Elementary Particles

I took Jess to Mt. Auburn hospital yesterday for surgery. I figured it would be a good time to visit one of my favorite cheap eats restaurants for the column, but had to leave the car in the hospital garage. Along the way, I needed to deposit a check for Jess that she didn't have time to herself.

I walked all the way to the International Buddhist Progress Society, nearly all the way to Central Square, and found that it was closed on Mondays. Perhaps because my herniated disc forced me to walk awkwardly, I developed large blisters on my feet. I had only enough money for lunch -- I sold a video game at Newbury Comics so I would have enough. No taxi. I walked back, very slowly, all while circling around and looking for a Bank of America. Not an ATM. But a bank.

Finding none, I made it back to the hospital after stopping at an inexpensive but awful little burrito shop in Harvard Square.

I still needed to find a bank, so I got the car out of the garage and started driving. Luckily, I found one in Watertown, and made the deposit, although it required the intervention of the manager. By this point, I couldn't stand up straight because of my back. I was supposed to be lying down but had done nothing but walk or sit since six that morning, when I drove to pick up my mother to babysit the Dufflebag.

I made it back to the hospital and started a series of check-ins on Jess's condition. They continually added more hours to the projected recovery time, so I was worried about her. Despite this, the time moved very quickly. I payed for a large coffee with my remaining change and sat in the hospital lobby. The cleanliness of Mt. Auburn, and the friendliness of its staff, is almost comical. At one point I considered asking the woman at the information desk for a back massage.

The main lobby was nearly deserted, and most people there maintained a respectful silence. This was broken only briefly by the sort of loud mouthed invalid I was expecting to deal with all day, but his ride thankfully showed up and he was on his way without much fuss. I read nearly half of Michel Houellebecq's The Elementary Particles. I've had it lying around for a while and I'm not sure why I picked it up but I can't imagine a more engaging read under the circumstances. It's a book that makes me want to write. With that book, the hours in the lobby passed with none of the normal waiting room feelings of restriction and frustration.

Jess came out tired but in good health, and the surgery went well. The drive home normally takes about an hour, but this took over two, partly because of two accidents on route two, and partly because of delays at CVS: we had to wait inside to file for her pain medications, wait fifteen in the car, wait in the drive through for another ten, find out the meds weren't ready yet, queue up again in the drive through, one more time for good measure when it still wasn't ready, and then finally head off to home.

My mother has the dog under her sweater and was watching Fox news.

I drove her home, printed out some copies of my resume, since we don't have a printer, and ate two nearly raw sausages. I hadn't eaten since my bad burrito eaten eight hours previously and was hungry enough to get them down.

After making another failed attempt to find my R. Crumb's history of the blues book, I drove back home for the final time, where Jess and I started Let the Right One In and got halfway through before falling asleep. Both of us wanted to finish the film -- we were getting wrapped up in it -- but between the drugs and day, there was too much weariness and we couldn't hold off.

I took a razor to my blisters, one of which was filled with so much fluid that it shot, in a stream, three feet across the room. I lay down and my back began to spasm uncontrollably. This didn't hurt, the rapid firing of the muscles, but I had to wait for it to subside before giving in and letting go. Five hours later, I was woken up by repeated attacks on my toes by the cats. Jess was in pain and couldn't sleep, and had moved downstairs to watch the Sex and the City dvds Mac and Ana lent us this weekend.

Back upstairs, one cat would claw at the door, come in, attack the drapes, and leave. Then the other would come in, jump on the bed and start going for the feet.

If I locked them out, they would cry at the door to be let in.

Finally, I just gave in and started reading essays about Michel Houellebecq on the Internet.

Today is for coffee and retreat. That seems fair.