In this part, she describes her time at the Mission Training Center.
My brother and I went to the Mission Training Center together, and that was a wonderful experience. That's basically where the brainwashing begins! For whatever reason, good or bad, you certainly, as a missionary, are brainwashed. And it needs to be that way because you can't watch television, you can't watch the news, you can't read magazines or read newspapers or books. You could not call home with the exception of Mother's Day or Christmas. You could write letters home once a week. In the Mission Training Center is where you're instructed to teach missionary discussions. They're very structured and very set. They didn't want each missionary teaching their own variation, so there were great efforts made to keep things systematic and presentable in an organized way. Those that went on foreign-speaking missions were there for two months because they also learned a language. Those that served in English-speaking missions were there for two or three weeks.
Being at the Mission Training Center was hard, but it was also a party, because there were so many people. In addition to my brother, there were, at the time that I went, a lot of my girlfriends that also went on missions. There were so many connections and so many people that I knew that were friends. The Mission Training Center was really a party compared to the rest of my mission. I also had a sort of boyfriend at the time, and he would visit me at the MTC. He would sneak me diet coke, and bring me roses and sweet notes. I felt like a princess.
I don't think there was ever a time before or afterwards where women went on missions in that amount. Recently, women have been discouraged from going on missions again. The Church doesn't come right out and say it. I suspect that with the decline in family that we're seeing in society, with divorce rates being so high, I think that the Church more than ever is wanting its focus on family and motherhood. Before the time that I went, women only went on missions if they were old and not married or had no chance of marriage. It just wasn't common. But maybe about the two or three years when I went and about the two or three years after, that time was a really great opportunity to be a young woman and to be a missionary.
My brother left the Mission Training Center two days before I did, and oh, I bawled. I was a complete running faucet for about three days. But by the time I left, I think I had pulled it together, and I think I was excited. My boyfriend met me at the airport and kissed me goodbye a little bit extensively. My parents were having a fit and I was loving it!
Monday, February 2, 2009
Confessions of a Mormon Missionary: Part 1
A few years ago, I interviewed a former Mormon missionary. I transcribed the tapes of our interviews, and then took it all apart and wove it back together so that it could be constructed in the form of a narrative, all told in her voice and in her own words. The interview process is mostly digging at first, because you don't really know what you are looking for. Eventually, you hone in on it and start to pick apart the thread of a story in all of it. Laborious, difficult work, but one of my favorite things to do. Here is the first part of her story.
Growing up in Salt Lake in my family was pretty sheltered. I grew up with parents that were very...not necessarily structured, but demanded obedience and what they expected was pretty much how it was. There wasn't a lot of undermining. It was a lifestyle, it was definitely a lifestyle. Sundays we did not go to movies, we did not go shopping. We went to church and we spent it with our families. We didn't drink alcohol in our family, we didn't watch R-rated movies. Monday nights were set aside for families to be together. And that was frequently a part of our growing up. We would always have family prayer and blessings on the food. Our family wasn't as diligent about daily scripture reading. In fact, we weren't diligent about that at all. Many, many families are and we did that on occasion, but that took a huge play.
Some of my friends were in the Mormon Church, some were not. My family didn't discourage friendships with those that weren't of the same religion, in contrast to what is frequently the case [in Salt Lake]. There were always at least a couple of friends that weren't Mormon, and yet their values and their lives always seemed equally sheltered and equally similar.
My parents set a really wonderful example. They had both grown up in homes that were not particularly active in the Church. In fact, not at all active by Utah standards. They both drank and smoked and, even though they had many other family members that were active, it wasn't until my sisters were older that my parents decided that they really wanted to live the Gospel. They quit smoking and they prepared to get re-married in the Temple. When you're married in the Temple it's called a Sealing. That's a ceremony that seals a husband and wife together with their children under the covenants of the Temple. Children that are born after that are born under the covenant as well. There's not any need to go back with each new child as it's born. In fact, children are not permitted in the Temple; it's something intended for adults.
