Monday, December 17, 2018

Thursday

Thursday, November 29th, 2018. Perhaps it ended up being a normal, or even fantastic day for anyone else. I am happy for all of my readers who had a pleasant Thursday, November 29th, 2018. That was not the case for me. As I awoke in the wee hours of that fateful day (well, I guess I was unaware of it being a fateful day yet) I knew something wasn’t quite right with me mentally. As I navigated through the day, I felt increasingly disassociated with myself and my surroundings. A series of events occurred towards the end of the day that are strikingly clear in my memory. I ate dinner at Noodles and then went to Goodwill where a seizure caused me to collapse, hit my head with enough force to cause my first serious head injury; a concussion, skull fracture, and subarachnoid hemorrhage (a type of brain bleed, and possibly a type of stroke, that was never made clear to me). You can look at the packet trying to explain what was going on in my head, although the packet was, ironically, headache-inducing.

The next thing I remember deciding to buy painting of a raven eating a raspberry and talking on the phone with my friend. Then, BOOM! What felt like two seconds later I awoke in terror in an ambulance, greeted by a red-headed stranger with strikingly blue eyes asking me, in an order I don’t recall, the name of the president and what month we were in. Prior to that moment, I had never felt such paralyzing fear, caused by not recognizing my surroundings and uncertainty of the answers. 

Don't worry, I got the answers right. Trump. (Thanks for the further aggravation, red-head paramedic dude! Trump was not the first thing I wanted to think of upon waking) The other question seemed like  two answers, December OR November should let that patient pass the "do I have a clue what the F is going on!?!?" quiz. We were basically on the cusp. But it was November, which I knew, so I "passed." (On that note, I am not exactly sure what failing would be...it's not like they would kick you out of the ambulance for getting a bunch of questions wrong. Plus maybe it is POSSIBLE that some people just don't know the answers. Some food for thought there...)

A CT scan in the ER revealed the bleeding in my brain and got me admitted to the ICU for the next day or so. The medications injected into my IV in the emergency room started and continued with Ativan, a strongly addictive Benzodiazepine, as well as Fentanyl and Dilaudid and handed to me in dosing cups caused my mind to swirl in a dense fog of questions, every emotion imaginable, and a multitude of healthcare personnel buzzing around me. 

When I was discharged, I left the hospital with folders containing information about concussions and brain injuries as a whole. More on that later.

Wednesday, September 26, 2018

My Offensive Split Ends

I generally avoid hair salons. I use "hair salon" as an all-encompassing term here; we're talking anything from Barbra's Back Alley Bowl Cuts to Le Salon Chic Chic and everything in between. Yes, I made up both of those names (or did I?). Maybe the whole concept of never paying someone to chop off my hair was so deeply ingrained from my childhood years, when haircuts consisted of my mom and some scissors in the bathroom. She gave me short bangs before they were trendy, or a thing people did intentionally. It turns out my mom wasn't aware that I could NOT pull off the edgy style, and no one pointed it out to her or me (at least, not to my face). Beholding a reflection of yourself with bangs and feeling dread wash over you as you realize the time it will take before those grow out is something I am all too familiar with.

In my younger years, bang trims were a routine occurrence. "Marisa, you need your bangs trimmed!" my mom would insist, to which I always wanted to point out that they were already halfway up my forehead and in danger of disappearing altogether. I often looked like a toddler version of one of the Beatles, albeit with much shorter bangs. But this blog is not about my childhood style choices (or lack thereof). It's about something that seems to frighten people even more: my split ends. Oh, the horror!

Before reading on, please know that I am not a hair stylist-ist (prejudiced against hair stylists, obviously). I'm sure the following paragraphs will offend some readers, because everything is offensive to someone, and writing my thoughts online will surely anger at least a few people. I have definitely had some lovely hair stylists.



