The Forge

In an effort to be as honest as possible, I'll let you know that over the past few days it had been my intention to write about how terrible my life has been. To be sure I've endured a sort of physical Hell as I so eloquently put it in both myspace bulletins and AIM status updates. The story is short and anything but sweet: I took Oxycodone (the generic drug that bears the official name Percocet) for pain relief after my surgery, took it for (evidently) longer than I ought to have, and thus came down with all the wonderful symptoms of what could have been (but thank God, was not) liver failure. Over the course of the thirty-six hours between a seemingly normal lunch on Saturday afternoon and my admittance to the Emergency Room at Putnam Hospital Center on Sunday night, I threw up multiple times, experienced extreme fatigue, had unnaturally colored skin and urine, and through it all had dreams strange and terrifying enough to make Lewis Carrol look sane. Even this morning, when I'd thought only days ago that I'd be returning to school, I was instead staring into the dark bottom of a bucket recently christened by my gut-wrenchingly produced vomit. There's no guarantee that I'll be any better tomorrow, but that doesn't mean I'm not optimistic.

But you know, whether I wake up in good health or excruciating pain tomorrow, the fact is I'll still be alive. And someday soon, I'll be healthy. Sure, my life will have to change--I've already lost alarming amounts of weight between forced diet alterations and going 48 hours without eating more than a single graham cracker this weekend--but that's not going to matter much in the grand scheme of things. Sometimes, I think, it's important for us to have a broader perspective on life than our own personal wants and needs. If that doesn't sound a whole lot like the me you know then, well, you know me well. Historically I've never been much of a 'think globally' person. But this past week I've had a lot of time to reflect. Through fragmented consciousness I watched the movie Pay it Forward and now I have to, like young Haley Joel Osment did seven years ago, ask myself "Is the world just --?"

Seven years ago seems like a long time, but it's not at all, and the question is still fresh in everyone's minds. Take a look at some of the movies that Hollywood has gotten the nod for in the last several months. Little Miss Sunshine taught us that behind a happy facade the family life is decaying, and despite how decrepit said life is, when everyone works together there is hope for the future. Tragedy is not Juliet killing herself upon false assumption of her lover's death. Tragedy is a suburban teenager whose first word after months of silence is a profanity because his colorblindness will prevent him from ever reaching his dreams. Babel taught us that when we let "diplomacy" and "rules" to take precedence over justice and love we create death and disaster. It teaches us that no matter how horrible it is to treat a deaf-mute as subhuman, that's how society will continue to treat the deaf-mute. Seven years later, it seems all we're capable of doing is turning to Osment's character and saying with a forced tear in our eyes, "Yes, yes it is."

Yesterday I had the occasion of hearing a new song from Nickelback on the radio. If you are of the variety that rolls their eyes upon hearing that name, then I can't entirely blame you. Some of the content I've read/listened to from that band makes me cringe. And yet this newest release, If Everyone Cared, strikes a good note. Watch the video, and then think to yourself. What can we do to change the answer to that question? What can you do?

According to wikipedia (and who am I to argue with wikipedia?) a Black Hawk Helicopter costs the American government around 6 million dollars to manufacture. As we all know, money spent by the government is really money that we give out each year in taxes, so in reality a Black Hawk Helicopter costs Americans roughly 6 million dollars to manufacture. This is all very wonderful, and despite the fact that I will most likely never own anything that costs 6 million dollars to manufacture, I admire our government for producing such majestic machinery. It's just a bit humorous to hear the words "In Baghdad today, a black hawk helicopter was shot down by a shoulder-launched rocket launcher. This is the eighth black hawk helicopter to be shot down since January 20th" on the news.

Let's pause and reflect. You've probably heard some nice reporter at some time or other tell you something as seemingly innocuous as this. If you were, per chance, paying attention, you probably stopped caring the moment the follow-up statement arrived: "All nine crew members were rescued; no one was killed." But in that thirty or so seconds of news that you won't be thinking about two commercials from now--if you are thinking about it at all--you've been informed of a few interesting things. Firstly, you've been told that there is a man walking around in the desert halfway across the world with access to a shoulder-launched rocket launcher. You may deduce that there are many other similar men with similar access all over the world.