The covenants and promises you make in the Temple are permanent. They're forever. You promise to keep the commandments that are outlined in the Church, but to a higher level. For example, if you were to have premarital sex after going through the Temple, the consequences are going to be much graver than if you had not gone through the Temple. The covenants are similar to those you would make at baptism: that of following Jesus Christ, taking his name upon you, things like that. They all have ot do with just honoring the Lord. However, in the Temple, it's a higher commitment and higher expectations are made at that time. So you want to make sure that when you go through, that you're truly ready and it's not something you're fence-sitting about. Once you make that commitment, you never go back.
I went to the Temple just within a week of leaving for my mission. Going on a mission was not something that I had planned on. Women have to be at least 21 before they go and I had turned 21 early in my junior year of college. I had thought about going, but it just didn't feel right and I put the thoughts aside, since as you grow older in Utah, the expectation is that you get married and produce children, more or less, and so I didn't think that I would go if I didn't go right when I turned 21.
The summer after my junior year, literally out of the blue, I just started having very strong impressions that a mission was what I needed to do. I had some very strong promptings for the Lord that led me to that decision and everything fell into place very quickly. Usually it's something that young adults will prepare for all of their lives or at least for years, and I really hadn't done that. It had never been more than a few passing thoughts. Then one night I was praying and hand thought about it. The next evening, I went and spoke to my bishop, and just had this overwhelming peace in speaking with him, and just in feeling the spirit of the Lord, that that was what I needed to do.
When I decided to go, it just felt so incredibly right, and things fell into place so quickly that I just never questioned the decision. It worked really quite smoothly in the scheme of things. And it was nice to have my senior year of college to look forward to upon coming back from my mission. That way I wasn't faced with, "Oh, what am I going to do now?" There was still this place waiting for me, the social circles in the scholastic area where I was. And so it was very comfortable to leave and then to come back.
My parents were beside themselves. My brother was preparing to leave for his mission, and he had actually been called to go to Chile. My parents had planned on that and his date was set within the next couple of months to leave for the Mission Training Center (MTC). They had not prepared, however, for me to leave. First of all, they thought that they were going to have me at home alone and were looking forward to that. We had gotten to a point in our relationship that we were finally friends, after having quite a few turbulent years. So they were sad that I would be leaving, but also, financially, it was a shock to them. At that time, there wasn't a fixed monthly rate to support a missionary, and each mission was different financially. Washington DC, where I was called to serve, was about $400 a month, as opposed to a little less than $200 a month for my brother in South America. I had not saved for my mission, I had not prepared, so it put them in a really difficult situation financially to support both my brother and me at the same time.
Growing up in Salt Lake in my family was pretty sheltered. I grew up with parents that were very...not necessarily structured, but demanded obedience and what they expected was pretty much how it was. There wasn't a lot of undermining. It was a lifestyle, it was definitely a lifestyle. Sundays we did not go to movies, we did not go shopping. We went to church and we spent it with our families. We didn't drink alcohol in our family, we didn't watch R-rated movies. Monday nights were set aside for families to be together. And that was frequently a part of our growing up. We would always have family prayer and blessings on the food. Our family wasn't as diligent about daily scripture reading. In fact, we weren't diligent about that at all. Many, many families are and we did that on occasion, but that took a huge play.
Some of my friends were in the Mormon Church, some were not. My family didn't discourage friendships with those that weren't of the same religion, in contrast to what is frequently the case [in Salt Lake]. There were always at least a couple of friends that weren't Mormon, and yet their values and their lives always seemed equally sheltered and equally similar.
My parents set a really wonderful example. They had both grown up in homes that were not particularly active in the Church. In fact, not at all active by Utah standards. They both drank and smoked and, even though they had many other family members that were active, it wasn't until my sisters were older that my parents decided that they really wanted to live the Gospel. They quit smoking and they prepared to get re-married in the Temple. When you're married in the Temple it's called a Sealing. That's a ceremony that seals a husband and wife together with their children under the covenants of the Temple. Children that are born after that are born under the covenant as well. There's not any need to go back with each new child as it's born. In fact, children are not permitted in the Temple; it's something intended for adults.
