“You have a great vein for platelets.”

She says this to me after I’ve told her about my horrible fear of needles and how hard it is for me to even walk into the Blood Donor Center without getting nauseous.

I hate the Blood Donor Center. Everywhere you look there is a poster with a cartoony drop of blood character who tells you all about donating blood, platelets or plasma! Every wall, every desk, every surface is covered with them. They even have “Droppy the Blood” (not his real name) featured on place mats in the post-donation snack area. Droppy reveals each intimate detail of the process in cute bubble letters and ends every step with an exclamation point.

Instead of donating a pint of whole blood, you can donate a particular component like platelets, plasma or red blood cells!

At all times during the platelet collection process, your blood is contained within a sterile tubing system!

Your blood ‘takes a spin’ in a centrifuge and is then returned to your body!

Obviously, we all now know why they have to beg for people to give blood. Who needs these gross details? Sit me in a chair, don’t talk to me, let me look at a blank wall and tell me when I’m done. You may remember my last blood donation adventure when I got so sick that I almost passed out and had to spend an hour waiting in a reclined chair with a wet rag on my head. I warned the nurse this time and she did really well with me until the platelet comment.

“You know, you can give platelets as soon as three days from now.”

God. Dammit. Are you kidding me?

As I mentioned in my last post about blood donation, I am blood type O Negative. Me and about 6% of the United State’s population. (Thanks Droppy!) O Negative is the super blood. I’m a “Universal Donor” meaning my blood can save anyone’s life and is the most sought after. So I have to donate. It kills me, I hate it, it completely freaks me out. It’s been almost three hours since I finished up this morning and I’m still sick to my stomach. But. I have to do it. How could I not? And now thanks to that fucking nurse, I get to do it again.

I’ve been getting some comments like, “I miss the funny Susan.” “Where are the happy posts?” “Why is everything so serious lately?”

My answer? It is what it is. I’m in a funk. So it’s either not write, or fake some happy shit that will just come out, well, fake. I’m ignoring phone calls. I’m avoiding people. I’m stressing out almost to the point of panic attacks. I have the Klonopin, but I try to take it only when I start feeling the pain from clenching my jaw. You know, I know I need to feel the feelings I’m going through. It’s the first holiday season without my family. No call on Thanksgiving. No call on my birthday.

Although I ultimately feel this is best thing for me, it sucks. And it makes me really sad. So lately, I’m just not in the mood. For anything.

Don’t think I’ve become pessimistic, or that I’ve lost my belief that everything works out and all that new age hippie shit. I am still The Secret’s biggest fan. But, the fact is, sometimes things suck. They just do.

That’s where I am right now. And, I’m okay with it. It will pass, I will learn, all will work out. But until then … leave a message and I’ll get back to you later.

This is what I wrote on Day 42:

Good feeling’s gone. I have been laid off, I’m back to bartending, I’m house poor and I can’t afford weed. And of course, it’s that time of year when every case of depression is exacerbated by the holiday season. Not to mention, I have run out of refills on my Zoloft and haven’t had my man-made serotonin in over two weeks. (Note to self: Call Dr. Auerbach.)

People, let me tell you, unemployment is exhausting. What with all the fighting and screaming and crying … where do you find the time to search for a job?

Arrgh. I want to write a post. It’s been so long and I really love this blog but my head is such a mess right now. Yes, I’m out of Zoloft. Yes, I spent three days over Thanksgiving fighting and screaming with Erica. Yes, I am a bartender who is also picking up odd jobs just to keep the cash rolling in. (Sorting a dead Life Magazine photographer’s old prints for his widow for $15 an hour, for one.)

It’s now Day 47 and I still haven’t posted. I have some good updates. Number one being, I’m back on Zoloft. Oh. Wait. That’s a good story.

After writing that half-assed post that I didn’t post (except I did now), I called Dr. Auerbach’s office for an appointment. She was booked until January 15. I asked if I could just have her renew my prescriptions over the phone. The receptionist answered, “No, but let me see if the interns can write prescriptions.” Turns out they could and I got an appointment.

I went to Beth Israel the next morning and met Dr. Feng, my GP’s, partner’s intern. She was a young Chinese woman who was very diligent and proficient at her job but hadn’t come quite so far with her English. After asking me a barrage of medical history questions, she retrieved my file. A file which, incidentally, contained the answers to all of her previous questions. I suppose she was just practicing. Anyway, she finally gets around to asking why I’ve come in for the appointment.