Second, and more disturbing, you were just told that 6 million dollars in tax money have, in the past 24 hours, been literally blown down the tubes by said man in said desert. You, like me, may never have 6 million dollars in any kind of money, and yet neither you nor I (nor the nice reporter) so much as flinched upon hearing the news. Even more startling is the carefree second sentence, the part about how this is the eighth time since January 20th that this event has taken place. Today is February 22nd. January 20th was about a month ago. Eight helicopters shot down by men with access to devastating power in the desert. Each worth six million dollars.

You have just been told, in thirty or so seconds and fewer words, without flinching or caring, that in the past thirty days your country has lost $48,000,000 worth of military equipment. You followed this indifference by being very relieved that the men and/or women inside of said piece of military equipment managed to jump out in time, which is understandable, except that you ought to still be in shock from the first little piece of information.

But, you see, we're not. America is at war and none of us seem to notice. Even the people rallying for us to pull out don't seem to care much about the cost of the war. It's become a kind of carnival, an escapade in which the point isn't so much to get out of another country because it's costing us forty-eight million dollars a month and risking lives, but rather to win a debate so that you can look good and get re-elected for your next term. In fact, if staying embroiled in foreign conflict boosts your ratings, then by all means you will try to make sure we stay embroiled in foreign conflict. I've heard so many people saying "we don't belong there" but too many of these people are more concerned about how it looks than how it is. I'm fine if you say "we should try to get out of there so that we stop losing Americans in an Iraqi war." But when you say "The world doesn't approve of our decision, and we should stop making it worse," or "it's their fight, let them deal with it, whatever happens is their fault anyway" then I have an issue with you. I'm not so blind as to sit here and say that everything that has happened thus far in Iraq has been for the best reasons, but I am also not going to say that the whole thing was a mistake. We've ousted a terrible dictator and freed people at least to the point where they no longer live in fear that their own government is going to kidnap and torture them. We've helped try to establish a government there that has worked here for over 200 years, and has sprung up all over the world.

Unfortunately we've also managed to escalate, or at the very least bring to the forefront, a civil war between ethnic groups that I personally don't see us being able to end. I don't want to seem a defeatist but I do think it's time we looked at the situation and considered the fact that we are all, sadly, humans, and sometimes humans can't just "sit and talk" to work things out. It is quite possible that the problem in Iraq is unsolvable, and even if it can come to an end it may not be a peaceful end brought on by outsiders. The leaning tower of Pisa has been on the brink of collapsing since before I was born. Perhaps Iraq is the same. Perhaps, no matter what measures we take, the middle east is going to erupt into seriously violent war. If that is the case, then may I kindly suggest that we, as outsiders, slowly and quietly slide our piece out of the Jenga tower before the whole thing falls down on top of us. I'd love to believe that the whole thing can be resolved peacefully. But history has weakened my faith in mankind, and I really don't see it happening. My faith tells me that God can do all things, but not that He always will. My Bible tells me that in the end a ruler will rise up and unite all nations peacefully, and for a time everything will seem as it should. My Bible also tells me that that ruler will be the antichrist, a facade for the devil himself, and after his reign we shall see the end of this world.

And so here I stand, looking out at a world filled with anger, hatred, war, sickness, poverty, immorality, and all things ungodly. I look at myself and know that I, too, am far from perfect, and far from blameless. And I think of what people would need to be like to peacefully end conflict in the middle east, and elsewhere, and I just don't have that much faith in man. So, if this is the end--if this is where all of history has been leading to--if my time is coming to leave and let Revelation unfold, then I'm ready. Until then, I implore you to do as I have just recently discovered a need for: change. Stop fighting with others about who is right and who is wrong. Stop letting things like "religion" and "politics" get between you and others.

As a Christian I believe that God is real, and that He sent His son to die for me. I believe that when His son spoke, He told the truth. And Jesus taught us not so much by His words, but by His life, how we ought to be living. For quite some time I've lived with Christianity as something I could tag onto a resume, a college application, an online questionnaire. Perhaps it's time to stop doing things like a Christian should, and just start trying to live as Christ. Instead of wrapping ourselves up in religious rules and obligations, we should just try to see everything through God's eyes. We won't understand it all--even most of it. But that doesn't matter, so long as we're trying.