The covenants and promises you make in the Temple are permanent. They're forever. You promise to keep the commandments that are outlined in the Church, but to a higher level. For example, if you were to have premarital sex after going through the Temple, the consequences are going to be much graver than if you had not gone through the Temple. The covenants are similar to those you would make at baptism: that of following Jesus Christ, taking his name upon you, things like that. They all have ot do with just honoring the Lord. However, in the Temple, it's a higher commitment and higher expectations are made at that time. So you want to make sure that when you go through, that you're truly ready and it's not something you're fence-sitting about. Once you make that commitment, you never go back.
I went to the Temple just within a week of leaving for my mission. Going on a mission was not something that I had planned on. Women have to be at least 21 before they go and I had turned 21 early in my junior year of college. I had thought about going, but it just didn't feel right and I put the thoughts aside, since as you grow older in Utah, the expectation is that you get married and produce children, more or less, and so I didn't think that I would go if I didn't go right when I turned 21.
The summer after my junior year, literally out of the blue, I just started having very strong impressions that a mission was what I needed to do. I had some very strong promptings for the Lord that led me to that decision and everything fell into place very quickly. Usually it's something that young adults will prepare for all of their lives or at least for years, and I really hadn't done that. It had never been more than a few passing thoughts. Then one night I was praying and hand thought about it. The next evening, I went and spoke to my bishop, and just had this overwhelming peace in speaking with him, and just in feeling the spirit of the Lord, that that was what I needed to do.
When I decided to go, it just felt so incredibly right, and things fell into place so quickly that I just never questioned the decision. It worked really quite smoothly in the scheme of things. And it was nice to have my senior year of college to look forward to upon coming back from my mission. That way I wasn't faced with, "Oh, what am I going to do now?" There was still this place waiting for me, the social circles in the scholastic area where I was. And so it was very comfortable to leave and then to come back.
My parents were beside themselves. My brother was preparing to leave for his mission, and he had actually been called to go to Chile. My parents had planned on that and his date was set within the next couple of months to leave for the Mission Training Center (MTC). They had not prepared, however, for me to leave. First of all, they thought that they were going to have me at home alone and were looking forward to that. We had gotten to a point in our relationship that we were finally friends, after having quite a few turbulent years. So they were sad that I would be leaving, but also, financially, it was a shock to them. At that time, there wasn't a fixed monthly rate to support a missionary, and each mission was different financially. Washington DC, where I was called to serve, was about $400 a month, as opposed to a little less than $200 a month for my brother in South America. I had not saved for my mission, I had not prepared, so it put them in a really difficult situation financially to support both my brother and me at the same time.
Turtle Stove
I had a plastic oven shaped like a turtle. Green, like a turtle. Except that turtles aren't green. Green like we think a turtle ought to be. Green, because turtles are green animals. Things without feathers or fur are always red or green. Lobsters: red. Crabs: red. Snakes: green. Turtles: green. The oven wasn't a real oven, which is probably why it went so well with the turtle. Why bother to have a realistic oven, if you aren't even bothering with the realism of the turtle in whom you have implanted the oven? And why put those two things together? Who thought, "Hey, I know! We'll make a plastic turtle, and have it sort of squatting on his haunches, rearing up, because that's what turtles do. Then, inside the belly of the turtle, we'll put a fake oven!" But someone did. The turtle squatted on his hind legs, displaying his aproned bellly with the door inside opening cozily into a plastic, non-functional oven. His chef's hat sat at a jaunty angle on his round green head, encouraging me to cram pans of fake cookies into his midsection. I do not know why my parents bought this stove. It was useless and taught me nothing. Nothing about turtles, and nothing about cooking. 0 for 2. And yet, I loved it. Perhaps I loved it because my brother, who loved real turtles, also loved setting fire to things. And he had set a small fire in the belly of the green turtle oven. And turned it black. And imperfect. Like a real turtle.
For my Mother
I wrote this about my mother a few years ago. Also unrevised. She asked me to type it up for her, but I think I forgot to do it until now.
My parents' room
Had an alcove
Where my mother kept
Her sewing machine
My mother does not love to sew
But she likes things the way she likes them
And so she sews
When she wants to make something
That she wants
But doesn't want
The way she found it
The sound of my childhood
Is peppered with the sporadic whirring
Of the sewing machine
Like spatters of machine-gun fire
Ratta-tat-tat!