“My prescriptions have run out. I need to get more Zoloft and Klonopin.”

“Okay. I can give you Zoloft. But Klonopin is control drug. I don’t think he give you Klonopin.” He being Dr. Lau, my GP’s partner.

“That’s fine. I’ll get an appointment with Dr. Auerbach. The most important one is the Zoloft.”

I expected her to write the prescription for the Zoloft and send me on my way. But then she changed her mind. For reasons I don’t quite understand, she decided that she didn’t want to give me the Zoloft either.

Dr. Feng: Do you see a therapist?

Me: I used to but I don’t anymore.

DF: Why not?

Me: I can’t afford it.

DF: You have insurance.

Me: I know but they don’t pay for therapy.

DF: Yes they do.

ME: Um. No. They don’t. They pay after a $3000 deductible. So, at $150 per session, by the time you get to $3000, it’s practically a new year and you have to start all over.

She was not satisfied with this answer. She went on about my being able to afford therapy for about five minutes. “You should have medicaid.” “Your insurance is crap.” “Are you sure you’re reading the policy correctly?” (Read the policy? Seriously?) She just couldn’t believe that someone in my obvious state of distress, could not get the proper mental healthcare she so desperately needed. (And this is before the breakdown.) She finally gave up with a succinct, “America … ugh.”

DF: Listen. Dr. Auerbach give you Klonopin before or after psychiatrist?

Me: I didn’t get Klonopin from a psychiatrist.

DF: No. When you get Klonopin you were seeing psychiatrist?

Me: No. My therapist was a psychologist. She didn’t give me Klonopin. Dr. Auerbach did.

She resorted to drawing a schematic showing that she wanted to know whether I was seeing my therapist when Dr. Auerbach wrote the prescription. This is when I started crying.

Dr. Feng had turned back to her computer screen to make some comments on my inappropriateness in getting my psych meds from my GP and not a psychiatrist, so she didn’t know I was starting to break down. When she looked back up she was shocked. “Why you cry?”

“I don’t know. I just cry sometimes. It isn’t you. I’m just … I don’t know. Crying.”

She nodded and said, “Yes. I cry sometimes too.”

That’s when the silent stream of tears upgraded into full-fledged sobs. I was crying like I was watching Steele Magnolias and it was the scene where M’Lynn started screaming, “I’m FINE. I can jog all the way to Texas and back, but my daughter can’t! She never could!” Dr. Feng stood up and announced that she was going to get Dr. Lau.

Great. Now I can have my breakdown in front of two strangers. I tried in vain to pull it together before they got back. As I was reaching for another tissue, Dr. Lau sashayed in with a distinctly lavender aura. I loved him immediately. He plopped himself down in the chair at the desk and rolled over to face me directly. “So. What’s going on?” he asked sweetly while visibly restraining the, “honey” that would have surely followed had we been at at bar in the West Village.

Me: [no longer holding back with my sobbing and gasping for air in order to whine my words out] I lost my job and I’ve been out of Zoloft for two weeks, it’s the holidays, I’m estranged from my family, I can’t sleep

… and the bawling took back over.

Dr. Lau: Ok. Don’t worry (slight pause where, “honey” or “sweetie” or “sugar” should have been). We’re going to give you the Klonopin. I’ll write your prescription for Zoloft. You said you couldn’t sleep, so I can offer you some Ambien.

Me: [instantly feeling my stability returning] I can accept that Ambien.

Dr. Lau: We’re also going to refer you to a psychiatrist. I think you should get back into therapy.

Me: [looking over the tissue was still holding over my face after blowing my nose] Ya think?.

So, that was last Wednesday. I’ve been back on the Zoloft and have been throwing in a half Klonopin a day to keep it cool until the Zoloft levels off my system. Today I was clenching my jaw so much that I took a whole one. The sleeping isn’t going so well. I took an Ambien the first night and slept super well. But the past three nights I’ve worked at the bar which means I was drinking and I don’t want to mix the two. (Yes. I realize that I could just not drink at the bar, but really …)

So that’s my story. It ain’t great, it’s not sucking as much as it was. And, the fact that I’m posting this is a sign that things are looking up.

Me: So, who is this?
Unknown Guy: You don’t know me.
Me: Um. Okay. Well, she’s not here.
Unknown Guy: A blue truck just drove past your house.
Me: (Seeing the truck outside the window.) How do you know that?
Unknown Guy: I’m watching you.