There's a familiar progression to the similar lives that we all lead
We're trying hard to become someone we can't be
You won't find grace without honesty
And everyone wants reality, so here it is

I believe that nobody is good, nobody is good
We are liars and thieves, we're destroying the peace
But we're trying, we're trying, we're trying

It's the same regression to the lives we all lead
Everyone makes mistakes, but we find grace
We believe there's redemption, there's redemption
If you want reality, then here it is

I believe that nobody is good, nobody is good
We are liars and thieves, we're destroying the peace
But we're trying, we're trying, we're trying

There is nothing in our blood that makes the heart beat strong enough
Apart from grace, apart from love
I believe in grace
I believe with love that we can do good
We can do good, we can do good, we can do good

We are liars and thieves, we're destroying the peace
But we're trying, we're trying,
We're liars and thieves, we're destroying the peace
But we're trying, we're trying, we're trying.

-Sanctus Real

Wow, that's a lot more morbid than I expected it to be. Oh well. I highly recommend you visit www.purevolume.com/makingapril soon, and in particular you should listen to the song Roses and Butterflies (the source of the title). Finding them was a complete accident, not even on my part, but Andrew's. We'd been chatting via AIM, and I directed him to Until June's site (www.untiljune.com, go figure). Apparently he liked them, and later on he went searching for their purevolume page albeit thinking they were something April. He was wrong, but that's a good thing, because I'm really liking Making April. I've said April enough times, I think. Anyway, it's hard to talk about their sound without comparing it to Mae, even though they're actually quite different, but in a good way. I think though, that if you like that Ma* band, you'll like this Ma* band.

So, I was going to post a blog beginning with the words "If you are reading this, it means that I died at the surgeon's hand, which isn't really a bad thing all things considered except that there is now one less consumer of #6 value meals at Wendy's fast food stores nationwide" but then I decided that was stupid. You might have come here and read a fake obituary, or some epitaph suggestions, or maybe (if i was really bored) an entire eulogy (like Caboose, I always eulogize myself). But, alas, the creative juices aren't flowing. Maybe that's on account of not having taken in enough liquids.

That's the odd thing about all these hospital tests. They can't seem to make up their minds as to whether it's good or bad for you to really have to pee halfway through the procedure. So they mix it up. For this test, you should drink plenty of water before and after. For this one, no eating for 4 hours prior. In the case of tomorrow's surgery, they were extraordinarily indecisive; for the past 12 hours I was supposed to drink as many fluids as possible and for the next 12 hours I am supposed to eat and drink nothing. I should, however, take a shower. According to my mother, the receptionist on the other end of the phone made that last point particularly clear. So all I've gathered is that I'll do a lot of urinating before I get to the hospital, smell good but have terrible breath, fall asleep, lose an organ, wake up, and be extremely dehydrated. I will then put on the only article of clothing I was instructed to bring--clean underwear of all things--and drink more fluids (my breath will now be on the fringe of chronic halitosis) and leave to spend a week at home.

This is all well enough, except for the whole "entertain yourself" thing. Much to my chagrin, Cities won't reach my domicile until Tuesday, and thus I will have to entertain myself with already-existing music on my iPod. My dad bought the 8-song album on iTunes by Making April, but as Andrew keenly pointed out that'll only last like a half-hour and then I'll have to resort to other things. I can't exactly start a new book, because I've got two new ones on their way, and I can't read any of those humor books I have because I'll most likely blow my spleen or something (quite literally). It is now midnight, and I can't finish the Vitamin Water I was in the process of enjoying, which (by the way) kind of sucks.

On an unrelated note, I strained every muscle in my back and arms proving that somehow I can lift more weight than Charlotte, which doesn't really make me any less afraid of her but I still feel a bit special about it. We asked Mike how much weight was on that rig but all he gave us was an "I don't know, it's in the pamphlet whose location I also don't know" so until I get that answer I'm just going to be as smug as possible.

I think that tomorrow, when (and if) I turn my cell phone on, you should all call me, not so much because you want to talk to me as I just paid 2.99 for a Godspeed ringtone and I want to feel like I made a worthwhile investment. This will probably drive the nurses and nearby dying patients crazy, but that's not really of my concern. My phone number is 1-845-206-8943 and if you have to leave a voicemail, go ahead, because that's another feature I never get to use.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go breed some hospital-sanctioned gingivitis.

This will be a two-ply post, kind of like cheap toilet paper from your local Walgreens.