A Halloween costume
Ratta-tat-tat!
A bedspread
Ratta-tat-tat!
Curtains for the living room
Christmas Eve
Feverish reports from the alcove
Tommy guns
Epic battle
World War II
On Christmas morning
I padded down the stairs
Under the tree
The new doll
And the clothes
She had sewed
At night
My parents' room
Had an alcove
Where my mother kept
Her sewing machine
My mother does not love to sew
But she likes things the way she likes them
And so she sews
When she wants to make something
That she wants
But doesn't want
The way she found it
The sound of my childhood
Is peppered with the sporadic whirring
Of the sewing machine
Like spatters of machine-gun fire
Ratta-tat-tat!
A Halloween costume
Ratta-tat-tat!
A bedspread
Ratta-tat-tat!
Curtains for the living room
Christmas Eve
Feverish reports from the alcove
Tommy guns
Epic battle
World War II
On Christmas morning
I padded down the stairs
Under the tree
The new doll
And the clothes
She had sewed
At night
Memory of my Father
A short one about my dad:
My father wore suits
Hundreds of suits
Dark blue
Grey
Conservative
Pin-striped suits
My father wore suits
Hundreds of suits
Dark blue
Grey
Conservative
Pin-striped suits
The First
This is a rough draft of a poem I was working on a few years ago, and never revised. I may get around to it someday.
Heather was an old dog, a red dog
Who stole my name
Long before I was born
The dog who named me
Red like the cello I played
Red like the hair of a long-ago girl
Heather was an old dog, a red dog
Irish like my ancestors
Irish and long-lived like my ancestors
An old dog, and patient
Outlived the disease
That withered in her strong and loyal heart
Heather was an old dog, and patient
Patient like my grandmother
A patient dog, veiny tumor on her leg
Patient with the cautious poking
Of my cringing finger
Daring to touch her age and imperfection
Heather was an old dog, a red dog
Old, like my grandmother, our Irish ancestors
Red like our front door, a cello, like long-ago hair
An old dog, and patient
Loyal and dignified
That I celebrated, and garlanded with flowers
Heather was an old dog, a red dog
Who stole my name
Long before I was born
The dog who named me
Red like the cello I played
Red like the hair of a long-ago girl
Heather was an old dog, a red dog
Irish like my ancestors
Irish and long-lived like my ancestors
An old dog, and patient
Outlived the disease
That withered in her strong and loyal heart
Heather was an old dog, and patient
Patient like my grandmother
A patient dog, veiny tumor on her leg
Patient with the cautious poking
Of my cringing finger
Daring to touch her age and imperfection
Heather was an old dog, a red dog
Old, like my grandmother, our Irish ancestors
Red like our front door, a cello, like long-ago hair
An old dog, and patient
Loyal and dignified
That I celebrated, and garlanded with flowers
Monday, January 26, 2009
The Procedure
At St. Elizabeth's I had to fill out some paperwork and sit in the waiting room for a bit. I felt embarrassed about my outfit, as though people thought that is what I had chosen to wear for my colonoscopy. The socks, particularly in combination with my strange, loafer-like slippers, were particularly unfortunate. I tried to strike up a conversation with the people around me, but it didn't go far. People who are about to get colonoscopies are not, as a general rule, interested in talking about them or in making new friends. A teenager was starting at me while I was reading, in a sort of challenging or interested way. I looked back and he had on an iPod and had a white tube coming out of his nose that seemed attached to the iPod somehow. I was so confused by this that I looked away hurriedly. Then I felt bad that I had somehow dehumanized him by looking away, so I was super-friendly to his mother, like that somehow proved something. I tried to bring the conversation around to medical issues, in the hopes that one of them would bring up the Nose iPod and explain what it was. They did not take the bait.