It was a random phone call from someone asking for my sister. I didn’t know him so, of course, I ended up talking to him for about an hour. It’s late 1990, I’m nineteen, living at home, unemployed and, unbeknownst to anyone except for myself, pregnant. What else do I have to do? Plus, it initially seemed harmless - I’m sure I’m not the only person who has ended up talking to a stranger on the phone. But as the conversation went on, Unknown Guy became increasingly nasty. He started saying things about my sister and when I defended her, he was pissed and said that he couldn’t believe I took her side over his. I finally hung up on him.

Later that afternoon I got a call from my friend Randy.

I found out who that was who called you.

Randy had mentioned Unknown Guy to a friend of his who happened to know all about my phone conversation because he knew Unknown Guy and had heard all about it. (John Cougar, your small town ain’t got shit on Fitzgerald.) Turns out, it was the kid who had just moved into a house behind ours. Randy knew of him from church and said the kid was just a punk.

Around 8:00 that night, Randy called back.

Unknown Guy overdosed. He’s in the hospital.

Twenty minutes later, Randy and I were standing at the foot of Unknown Guy’s bed in Dorminy Medical Center’s ICU.

Me: What happened?
Unknown Guy: It’s your fault. You made me do it.
Me: I just met you. I never knew you existed until YOU called ME today. How is this my fault?
Unknown Guy: Exactly. You didn’t even know I existed.
Me: All right. I’ve had it. Good luck, dude.

I walked out and waited for Randy in the car. I didn’t know this guy and there was no way I was going to take the blame for his trying to kill himself.

I felt so powerful when I walked out of there. The two years leading up to this incident had been really fucked up for me and I was emotionally drained. Not taking on the guilt of this latest fiasco was huge for me.

Since the end of my tenth grade year, over fifteen of my friends had committed suicide — I lost count along the way. I think the final number was eighteen, though that might include the few friends who died in car wrecks during the same time period.

Note: Forgetting how small Fitzgerald really is, I tried googling death certificates in my hometown for those couple of years. Nothing. I emailed the Herald-Leader newspaper office asking if I could purchase back issues. The editor wrote back to say that they only keep copies for the past five years. The rest of them — back to the 1800’s, I was told — are on microfilm in the library. I didn’t ask, but I am pretty sure he meant the Ben Hill County Library exclusively.

A couple of weeks before Unknown Guy came into my life, I had attended my ex-boyfriend’s funeral. He shot himself in the head after getting a bad grade on a test. The last conversation I had with him was a fight about his mother asking, “Is this Kim?” when I called him. He called me three times the week he shot himself and I wouldn’t talk to him. I wanted to, but the aforementioned pregnancy was an issue. I was about six months along and I was afraid that he’d ask to see me.

Three nights in a row he called and three nights in a row I refused to pick up the phone. The fourth morning was when he went to his parents’ garage with his rifle. When I saw his mom at the church service she came up to me. I was sobbing and trying to tell her how sorry I was.

He was talking about you right before. He was mad at me because I called you Kim. He said that I ruined your relationship.

And she walked away.

This funeral was about two weeks after (or before?) my best friend JW hung himself. He had been addicted to pain medication ever since the neighbor boy shot him with buckshot and put out one of his eyes. A couple of days before he killed himself, he borrowed my Dead Milkmen tape. I liked thinking that it had become one of “his things”.

I think I ended up talking to Unknown Guy that day because answering the phone had become treacherous for me and I was just relieved that I finally got a call that wasn’t about another death. When he tried to turn that into his own suicide show, I snapped. I had been in mourning for going on two years, I was about to have a baby that I still hadn’t acknowledged to my family - or to myself for that matter, and I had reached my limit.

Note for those of you wondering how I could live at home and hide a pregnancy from my family for six months: I didn’t get pregnant in that cute “beach ball under your shirt” way. I got pregnant everywhere so I just looked fat. Plus it was the late 80’s and huge bulky sweaters were in.

While I was standing over this idiot who had taken pills and tried to blame me, something clicked inside of me. All of a sudden it was all just so ridiculous. How was it possible? All the death, all the blame, all the guilt …. It was just too fucking much. So I shut it down and in an instant all of it was gone and I felt serene. I now know this is what the shrinks refer to as “repression.”