Firstly, Anberlin and myspace have teamed up today (Friday, February 16th, 2007) to redefine amazing. In other words, the entire non-special-edition album Cities is streaming for free today for those of us who just can't wait for our preorders to show up in the mail. As Audrey keenly pointed out, pretty much all of these songs sound very different from each other (and, indeed, all of Anberlin's previous efforts) and yet somehow they are all potential hits. If you've been following Anberlin's music for the last couple months--and if you haven't, shame on you--but if you have you may have purchased their EP on iTunes and gotten a glimpse of the overdrive that is Godspeed and the harmony that is Haunting. If you are too cheap for that (or you hate Apple, or you don't have an iPod and don't want a program monopolizing your music files) then you've been stuck waiting on the edge of your seat for each and every morsel of Cities that the band has eeked out all over the internet since December. Purevolume and myspace denizens happily discovered Godspeed, followed by Dismantle.Repair., and those brave enough to hobble on over to absolutepunk.net were rewarded with Adelaide. More recently (if you read last night's blog) the band unleashed Alexithymia on the world, which speaks of broken families and lives and boldly declares "there's more to living than being alive."

But even that couldn't prepare me for the awesomeness that is Reclusion, my new favorite song. These chilling lines open the song:

There's someone inside me that softly kills everyone I'm around
They don't know they're dead to me cause intent never makes a sound

...soon followed up by the chorus:

You're sick, sick as all the / Secrets that you deny
Sins like skeletons are so very hard to hide

...but perhaps the most relevant part of the song is the bridge, declaring:

You're suffocating me, so very hard to breathe
My mask is growing heavy, but I've forgotten who's beneath

A horrifying and yet empowering song, Reclusion chronicles the traditional Jekyll/Hyde scenario of the flesh vs. spirit but revives it in a gripping new way. It seems everyone has caught on to the "everyone's got a mask" idea in the Christian scene; I've heard sermons, songs (Casting Crowns' Stained Glass Masquerade, anyone?), and writings about it. "Losing self in myself, inner demons make demands" sums up the daily struggle to submerge the carnal desires inside of us every waking hour, and the result (losing yourself) of succumbing to those desires.

To be perfectly honest, I can't say enough about this song, so I shan't try. Instead I'll move on to the other topic, my impending doom-er, surgery.

Drum-roll, please.

Eleven Thirty AM, Monday, February 19th 2007, (or 2|19|007, 11:30 AM for you abridging fans) I will be inhaling strange gases and losing consciousness as a kind man shoots lasers through my abdomen and removes an organ from my body. This process is more happily known as laparoscopic cholecystectomy. If you want details, check wikipedia, that's what it's there for. Anyhow, after the surgery I will be wheeled into my own wonderful room to spend the night there, and will be released the following day (unless something goes wrong, in which case they'll have to use the old procedure and my recovery time will be slightly longer). I don't presently know when visiting hours at Putnam Hospital Center are (I know a few of my classmates exhibited interest in coming to visit me) but the site says valet parking is available from 9 AM to 4 PM so I'd guess your best chance of visiting me will be before 4 PM Monday (since I'm leaving Tuesday morning). After the surgery, I will be at home for the rest of the week rehabilitating, and unable to participate in gym or work for the next two weeks. I have, accordingly, ordered two books at the book cove: The Brief History of the Dead, by Kevin Brockmeier, and (because Stephen Christian had it in his favorite books section over at The Modesty Writers Guild page) Veronika Decides to Die, by Paulo Coelho. The woman on the other end of the phone line probably thinks I'm suicidal or something; she asked "what's with the death theme?"

Over the weekend I'll probably see Ghost Rider, and I'll be attending Mike's birthday party the night before the surgery. I've got a (I think) funny idea for a blog Sunday night but we'll see if that happens. Until then, cheerio!

Don't try to wake me up even if the sun really does come out tomorrow
Don't believe anything you say anymore in the morn, in the morning
Bricks to this old house are breaking, steel and wood have weathered but not forlorning
It's alarming how loud the silence screams "no more, no more, no mourning"
Addictions fill the table where the family used to sit and conversate
Conversate to the sounds, to the sounds of a record playing
With its jumping needle and the lights that grow dim over time

With downcast eyes, there's more to living than being alive
With downcast eyes, there's more to living than being alive, oh

Are you where you thought you'd be, so beautiful and only twenty-three
Our positioned wrestling hearts with no, with no, with no opportunity
It's not that we don't talk, it's just no one really listens and honesty pays
Like a politician lost in the course, all smiles and no one remembers our names

With downcast eyes, there's more to living than being alive
With downcast eyes, there's more to living than being alive
With downcast eyes, there's more to living than being alive
With downcast eyes, there's more to living than being alive