If you have the money or are a dude who isn't bald and can't pull off a man bun, I say go ahead and spend money on those monthly or weekly (or daily??) haircuts. As a female who can't pull off a pixie cut, I don't see the point. I also can't recall many times when I've gone to a salon and not gotten a lecture. Sometimes, these lectures last the entire time, which I never understood. Did those hairstylists want me to come back? For anyone who has never been lectured by a hairdresser, they normally go something like this:

Hairdresser: What can I do for you today?
Me: Oh, just a trim please. (Or: "is there any way you can fix what I did to my hair when I decided it would be a swell idea to chop it off myself?" But that is a blog topic for another day...)
H: Well, you have a LOT of split ends. I mean, more than I have EVER seen. Your split ends have split ends. You really need to buy (insert name of hair care product that costs more than I pay for rent here) and come in at LEAST every six weeks.
Me: I like my hair long though (and I don't love paying to offend someone with my split ends).
H: Your hair grows faster when it gets frequent trims.

I just love that last line. I mean...no, hair doesn't grow faster when it gets frequent trims, because...science. At this point, before he/she has even taken scissors to my mane, it is clear to me that the hairdresser thinks my split ends are an absolute marvel of science and that I should be studied. Usually the whole haircut experience ends with the hairdresser saying something like "I did the best I could..."  or "your hair would have looked healthier if you would have let me cut off another couple of inches" while adopting an expression you'd expect to see on a doctor giving you bad news after an unsuccessful medical procedure. After that, I leave and don't return for at least a year (barring any unfortunate home haircuts gone wrong) when I get to relive the whole lovely experience again.

Generally, I preface my visits with a brief disclaimer that I am well aware that I have split ends worthy of a research study, but that I don't want to hear about it or about the magical $600-product that my distressed hair needs.


Tuesday, July 24, 2018

Delayed, Un-Delayed, Re-Delayed?

Wow. Let’s just talk about how things are going at the airport. Actually, I’ll just talk (type, rather) and you can listen. I’m currently standing at one of those charging stations to charge my iPad so I can write this blog (you’re welcome). I am waiting to board a plane to take me from San Diego back home to Denver. My flight was scheduled to leave at 1:25, and while en route to the airport, I got a text from Southwest saying my flight was delayed until 2:00. At least they apologized for the delay in the text. Thanks for that, Southwest. Your apology means the world to me. 

I didn’t have a bag to check, because I am just that smart, so I headed right to security. There were two lines; one for priority super special VIP types and the other line was for the remaining plebs. They were not clearly labeled by any stretch of the imagination, and there was not a soul in either line, so I picked one and walked up to the lone agent checking IDs and boarding passes. As I approached him, he informed me that I was in the wrong line and had to go back to the start for the Average Joe Non-VIP line. I turned around, rolled my eyes, walked back to the start and entered the other line. The only difference was that the non-VIP line was one of those winding lines where the ropes made me do about 20 switchbacks BY MYSELF, which led me to GUESS WHO!? The exact same dude. But this time it was somehow acceptable because I EARNED my way to security by waking through the winding rope. Gee thanks. 

After security, I arrived at the overcrowded gate where the sign informed me that the new departure time was 2:20. Super. This time, I didn’t even get an apologetic text from the airline. Ten minutes later, the screen updated to 2:30, and then I received the text about the prior delay to 2:20. Way to keep me posted in a timely manner, Southwest! As I began to accept my fate, when the screens changed back to the original departure time of 1:25, and someone announced that there was a gate change without announcing the new gate. Well, that was a first. I didn’t know it was possible to un-delay a flight. 

However, as I rushed to the line I asked another passenger why we weren’t boarding and he said that the agent at the desk said to ignore “all screens and announcements”and that we would be leaving at 2:20. So my flight went to delayed to more delayed to more delayed to back on time to delayed to the second delayed time. I’m so confused I’m just waiting for someone to tell me what to do. Oh but wait, I’m supposed to ignore what I’m told to do. The new mystery: will Marisa ever make it home? Well, there are worse places to be stranded...

Blue Lawn Chair

Apparently, I care about lawn chairs. I’ve always known that I typically give inanimate objects personalities and feelings. The “As-is” sect...