW this desk would get me back again.
Okay, so maybe it's not just the desk. I should explain that I've been a very bad blogger. Naughty. I've broken the very rule that sustains the blogger universe, and that's consistency. I disappeared. I stopped posting completely for months. My head was empty. Or rather, filled with worry and doubt I suppose. I went through a bit of a health scare for those of you who don't know. I was diagnosed with a spontaneous pneumothorax. And for those of us not fluent in the language of medical gibberish that means a collapsed lung. For no apparent reason. (Hence the "spontaneous") I was placed off activity which just means I couldn't do anything. I could under no circumstances fly, so my trip home to celebrate my brother's big birthday after his heart attacks was compromised. I decided to say fuck it and drive halfway across the country alone and was actually excited about it. I needed the thinking time.
My body had other plans. The bitch.
I went in for my last followup appointment to make sure I at least had the okay to drive. Not so much.
"I want to admit you to the hospital tonight and get you in for surgery tomorrow."
"It's not good. The sooner we get you in the better. I'll have to remove a portion of your lung, and you'll remain in the hospital for about three days to recover and drain with a chest tube."
"Tomorrow's my birthday."
"Well, happy birthday?"
Alright. I had to call my mom because I had to let her know I would in fact not be making the journey home. Oh, and I also I would be having major invasive surgery tomorrow. Oops.
My best friend Jenna quickly made some calls and was able to help my mom get a buddy pass (which is flying standby--fun!) for the next day, so she could be there for my surgery. And my birthday!
Fun fun fun. I won't go into details. I'll just say that the OR sang me Happy Birthday, which is pretty rare I guess. (I knew I was special.) The surgery took a couple hours, went well, and I began the painful and terrible road to recovery. Chest tubes suck ass. My lung was stubborn and took longer to heal, so I was in the hospital longer. A week total. And the damn tube had to stay in even when I went home. Again, no details really because I've moved past the whole thing, but now I have three cool scars on my right side, my lung will forever be stapled together, and I realized we're never too old to need our moms.
The whole ordeal took so many months of waiting, and then when I was actually surprised and rather rushed into an emergency situation moving past it after was so very strange. None of it felt real. It still feels like a dream. The recovery felt long and stupid. One would think that all of this time spent on the couch doing nothing would have been the perfect time for writing, but one would be wrong. I couldn't bring myself to share in this way. I was tired. I was tired from the year. Too much had happened. Too many serious things that were more intense and serious than I even realized sometimes. So I kept mostly to myself. Social media--whatever. That's a partial connection to keep people semi in-the-know. But it's not the whole of it. When I write I feel I'm sharing my most intimate self.
So what's up, world? Hiiiiiiiiiiii.
When the new year hit I decided I needed to set myself up again for success in anything and everything. I needed a new desk. My old one I had had since elementary school was a 50s metal vintage piece that my dad and I painted red and glittered. I had saved up as a kid to buy a diner chair to match. Who the hell was I? Anyway, I loved the desk. Always have. I schlepped it across country several times. I came to realize very recently that for an adult it wasn't quite the best situation. It was small. I had nowhere to spread out and get down to business. Could I blame years of not being prolific on my desk?! I was sure gonna try. So I made room in my closet to store the old girl (did you think I was gonna part with it?!) and purchased what I call a "real desk." It's got room for a lamp and books and my computer and and and. I love it. It makes me feel accomplished. Determined. Legitimate. I put it together myself--no it's not Ikea--and I love every extra inch of it.
This post didn't start out to be a love letter to my desk, but she has powers. What can I say? I wonder if every time I sit down to write will she incept me with something kind to say about her? We'll find out. As long as I'm writing more, who cares? Let the editors worry about that.