Don't try to wake me up even if the sun really does come out tomorrow
Don't believe anything I say anymore in the morn, in the morning

With downcast eyes, there's more to living than being alive
With downcast eyes, there's more to living than being alive
With downcast eyes, there's more to living than being alive
With downcast eyes, there's more to living than being alive

-Anberlin

(note, this may not be completely accurate, but it's the best I could do. If you've a correction, let me know. I'll fix it when I get the album if it needs fixing)

I haven't posted in a while, not so much because I've nothing to say but because I've not been driven to say it. This isn't Part Three of Five because today was absolutely terrible for working. The impending "nor'easter" drove people in scores to the supermarket, presumably to stock up for the next six weeks. Seriously, a foot of snow falls here and suddenly it's the apocalypse. So the hectic volume of customers resulted in my break being an hour late, partly because people still can't seem to figure out after (for some of them) 40+ years of shopping that if a register's light is out, it means the lane is closed.

A few days ago they gave us a new check-cashing policy outline. Among other things, this outline says, and I quote, "Employees may cash their A&P Company payroll checks in our stores. Such checks may only be presented and cashed at the Courtesy/Customer Service Counter." Five minutes after the meeting ended, I was asked by Crystal to cash Joe's payroll check, on the basis that I was the only one with enough money in my register. Now, thirty minutes ago that wouldn't have presented a problem. But now, right after being told that such a transaction was against the rules, I was being told to break them. A short page to Terry resulted in clearance for the check cashing, and all validity in the new policy pretty much disappeared as far as I was concerned.

Well, almost all of it. There's also a nice little note that says "All checks presented must be from an established checking account, accompanied by a driver's license or government issued ID." Finally, I didn't need to wonder whether the faded sticker on some customers' bonus cards that said "check cashing" mattered or not. Every person writing a check must present an ID. Easy enough. Well, today I had a woman write a check, and since I knew her, I explained the new policy and everything and asked Rebecca (my manager) if she needed to provide ID with the "check cashing" sticker. Rebecca said yes, everyone writing a check did, and so the customer gladly provided a NYS driver's license and went on her way. But not everything can be that easy, I guess. Thirty minutes after I was due for a break, a slightly older and far more irritable woman revealed her "check cashing" sticker to me and I said that I had seen the card but still needed ID. "Why, I've never had to before."
"Well, they just recently changed the policy and everyone needs to show ID."
"I was here yesterday and they didn't ask me for ID."
"Well, if that is the case, then they weren't following protocol. But I promise you, it's the new rule."
"Right. And I'll come in tomorrow and I won't need my ID."
"Look, I was handed a packet of information explaining check cashing and that sticker wasn't anywhere in it. I need your ID. My boss was here earlier and I asked her the same question and she said that the sticker didn't matter."
"You have my information on file. This is ridiculous."
And so my happy shopper gracefully provided her NYS driver's license and went on her way, and got hit by a Hummer on her way home. The end.

Okay, but seriously, this woman clearly didn't understand the principle behind "busy store, annoyed cashier, no break." She also didn't know about my gallbladder troubles, or the fact that for the last three days I've started to develop an increasingly terrible sore throat. The store was so packed that I didn't have a chance to retrieve a cough drop for the throat, and an hour-late break didn't help matters. I was ready to go postal on some of these people. But whatever. I got home, ate a potato and chicken with salt/pepper, watched American Idol, House (which was good, btw, especially that cell-phone camera part) and am now here.

In other news, I saw Babel the other day, and (aside from the fact that I NEVER will have (had) a need to see Japanese (or any other) adolescent genitalia, I thought it was a pretty strong movie. I saw a review somewhere that said something like "Brad Pitt puts on a good performance, but the deaf-mute girl speaks volumes." That's pretty much what I got from this. This movie, produced by (of all things) a Mexican, is not so much plot-driven as it is a really sharp portrait of the world as we know it, with all its stereotypes. Among other things, the movie makes you feel guilty about the illegal immigration issue, the rejection of people with disabilities by most of society, anti-Muslim sentiments (if he wears a turban, he's a terrorist), and the fact that no matter what we do Americans somehow think we are right. Possible spoiler ahead, skip to next paragraph if you need to: The movie ends with the matronly nanny being deported, never to see the children she has raised from birth and rescued from death again; with one son dying in his father's arms and the other on the brink of death due to his admission of accidentally shooting a tourist; with a Japanese girl, naked, in her father's arms, contemplating suicide because she is deaf and mute and every boy she's ever met has looked at her like a monster; and, as juxtaposition would have it, with the Americans living (for the most part) happily ever after. If people criticize it for inciting anti-American sentiment, then what can I say. We do, pretty much, deserve it after all our self-righteousness and disgusting greed.