The nurses finally called me well after my 8:30 appointment time, and I had to go into the bathroom and change into two hospital johnnies, one open in front, and the other put over it, and open in back. While I was changing, I noticed that I still had all of the EKG nipple stickers all over my chest and peeled them off, leaving little circled outlines spotted about my torso. I got to keep on my Faulkner Hospital socks, but they cut of my Faulkner Hospital bracelet and replaced it with a St. Elizabeth's bracelet, which I found slightly disappointing. All of my stuff was placed on a chair and I hung up my coat in the waiting room. Then I had to lie down on a gurney and the nurses got me all settled in with blankets and things and put up the little fences on either side of the gurney so I wouldn't roll around and fall out of bed while they were pushing me. In case they had to make a quick, sharp turn or whatever.
The room was full of people in gurneys, in various stages of prep or recovery, like a factory of colonoscopies. I liked pretending that we were sort of like a Chinese orphanage, only filled with aging Americans with bowel problems. While I was waiting for the nurses, I had fun imagining what kind of family would pick me to come and live with them, clasping their hands to their chests as they leaned over me, sighing with pleasure at my adorable IV bruises and sunken belly.
Soon another nurse came over and took my blood pressure. She was surprised it was still so low, and was very sympathetic about my sad ER tale. She put the IV in my right arm, since my Faulkner IV arm was so badly bruised. She fussed around and did some other things and tucked the blanket around my feet. Then she left and I was lying there a bit, enjoying the delicious, life-giving fluids of the IV. Then a different nurse came and wheeled me away. She brought me to the room where the procedure was going to take place, and she asked me my name and birthdate, and why I was there, to make sure that I was the right person in the right place.
The little room I was in had some large machines and a different nurse. She asked me the same questions. She took my blood pressure, too and expressed further surprise at how low it was even after more than two full IV bags. She was friendly and warm, like all of the other nurses. Then my doctor came in. She was concerned about my ER visit, expressed sorrow over it, and assured me that it was not meant to happen. I clearly knew this, but I still felt reassured. She asked me the same questions the nurses had asked me, and as she was talking, she put on this yellow plastic smock and other kinds of protective gear, including a clear plastic catcher's mask-looking thing that made her voice sound muffled and hollow. At made me imagine a lot of violent spraying and squirting, but then I decided that it was just a precaution, as there didn't seem to be any stains anywhere, and it wasn't like the whole room was covered in porcelain tile or anything.
My doctor injected meds into my IV and told me I would start to feel woozy. She then asked me some questions, and I remember trying very hard to concentrate on the answers, and feeling a bit resentful that she was insisting on carrying on a conversation with me when she knew I was clearly losing consciousness. I felt dizzy and my eyes couldn't focus properly and I watched her fiddling with something on a large machine as I tried to answer. I wonder now how incoherent my responses were, and if they made any sense at all.
I remember almost waking up at one point, and not wanting the delicious sleepiness to be over. I thought, "Surely they've only done one of the two procedures. I don't want to wake up yet." I was all curled up and relaxed when I woke up in the recovery area. I didn't want to get up, but I had to pee. I remember the nurses were standing right there, but I couldn't seem to get their attention. I felt like I was calling loudly, "Hello? Excuse me? Help? I need to pee," but apparently I wasn't. Finally I did manage to call loudly enough to get their attention and I barely remember stumbling into the bathroom with my IV and peeing. On my way out I peeked into the trash can to see if my nipple stickers were still there. Outside the bathroom I saw Dien, who had come to pick me up. I greeted him warmly, but the nurses said I wasn't ready to go yet and they put me back to bed.
At one point I remember lying there and wanting to fart, but being afraid I would poop the bed. Then I remember not caring and just doing it anyway. I felt very pleased and relaxed to be farting at last and no longer pooping. Later I had to pee again and the nurses were all annoyed with me, saying, "But you just went!" like I could help it. I think I might have given them a little attitude, and said, "Well, sorry, but I have to go again." I wanted to go back to sleep after, but I think they determined that I was ready to go and had me stay sitting up. They brought me some cranberry juice, and when I had finished it, they unhooked me from the IV and helped me put on my slippers. I remember felt sad that I didn't get to finish the IV bag. My doctor came out to see me and talk to me about my results, but all I remember from the conversation was that she was kind of angry and frustrated, because I didn't have any of the diseases she had expected me to have. After that I put on my coat and the fleece Dien had brought for me to borrow, and padded out to the waiting room to find him.