A few months later when I was in labor and telling the emergency room staff that I didn’t want to see my baby, I didn’t feel it. I had made my decision and I was sticking to it. Matter of fact. Period. As I was being rolled into the delivery room on the gurney I told the Ob-Gyn, “I’m giving it up for adoption. Please don’t show it to me.” The next day an attorney and his secretary came into my room with adoption papers and a Bic pen.

The undersigned consents to relinquish all parental rights to Baby Girl.

Baby Girl. Reading those two words fucked up my plans to not engage. For nine months I had managed to live as if it weren’t happening. Even my mom didn’t know until I woke her up that night and said that she needed to take me to the hospital. It was as if my mind and my body were completely separate so I had been able to distance myself from what was going on.

Then those words.

Baby Girl turns eighteen this December. When I signed the adoption papers, I decided that I would never search for her. I had my chance to be in her life, and I gave it up. Now it’s up to her. When we decided to say that I didn’t know who the father of the baby was so that I could make the decision to give her up on my own, I asked the doctor to keep my records open in case she ever wanted to find me.

Of course, she might not want to. She might hate me. She might feel that she is happy with the parents she has and not have a need to contact me. She may not even know that she’s adopted.

But just in case, I’m calling the doctor to make sure he knows where I am.

I am still working on switching over to my own domain. The holdup is that somehow I managed to get the entire design team over at Erica’s company involved and now we’re actually DESIGNING the site - not just picking a standard template and going with it. It’s fantastic, but it’s going to take a little longer than I expected. Soon though. I promise.

In the past three weeks I have:

• Roasted two chickens.
  • Made chicken pot pie from roasted chicken leftovers.
  • Fed Erica roasted chicken of some sort three days in a row for lunch.
• Baked chocolate chip cookies.
• Baked pumpkin bread.
• Prepared dinner almost every night.
  • Set the table for dinner.
  • Used linen napkins for dinner.
  • Googled (and implemented) special napkin folds.
• Packed lunch for Erica almost every day.
• Bonded with the dog.
• Gone to the park with the dog.
• Bathed the dog.
• Cleaned out the fireplace.
• Reorganized the kitchen drawer.
• Washed every item of clothing we’ve worn.
• Washed and washed and washed dishes.
• Cleaned out the kitchen cabinets.
• Reorganized the bathroom cabinet.
• Listened to over twenty episodes of Oprah’s Soul Series.

That’s right. I am a housewife who is addicted to the Spirit Channel. (I am also a bartender at a nice little lesbian bar in the Gowanus section of Brooklyn. A story for another time.)

Know what else? I love it.

Truly. I am so happy these days. My relationship with Erica is healthier than it’s ever been. My stress level is zero. (Erica’s is only a 15. That alone is a Christmas miracle.) I just have this feeling that everything is exactly as it should be right now. And I’ve been given this amazing opportunity to make a change in my life and decide what direction I want to go in. It’s pretty great.

The first thing I realized after being laid off from the event business (again) was that I have no interest in going back into the event business. It was always something that I had fallen into, not something that I had fallen in love with. What I have fallen in love with, is writing. So, here’s the plan:

1. Stay at home and write. (Or go to the park and write. Or a cafe. The zoo. You get the point.)
2. Write the stuff I want to write the way I want to write it.
3. Have someone pay me to do it.

I am so excited.

Occasionally I question my spelling ability. I know that Blogger usually catches my stuff, but there have been times …

So. I was making sure that I had spelled “grateful” correctly and I came upon the definition.

Pleasing by reason of comfort supplied or discomfort alleviated.

Here’s to the McCain/Palin ticket.

And an alleviated discomfort.

I am so excited about the future.

Receptionist: Hi, how can we help you?

My Friend PMR: Hi there. How are you? What we’ve got going on here is that my wife and I were having a party tonight.

Erica: Yeah. It was fun. So, they have this cat.

PMR: Yeah. We’ve got a cat.

Erica: Yeah, she’s allergic to them and, uh …

Me (thinking): God dammit. Why isn’t there any panic? Why the FUCK isn’t anyone panicking? Here I am dying and she’s chatting?

From my keeled over position I wheezed in as much air as I could and screamed.

Me: “ASTHMA ATTACK!”