Other than the endoscopy I'm having in a few days and the impending organ removal (they say I can keep the stones, and that they're 'beautiful'), I'm mostly anticipating Anberlin's newest album, Cities. I have to write a review of that for my school paper anyway, so I'll post that here instead of on my purevolume (where, incidentally, I haven't actually posted any music reviews like I'd planned to). I want to see 300, Music and Lyrics, and Number 23. Probably in that order. There was some other exciting stuff happening soon, but I don't really remember what any of it is, so I guess for now I'm done.

Perhaps you have been following the saga that is my health. Perhaps, then, you will recall several detailed accounts of my waking up suddenly in the night with, somewhat to my dismay, serious abdominal and/or chest pain. You may be aware that I have gone to doctors 30 minutes from here and hospitals 300 miles from here. You might know I've been to the cardiologist to find out if my heart was about to cave in or something wonderful like that (it's not). Most likely, however, you don't know what has happened to me between 4:00 AM on Sunday and, well, now. So I shall fill those of you that care (and those of you that don't, but continue to read anyway) in on the details of the past 60 or so hours.

Around 4:00 am, which I can't guarantee because I did not look at a clock until 5:30 but for the sake of the story let's trust me--around 4 am I woke up at the Sauder residence with rather insane discomfort in my abdomen. At first I thought maybe it was just bad heartburn, so I spent about 15 minutes trying to adjust my position so as to diminish the pain. This failed and, recalling my previous experiences, I decided to stand up and breathe slowly, which I've done every other time (except the first time, when I had a panic attack instead and almost passed out). This also failed, and around 5-ish I ventured into the bathroom. I'll spare you the details on what I imagined would happen there, and instead I'll just tell you that whatever I tried in there to relieve gas build-up also failed. Around 5:30 I rummaged through the medicine cabinet (actually the closet, but this sounds better) and found a familiar bottle of Member's Mark antacids (read: rip-off Tums) that I'd used on a previous visit to ensure what was happening to me now wouldn't happen then. I took 4, hoped for the best, and ventured back to the bedroom. A bit of uncomfortable shuffling later, I did my best to fall asleep. How long I actually succeeded in doing so, I can't really say, but by 6:20 I was knocking on Andrew's door and telling him that I thought it best for me to just go home.

At 6:30 I snuck up the walkway to my front door, slyly inserted the key, turned the knob, and then discovered that one of my ingenious siblings had deadbolted it shut. This brought on a bit of anxiety which, combined with my pain, resulted in not-so-sly banging on the door and several rings of the doorbell. My mother arrived, wondering why I was there and, more importantly, why I'd rung the doorbell. I simply pushed past her to the bathroom, where I consumed a couple Excedrin and also 2 Ranitidine 75s (read: rip-off Zantac) in the hope that, since they'd worked before, they'd work now.

There was a problem with all of this, of course. On all the previous occasions where I've been assaulted by seemingly random pain, my entire torso has been consumed. It has been impossible to pinpoint any exact location of origin and when asked where it hurts most, I've been forced to (honestly) say "everywhere." Fortunately or otherwise, this time was different. This time it remained fairly constantly in my upper right abdomen, and along the back on the right side. And it was growing worse. By 7:15 I was kneeling over a toilet, having vomited three times from the pain. The pain was far more intense after that stage in my deterioration, and I was beginning to see a long tunnel unfold before my eyes. Okay, that last part isn't really true, unless you count the toilet I was staring into. Point is, I was in pain, vomiting, and it was over three hours since the pain had begun (remember, it usually ends in under an hour). So my mom called the pediatrician (despite the fact that I am 17, I apparently still need to go to a children's doctor) who wasn't actually in, and ended up speaking to the on-call doctor instead. He listened to her, and then to me, and informed me that it might be a gallstone (read: build-up of cholesterol into hard, small 'balls' in the gallbladder). My mother was now wondering whether I ought to go to the ER, or if she should take my father to the airport (he, ironically, picked Superbowl Sunday of all days to leave for a week-long business trip in DC). Since I was starting to feel a bit better, the latter of the two options won over, and I sat at home for the majority of the day watching TV and feeling only a dull pain in what I'd lately discovered was probably my gallbladder. That night I ate a few hot wings, started to feel the pain come back almost immediately, and stopped eating hot wings (or, really, anything).