I remember little of the car ride home, other than that I asked Dien to tell me about the time his mother put the cat in a trash bag in order to bring to the vet (it was fine) and about the haunted house he lived in in Hong Kong. Dien laughed long and loud when he remembered the cat story, and I laughed, too. Somehow, I was also able to give him directions, although sometimes I did it too slowly, so we had to keep making adjustments when I would tell him to take the turn he had just passed.
When I got home, I checked my email and started to do some work for school, then abruptly got up and crawled into bed, where I slept for three or four hours. I woke up to talk to my ex-husband, who called to tell me that when he plays the harmonica, our dog Lupe gets the blues and sings along. I told him about my adventures and misadventures of the past 24 hours, and he said that I could always call him if I needed a ride or help with anything. I felt appreciative, yet oddly guilty.
My landlord had picked up some food for me, and I got up to eat it around 5:30, my first solid food in 48 hours. Arielle, the other fifth-grade teacher called to tell me about some meeting at school she had attended, just as I was about to take my first bite. She wanted to talk for so long about this meeting and I could hardly bear it. I was drugged and starving and could not figure out why this woman wouldn't let me get off the phone.
A short time later I was playing Scrabble online, and felt that I had to fart, as I had been doing freely all day. I did, but instead, quite unexpectedly, I pooped my pants. Completely. Like a baby in a diaper. It felt like pudding. I stood up, hollering, "Aw, shit!" I was so angry about it. I waddled to the bathroom and had to sit, all soiled, on the toilet to finish. Then, naked and covered in my own excrement, I scampered past the uncurtained windows of the kitchen to throw my pants away, and hopped straight into the shower.
Immediately after my shower, I anticipated soon needing the toilet again, so, still nude, I put on rubber gloves and scrubbed both the toilet and the bathroom sink. This left me completely exhausted and I was ready to go to bed soon after.
The nurses finally called me well after my 8:30 appointment time, and I had to go into the bathroom and change into two hospital johnnies, one open in front, and the other put over it, and open in back. While I was changing, I noticed that I still had all of the EKG nipple stickers all over my chest and peeled them off, leaving little circled outlines spotted about my torso. I got to keep on my Faulkner Hospital socks, but they cut of my Faulkner Hospital bracelet and replaced it with a St. Elizabeth's bracelet, which I found slightly disappointing. All of my stuff was placed on a chair and I hung up my coat in the waiting room. Then I had to lie down on a gurney and the nurses got me all settled in with blankets and things and put up the little fences on either side of the gurney so I wouldn't roll around and fall out of bed while they were pushing me. In case they had to make a quick, sharp turn or whatever.
The room was full of people in gurneys, in various stages of prep or recovery, like a factory of colonoscopies. I liked pretending that we were sort of like a Chinese orphanage, only filled with aging Americans with bowel problems. While I was waiting for the nurses, I had fun imagining what kind of family would pick me to come and live with them, clasping their hands to their chests as they leaned over me, sighing with pleasure at my adorable IV bruises and sunken belly.
Soon another nurse came over and took my blood pressure. She was surprised it was still so low, and was very sympathetic about my sad ER tale. She put the IV in my right arm, since my Faulkner IV arm was so badly bruised. She fussed around and did some other things and tucked the blanket around my feet. Then she left and I was lying there a bit, enjoying the delicious, life-giving fluids of the IV. Then a different nurse came and wheeled me away. She brought me to the room where the procedure was going to take place, and she asked me my name and birthdate, and why I was there, to make sure that I was the right person in the right place.
The little room I was in had some large machines and a different nurse. She asked me the same questions. She took my blood pressure, too and expressed further surprise at how low it was even after more than two full IV bags. She was friendly and warm, like all of the other nurses. Then my doctor came in. She was concerned about my ER visit, expressed sorrow over it, and assured me that it was not meant to happen. I clearly knew this, but I still felt reassured. She asked me the same questions the nurses had asked me, and as she was talking, she put on this yellow plastic smock and other kinds of protective gear, including a clear plastic catcher's mask-looking thing that made her voice sound muffled and hollow. At made me imagine a lot of violent spraying and squirting, but then I decided that it was just a precaution, as there didn't seem to be any stains anywhere, and it wasn't like the whole room was covered in porcelain tile or anything.
