 ©1999-1999 ICFTP What're you, kidding? |
14 May 1999:
Hey, good morning kids. Feelin' pretty cheerful today, got some Squirrel Nut Zippers goin', sippin my fourth cup of coffee.
The trip to Birmingham went ok, got a bunch of tests done, looks like everything's ok so far. Got lots and lots of blood taken out, had some parts of me sliced off for study (I've got some weird skin thing going on, none of the docs seem to know what it is - distressing) and spent a lot of time in waiting rooms. At least the Kirklin Clinic is nice and spacious, airy and bright. The chairs are even fairly comfortable. I read a lot of Imajica, the Clive Barker novel I'm working on.
My doc, Donna Salzmann, was cool as ever. Glad to have her takin' care of me.
Went to the Bike Shop and Wintzell's Oyster Bar with Missy last night. We tried to get Andy to come down and slurp raw oysters with us, but he wasn't to be found. Man, that was great... I felt so damn southern. Ya'll ever eat raw oysters? It's good stuff!
Sit down at the bar. Black guy behind the bar wanders over, says hey, asks how many you want. Dozen for her, half dozen and a shrimp po-boy for me. He slides a steel tray over, cup of horseradish, cup to mix in. While he starts shucking oysters, pulling them from the crushed ice in front of you and cracking them open with the oyster knife, you mix up your cocktail sauce. Lots of horseradish, a dash of woesteshire, some ketchup. While you're doing this, he's cracking oysters open and putting them in front of you, using the remaining half a shell as a little plate for each oyster. As he puts each one down, I splash Tabasco on it, let it soak in. Reach over to the steel bucket between me and Missy, grab some Saltines. By this time I've got my six oysters marinating in Tabasco and got my cocktail sauce ready. Stab an oyster with the little fork, put it on a Saltine, scoop a bunch of cocktail sauce onto it, pop it in my mouth all at once and chew it up. Icy cold, kinda slimy and spicy as hell. Yum!
God forbid I ever move somewhere where I can't have fresh seafood. I'm tellin' ya'll, the South is it for food. I don't think there is anywhere in the world with food as good as it is in New Orleans. It's worth a trip to the city just to eat.
Well, this bone marrow transplant thing is getting close. Starts next week. Guess I don't have to tell you I'm not looking forward to it... except that I sort of am. I want this shit over with. I want it in my past, not my future and certainly not my present. I don't know if I can say I'm ready, but I'm willing to keep pretending that I am, and before I know it they'll be sticking shit in me and killing off my bone marrow. Be a little late then to say anything. Maybe I'll just grunt or something, wave my arms feebly.
15 May 1999:
Last night was kind of a weird evening. We had a sort of 'intimate' porch gathering. I guess it was held in a sort of honor of me going away, but that was a very deep undercurrent, if any. No one said anything about it. It was strange... touching and dark and sort of scary, a little bit sad, a lot manic.
The cops showed up at one point. Amy found out that her ex-husband is getting married, Darlene made really good grades and is excited that she may have a job in Atlanta. They were out back on the porch and started screaming, just venting, letting emotion out. A little while later, flashlights came bobbing up the driveway. Two cops - our age! too weird - came back to check up on us. They were looking to see if we were ok, can you dig it? Actually smiled, were fairly friendly. A few things of mine had to be hidden rather quickly, and that was a bit of a hair-raiser. They asked us what was up, we told them, they went away.
Oh yeah. Dawn shaved my head into a mohawk. I'd show ya'll a picture, but Jason has the digital camera this weekend.