Monday had me in school for gym (which I got excused from, all things considered) and two study halls, after which my mother retrieved me and took me to the pediatrician's office. This doctor was neither the regular or the on-call guy from last night. She was Indian, I've met her once before, and she listened to all I had to say (including the gallbladder hypothesis) but didn't think that was it. To appease me, she agreed to get me an ultrasound of the area, and since I'd had difficulties such as those experienced in the Sauder's bathroom for a couple days, she also had my colon area x-rayed. And, because I'm obese and had nothing better to do, she scheduled a blood test for me to check for, among other things, my cholesterol levels.

So I ventured off to the hospital, got an annoying plastic-ish bracelet snapped on my wrist, and sat in a radiology waiting room with a couple elderly folk and an extremely irritable receptionist. Finally I was called over into one of the rooms, where I had the ultrasound. The ultrasound, I've decided, must be the generic term for tests with a strange baton and warm goo that look inside your body. The echocardiogram, then, was the same, except for with that test I was poked and prodded in the upper left chest and here I was poked and prodded in the upper right abdomen. Both hurt about the same, which has led me to the conclusion that ultrasound technicians must be angry and enjoy inflicting serious pain and/or potential rib damage on their patients. About 30 minutes later, I met with a nice man who told me to lose weight, and that the results were being sent to my pediatrician (who expected nothing) and that now I could take my x-ray.

The x-ray was less painful, although I've never had my hair blown back by one before and I am still a little worried that my eyes will fall out soon. I got out of my second gown of the day, and sat in the waiting room with my mother until her cell phone rang. It was the replacement replacement pediatrician, rather shocked, informing my mother that I did indeed have "a gallstone" and would therefore need to see the gastroentologist. So my mom called to schedule an appointment there, discovering to her dismay that such an appointment could only be available tomorrow (today, now) at 11 am. This unavoidable, she consented, and waited for another call from the pediatrician about my x-ray. This came as we were about to give up, and revealed that I didn't have any problems and should just try pushing a bit harder in the future.

The blood test was fun, mostly because it was in the gynecologist building. The woman administering the needle gave me no real warning (not that I needed one, I was staring intently at the glistening point the whole time) except that she said "just a little pinch" as she rammed it into my vein. I watched the crimson flow for a little while, now replaced with a gauze pad, now covered with a bandage, and was told to enjoy my day. On the way home I acquired a turkey, ham, and lettuce sandwich at Arthur's Deli in Carmel, and also a "rescue" vitaminwater, which I enjoyed quite a bit more than some of the other flavors (it is green tea with chamomile). Last night I watched Heroes, which was amazing and unfair because I now have to wait another seven days to find out what happens. I might die during the season finale upon realization that I need to wait an eternity to see new episodes.

This morning I woke up happily at 8:30, ate some oatmeal, and eventually my mother and I headed to the office of Sunil Gupta, also Indian, which was good because he understood my resistance to avoiding spicy foods. After a little while, I had been prescribed Nexium for my acid reflux disease. I had also been informed once more that I should look into the whole weight loss thing. But perhaps the most interesting thing I learned was that the pediatrician hadn't quite gotten her facts straight. Gupta analyzed the ultrasound findings and told me that I didn't have a gallstone. I had a gallbladder loaded with stones. This, of course, did not mean extraction of a gallstone, but removal of the organ entirely. Before they robbed me of an organ, however, he wanted me to get a CT-scan (which I will be doing tomorrow after school) and an endoscopy (where they shove a small tube down my throat while I sleep and see if I have tumors or ulcers anywhere) which I'll be taking next Thursday. Sometime soon after, I will have to schedule surgery, and I'll be out of school for like a week after that for recovery. No wonder they say senior year is the best.

I hate people who entertain stereotypes about other people. They're all idiots. And yet, most of the time, they're also accurate. Or believable. Or maybe I'm just gullible. Whichever it is, I'm one of them. And working at a grocery store, how can I not be? There are just some people who, the moment you look at them, you can tell exactly what kind of person they are and what odd demands they will be making of you. And so, to aid all the cashiers-to-be, I've constructed the following short list of five people you're bound to run across while robotically swiping barcodes over lasers.

This is part two of five. Take notice of that.


