TMI Vol. 8, Issue 2
“Be honest, Kambri,” Donna said dripping with accusation in a morphed New York, London, Virgin Islands accent. “Whattuv yew bin doin’?”
“What are you asking? Have I been lifting weights? Noooooo, of course not.”
“Kambri….whattuv yew bin doin’?”
“I live on the 4th floor of a walk up and the subway is two blocks away. What do you think I was doing?”
OF COURSE I was active. Even the Asian lady and Jose the short order cook at my corner deli asked where I was when they saw Christian with our dog for my morning coffee run. I needed to be with my people. The whole no walking two blocks thing was meant for the old folks they usually deal with anyway, right?
Wrong. My stitches were removed and, as I discovered, the whole not walking two blocks thing was real and that extra third week tacked on for my healing was much needed.
Okay, so the cancer was POW! ERADICATED! but there’s still the gaping hole in my head that needs some tending to. And the hole, while on the mend, is still a fleshy divot that looks like a giant ingrown hair. Think Godzilla size if Godzilla had a hair follicle that grew in. In fact, I have to make an appointment to go back to the doctor simply to remove the ingrown hairs they’re expecting. I really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really wish I could be the one to free them. But the doctor said NO! with a kind of gross shock and awe guffaw reply, “You won’t be able to reach them!” But why the shock and awe? YOU GET TO DO IT. Not fair. That is some satisfying shit like popping a zit or freeing a baby from a well.
Christian has been a fabulous nursemaid but the road beckons. He is headlining at the DC Improv this weekend and today is his birthday. Some celebration taking his wife to get stitches taken out and examining my new hair follicles in way too bright of light. I’m sure he’s fantasizing about my stubbly gash right now.
In his absence, banished to my 4th floor apartment, I ordered prepped meals from Fresh Direct arriving some time between 4 & 6 tomorrow, and my buddy Jose swung by with some necessities to tide me over till then. You know: V-8, toilet paper and beer.
Neither place, however, delivers Bacitracin or nurse services and trying to swab a gaping wound in the reversed mirror image of your own head is a weird / hard / painful / gross / fucked up / sad / laughable trial and error with heavy weight on the error part. Basically Bacitracin is serving as a deep conditioning treatment for the new hair growth which is surprisingly thick and dark. Very dark. So dark, I might go brown when I finally get to get a shave and a haircut since I will never go in the sun again ever. EVER. You hear that, Texas?
Ummm. What else? Oh, yes, so it’s Christian’s worst birthday ever, and I snuck a thank you / birthday card in his suitcase. There really are no words to express how thankful I am to my friends for stepping forward with some chocolate, US Weekly, morbid humor, normalcy and general occupation with stupid emails. But Christian? This Bud’s for you (if you drank Bud) and I tried to say so in a note that made him cry…
On the toilet.
ON THE TOILET.
He read my heartfelt thank you for taking care of my stubbly gash when I thought I was burying myself and willing my dog and things to friends and writing the final chapter of my book…nay, my life…ON THE TOILET WHILE TAKING A DUMP AND STARTED CRYING.
What can I say, it was moving. Hey-O!