I know I said I wouldn’t write again until I switched domains, but that was before I knew I was going to face death and spend an evening in the Catskills Regional Medical Center with a pothead jaywalker, an escaped convict and one of the younger members of NAMBLA. I had gone into an attack at a Halloween party and thank god the escapee quit drinking after the second round of Beer Pong or we would have been fucked and I would have found myself in the back of a CRMC ambulance as the adult half of the NAMBLA couple.

Note: For those not familiar with Beer Pong, here is a list of what you need to play the game: A table, ping-pong balls, plastic cups, beer, and at least two people who are willing to drink a cup of beer with a dirty ping-pong ball floating in it.

The truth of what happened at the emergency room reception desk was we all went in and Erica, indicating me, calmly said to the nurses, “She’s having an asthma attack.” The nurses blankly stared back for what felt like eons. I was freaking out because I had dropped down to about 10% lung capacity at this point, and it seemed like everyone was so fucking calm that I might collapse before anyone could decide what to do for me.

After I screamed, I was quickly dropped into a bed and strapped down with an oxygen mask containing a steroid breathing treatment. Within seconds I could breathe again and fell into immediate exhaustion from increasingly struggling for breath for the prior three hours. I was soothed in and out of sleep to the tune of the old man on the other side of the curtain. “Pee pee. Pee pee. Pee pee.” The nurse looked at me, “Sorry. It’s the only bed we have left,” and she turned to give Pee Pee Man a urinal for the third time in about 10 minutes.

I hate being the person who has to be taken to the emergency room. It’s embarrassing and I feel guilty for being the buzz-kill. When I was shivering on the back porch, Erica and PMR were with me. “I’m fine. -wheeeeze.- Just let me stay out here for a -wheeeze- while. You guys go back inside.” I knew I needed to go to the emergency room, but I just didn’t know how to break it to them. I felt like Sookie Stackhouse, the mindreader in True Blood. All I could hear was their thoughts

Oh, please be okay. We don’t want to spend the night in the emergency room. Please. She’s okay, right? Man. We just started “The Shining.” Am I really going to have to go to the hospital with her?

Honey, do you need to go to the hospital?

Yeah. I do.

Crap.

My three costumed companions and I got in the car and headed out. As I sat in the back seat trying to concentrate on getting air into my inflamed bronchial tubes, I could hear them talking about my and PMR’s run to try to find a store that had Primatene Mist earlier in the evening.

PMR (the pothead jaywalker): Well, we went to Wal-Mart and Shop Rite and they were both out. Or Wal-Mart was out, Shop Rite’s pharmacy was closed and we couldn’t get to it. The only other place was another 20 minutes away.

S (the ex-con): Yeah. Taking her to the emergency room is way better than that.

The worst part about being the patient in the ER scenario, is missing out on all of the drama at the hospital. My experience was limited to Pee Pee Man and a rotten-toothed nurse who attempted to start an IV line on me. Being needle-phobic, just the thought of getting an IV was bad enough. But then the stick that should have stung for no more than three seconds hurt like I was being shot up by a fellow heroin junkie in a rush to get his own hit. A doctor who was passing by saw me writhing in pain and asked the nurse what was going on. “The vein is blown,” then accusingly, “She jumped.” Mercifully the doctor said, “Please stop torturing her and just give her the pills.”

There are pills? You bitch.

Meanwhile, outside my room:

S is pacing because he is so freaked out by the filth.
PMR has passed out on a gurney in the hallway and is unfazed when a nurse passes and drops a pile of sheets at his head as if he’s not there.
Erica is registering me with a nurse who notices the clock when daylight savings time kicks in. “Great. It’s 1 o’clock again. The last thing I need is to re-live that.”

Occasionally I’d get a quick report from Erica on what was happening outside my door.

These two nurses were just out there talking and one of them said, “Well, we can’t release the body to them tonight.” Eek.

And then she’d be off to watch the rest of the show. The most exciting reports were about the crackhead. She’d duck her head in with snippets of the action.

He’s detoxing in the “Quiet Room.” He isn’t very quiet.

Now he’s mumbling something about people contaminating ketchup bottles with AIDS.

Ooh! They just strapped him down. He is not pleased.

After about two hours, three breathing treatments and a dose of Prednisone (in pill form, thank you very much), the staff told Erica I was released.

Relieved to finally be freed from the ER, she came in with PMR and S. “Honey? We can go now.”

“Okay. Can I just lie here for five more minutes?”

Erica and PMR’s faces dropped.

S, done with the filth and drama said, “I’m getting the car.”