Senior Eduardo de la Rosa, 45 years old. El no habla inglés. With his concise mustache in place, Eduardo places his basket on the conveyor belt and begins to unload items while his hija examines the candies near courtesy and his hijo stares at you with vacant eyes from yonder bag dispenser. Anxious to avoid making eye contact with the terrifying youngster, you turn instead to Senior de la Rosa and cordially inquire about his health. He looks at you for a moment, with a face that communicates very well his deficiency in your language, and returns to the process of removing various Goya brand products from the basket. He also removes a few packages of past-their-prime vegetables and some browning bananas, odd Latino products you didn't know existed, a 6-pack of Jose Cuervo tequila and a few items you identify properly as organics. He chastises his daughter for something, who runs over to her brother's side, and she joins in with the piercing stare game. Unsettled, you quickly run the items through (pausing only to examine the properties of what seems to be a frozen, pressed Guava) until you arrive at the tequila, which you need ID for. Eduardo fumbles through his wallet and produces something like a driver's license, which you compare to his face, sigh about, and then enter the date of birth into the register: April 15, 1942. You go to run the pink sheet through the printer, but it jams, and you need to open up the machine and frantically hit buttons to make the error message disappear. Finally, the jam is cleared, and you shut the machine, go to run the paper through, and it says that the printer is still jammed. Wary of your nearby manager, you choose not to scream at Eduardo and instead open the printer again, straighten the receipt paper, and close it. This works well, and you give the total to the Senior. He pulls out an envelope, inside which you notice an incredible stack of newly printed ones. Wait, no--- hundreds. He hands you one of these, which you look at slightly incredulously and then run it through. You hand the man his 83.69 in change and take one last hit from Eduardo Jr.'s eyes before the three are out of your life for good. You sigh a breath of relief, and then turn around to greet your next customer. You do a double take, and then swing your head back to see if Eduardo is still there, which he's not. You turn back to your new customer, and realize that the only difference between him and your previous client is a slightly longer, slightly more precise mustache. He begins to remove very similar items--albeit in much larger quantities--to those you just recently rang up. Despite the freakish similarity between this man and Eduardo, things go quickly and you get to the point where you must ID him for his Jose Cuervo tequila. He hands you a license, this one clearly legitimate, and you notice the name is Eduardo de la Rosa. You also notice that the birthday is April 15, 1942. You glance from picture to person, and back, and a little alarm goes off in the back of your head. It's soon interrupted, however, by the alarm on the coupon machine, which has reached the end of the line and refuses to cease until you have meticulously weaved a new roll of coupon tape through all its inner workings. This you manage to accomplish, and the transaction finishes smoothly. Eduardo numero dos leaves with Goya products and tequila in tow, and your work is done.

-disclaimer-whether or not I succeeded in amusing you, I assume I succeeded in communicating the fact that at least one of the Eduardos is an illegal immigrant, using a fake ID copied from who we can only assume is his cousin, or his cousin's friend. I would just like to establish that I have nothing against either Eduardo, and that Goya products are most likely delicious. What bothers me is that Eduardo numero dos does not have children. So I think it was a bit greedy of him to empty our stock of diapers and buy enough food to feed twenty people. But I must go now, I see numero tres coming.

Five forty-five.
Buzzing in my ear. Annoying. Oh, right
The alarm. It's morning. Sunlight intrudes
On my privacy, My body protests
As I rise. Still buzzing.
Hit snooze.
Hit snooze.
Hit snooze.
Wait. No. Must go.
Cold water waxes warm
Then hot.
I get in, fumble the soap. Feet intercept.
Hands recover, suds.
Touchdown.
Shampoo, check.
Hair conditioned to rebel
Grab comb, check.
Still some suds on scalp.
Thunder in my ears.
Drip, drip. Towel
Cold floor, warm towel. I dawdle.
Eyes wide, mirror foggy
Swipe the towel, my face stares unbelievingly back
Six forty-five.
Water in my ear. Boxers, shirt.
Room, socks, shoes. Wait
Pants.
I fall up the stairs into a cup of coffee.
Sunlight welcome.
Two minutes late.
Messenger bag, wallet, phone.
iPod.
Out of breath, feet wet.
Bus arrives, warm seats.
Cold windows.
Forgot to comb my hair.
If this isn't love, this is the closest I've ever been.
A smile, a shove,
Two per seat is way too much
Waiting...
...
Doors swing open, it's time.
Seven forty-five.
Buzzing in my ear.