My doctor injected meds into my IV and told me I would start to feel woozy. She then asked me some questions, and I remember trying very hard to concentrate on the answers, and feeling a bit resentful that she was insisting on carrying on a conversation with me when she knew I was clearly losing consciousness. I felt dizzy and my eyes couldn't focus properly and I watched her fiddling with something on a large machine as I tried to answer. I wonder now how incoherent my responses were, and if they made any sense at all.
I remember almost waking up at one point, and not wanting the delicious sleepiness to be over. I thought, "Surely they've only done one of the two procedures. I don't want to wake up yet." I was all curled up and relaxed when I woke up in the recovery area. I didn't want to get up, but I had to pee. I remember the nurses were standing right there, but I couldn't seem to get their attention. I felt like I was calling loudly, "Hello? Excuse me? Help? I need to pee," but apparently I wasn't. Finally I did manage to call loudly enough to get their attention and I barely remember stumbling into the bathroom with my IV and peeing. On my way out I peeked into the trash can to see if my nipple stickers were still there. Outside the bathroom I saw Dien, who had come to pick me up. I greeted him warmly, but the nurses said I wasn't ready to go yet and they put me back to bed.
At one point I remember lying there and wanting to fart, but being afraid I would poop the bed. Then I remember not caring and just doing it anyway. I felt very pleased and relaxed to be farting at last and no longer pooping. Later I had to pee again and the nurses were all annoyed with me, saying, "But you just went!" like I could help it. I think I might have given them a little attitude, and said, "Well, sorry, but I have to go again." I wanted to go back to sleep after, but I think they determined that I was ready to go and had me stay sitting up. They brought me some cranberry juice, and when I had finished it, they unhooked me from the IV and helped me put on my slippers. I remember felt sad that I didn't get to finish the IV bag. My doctor came out to see me and talk to me about my results, but all I remember from the conversation was that she was kind of angry and frustrated, because I didn't have any of the diseases she had expected me to have. After that I put on my coat and the fleece Dien had brought for me to borrow, and padded out to the waiting room to find him.
I remember little of the car ride home, other than that I asked Dien to tell me about the time his mother put the cat in a trash bag in order to bring to the vet (it was fine) and about the haunted house he lived in in Hong Kong. Dien laughed long and loud when he remembered the cat story, and I laughed, too. Somehow, I was also able to give him directions, although sometimes I did it too slowly, so we had to keep making adjustments when I would tell him to take the turn he had just passed.
When I got home, I checked my email and started to do some work for school, then abruptly got up and crawled into bed, where I slept for three or four hours. I woke up to talk to my ex-husband, who called to tell me that when he plays the harmonica, our dog Lupe gets the blues and sings along. I told him about my adventures and misadventures of the past 24 hours, and he said that I could always call him if I needed a ride or help with anything. I felt appreciative, yet oddly guilty.
My landlord had picked up some food for me, and I got up to eat it around 5:30, my first solid food in 48 hours. Arielle, the other fifth-grade teacher called to tell me about some meeting at school she had attended, just as I was about to take my first bite. She wanted to talk for so long about this meeting and I could hardly bear it. I was drugged and starving and could not figure out why this woman wouldn't let me get off the phone.
A short time later I was playing Scrabble online, and felt that I had to fart, as I had been doing freely all day. I did, but instead, quite unexpectedly, I pooped my pants. Completely. Like a baby in a diaper. It felt like pudding. I stood up, hollering, "Aw, shit!" I was so angry about it. I waddled to the bathroom and had to sit, all soiled, on the toilet to finish. Then, naked and covered in my own excrement, I scampered past the uncurtained windows of the kitchen to throw my pants away, and hopped straight into the shower.
Immediately after my shower, I anticipated soon needing the toilet again, so, still nude, I put on rubber gloves and scrubbed both the toilet and the bathroom sink. This left me completely exhausted and I was ready to go to bed soon after.
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