Last year, at about this time, I made my "Moby Dick in the Gym Pool" entry, thus discovering that DearDiary's title display editor takes offence at the word "dick". "Moby **** in the Gym Pool" certainly looked far more perverse than "Moby Dick" would have. Granted, two years ago at this time I did make an entry Classic depression signs, but that was two years ago. Surely I've become a little more up beat since then. Haven't I?
Three hundred and forty-nine entries as Palimpsest and another 646 entries as Salamander add up to 996 recorded on the Palimander timeline since May 5th, 2001. I started writing the day I received my divorce papers. I kept writing as The Socialist and I were learning how cope with each other (anybody out there remember the months I went on and on about unwashed dishes?). The Kitten from Hell's arrival revitalized my journal entries, as did the purchase of a digital camera. And then, of course, came the realization I was sick, with the diagnosis of end-stage liver failure. Most recently, I've been chronicling my life post-transplant. I've come full circle in some ways. I started out in May of 2001 trying to figure out who I was in the context of being recently divorced and in a new relationship. And now I'm trying to figure out who I am in the context of having recently divorced my liver and forming a relationship with my donor liver. The more things change, the more they stay the same, don't they?
I was online with my liver support group friends last night (we have a group chat every Wednesday night). Somehow talk turned to a discussion of how much liquid we had or were building up in our abdomens before the surgery. I found out that I wasn't anywhere near the record; some of the men there had 40 to 44 pounds of fluid drained at one point or another! That led, in turn, to discussions about what that did to our poor bellybuttons. The discussion got rather animated as some of the others described the belly button hernia's they'd experienced. One poor victim actually had a bellybutton blowout and had to wait for the ambulance standing in the bathtub so he wouldn't flood out their living room!
When it was my turn to talk I remarked that I'd been one of the lucky ones. I observed that my bellybutton never herniated, although I had been able to see deeper parts of it that I had never realized existed before. At this point a friend quipped that this certainly put a new spin on the term "contemplating one's navel". I suppose it did at that.
A piece of spam from today's junk mail:
Sender: Everybody you meet
Subject: Will want to bang you.
Why would anybody imagine that I'd want to open that email? Indeed, why would anybody even desire such a thing? Can you imagine going through life with everyone wanting to "bang you"? Gads, it would be a nightmare. Go to the grocery store, and the pimply geek bagging your bananas thinking about bagging one for his banana? Head over to the library and have the elderly guy checking out your books checking you out as well? Stop in for a quick visit with some friends while the husband thinks about a quick visit of his own? I'm not even going to mention my neighbor calling his pussycats in every evening.
I never deleted an email so fast in my life.
While I'm writing about tasteless subjects, I might as well mention The Socialist's suggestion from the other evening. For starters, I have a little problem. This problem has been with me for about two and a half years now. It was the reason I first saw a gastroenterologist, before I was ever diagnosed with liver failure. This little problem has recurred since my transplant, and is the reason I dash to the bathroom 6-8 times on a bad day.
Anyhow, The Socialist always asks me after a bathroom run for details. Don't ask me why, that's for him to explain. At first he just wanted to know if it was #1 or #2, but since it was nearly always #2, I started supplying further details. You know, consistency, color, quantity, odor, that sort of thing. He's lately taken to telling me that I should be updating my diary with this information. A mutual e-friend of ours, H. Hobbit, would be fascinated by my "doings" according to The Socialist.
Anyhow, the other evening I was making more "runs" to visit the porcelain throne, and The Socialist was again suggesting I make updates to my diary regarding this. He's even come up with a new name for my journal. Instead of Palimpsest's Diary, he wants me to call it Palimpsest's Diarrhea.
Guys. You can't live with them, and you can't shoot them.