So I spent a total of six hours in emergency rooms over the weekend. At the end of those six hours, I was told that they couldn’t help me, that I had to wait until Monday and make an appointment to have surgery. So this morning I called at 8:30 AM and was told that before I could even schedule surgery, I had to get a referral from my primary doctor. Huh. So then I called my primary doctor, and after waiting on hold for about twenty minutes, I was told that I could get a referral over the phone. So I was transferred to the referral extension, where I waited another five minutes or so, and I told them what I needed. I was asked if the doctor knew what was wrong. No, I said, I’ve never even met the doctor but that I was told I could get a referral over the phone. No, she said, I had to see the doctor first. I was transferred back to the appointment person, who I eventually found out was at the desk NEXT to the referral person. So. I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow at noon, after which I can make an appointment to see this certain doctor at the Brooklyn hospital, who will then tell me if he, or someone else, is able to do the surgery.

Needless to say, I was in tears of frustration as I limped through my morning sidework. The pain wasn’t really bad until the tail end (ugh) of my shift, at which point it was bad enough to skip my mandatory EMS meeting and come home. I actually bought some ibuprofen, finally, so hopefully I will be in la-la no pain land soon. And I met a terrific couple at work today- they own a restaurant in the Carribean, and are promoting their newest cookbook, and I jokingly brought up the fact that the two restaurants should have an exchange program. When I went back to the table, they were talking about this idea in earnest, saying that I could come over for a month, and stay in their beach house, and teach their staff a thing or two about service. God… a month in the Carribean… umm, okay. I would not say no to that.

What more can I say and think about the war? What more can I say and think about my bum? Both of them are hurting me terribly. Only one can I remedy. I would trade having a hemorrhoid for life if it meant that we could instantly repair all of the damage we’ve ever done to the Middle East (and hoo boy, that’s a lot of damage. But it would be a big pain for me too). I find it hilariously awful- the reports of the generals who are saying, “Gee, we were told that we would come into these towns and everyone would wave flags and pop champagne. Instead they are dressing as civilians and shooting us or blowing us up as well as themselves.” I feel stupid myself for actually hoping that the Iraqui people, at least some of them, would welcome us. Well, the joke is on us. And the idiot on the hill is trying to retract his words, trying to say that all along he’s insisted that this war might take a long time. When are Mr. and Mrs. Joe America going to wake up to his lies?

And now, to quote Teddy Roosevelt:

“To announce that there must be no criticism of the president, or that we are to stand by the president, right or wrong, is not only unpatriotic and servile, but is morally treasonable to the American public. Nothing but the truth should be spoken about him or anyone else. But it is even more important to tell the truth, pleasant or unpleasant, about him than about anyone else.”

I know this is a dangerous time to be vocal about disagreeing with my government. But I cannot be quiet. I invite anyone to delve into my life to find one thing I’ve done that isn’t patriotic. In fact, I daresay that I don’t even do anything illegal. But I will not support my government, I will not bow to this war, I will not speak or think well of the man running my country. Not until he… oh, god, at this point, he’s screwed up so badly that I feel there is nothing he can do to win my favor. He can resign and go quietly home.

So back to my butt. Yeah, it hurts. A lot. And everyone at work was asking where I was yesterday, and why I’m walking funny, and why I’m wincing… and although I’m sharing it with you, cyber reader, it’s another thing altogether to tell my friends. Most people don’t even know what they are. I wish I didn’t, either. I don’t know how much I’ll be able to work this week, given that the only time I’m not in pain is when I’m horizontal. I’ll know more tomorrow, when I schedule my surgery. I have to work in the morning, and then attend a four-hour meeting with the Central Park EMS, and then hopefully lay on my back for a full twenty-four hours. I feel foolish for even complaining about this. I belong in the coal mines, or trekking across America with the Mormons, for god’s sake, not whining about my bum. But, well, yeah, my butt hurts. It’s sure been fodder for plenty of jokes, though. I spent the evening with part of my family last night and left in more pain than I got there with, only because I spent too much time laughing. It’s amazing. You have no idea how often you use that particular muscle until you are made (painfully) aware of it.

Yeah, so, it’s worse than I thought. I have to have surgery. I missed work today, and will again several times next week, and when I go to work (or really, even just stand up) it hurts.

The bright side: I have my family, and I have health insurance.

Once upon a time I had no idea what a hemorrhoid was. I certainly had never heard of a thrombosed external hemorrhoid. And now, twice in my long, blessed life, I’ve had a first-hand lesson on literal pains in the ass. I woke up this morning with a terrible but familiar pain in one of those regions you generally like to ignore. I worked all day and then rather than meeting my friends for a drink, I headed over to the local ER. I waited for two hours, during which I finished a book and fell fast asleep, and then stumbled over to the reception desk to try to get an idea how many people were in front of me. Seven. The nurse said it could be several hours.

So I came on home. I called into work and said I wouldn’t be there tomorrow, because now I remember what happened last time. I don’t want to give you too many gory details but it involved lying on my side, naked, with my butt in the faces of people holding scalpels and needles, both of which found their way into my bum. And… well… they have to drain it… and then sew it up… and it has to heal… and oh, boy, am I looking forward to my day at the hospital!

The last thing I can afford is missing a day at work, particularly a Saturday. But I don’t really have much choice. Geeze. I’d even rather go to the dentist.

I went to a particularly stunning yoga class today. I was really committed to being there, really committed to the practice, really mindful of every movement of every cell of my body. At the end of class, we always bow down and salute each other, and the world- “Namaste!” and I always take a moment right then to be thankful. And my god, I don’t know that I’ve ever been more thankful in my life. Not the obvious stuff: family, friends, roof, bike(s), big new jug of Poland Spring water, Spring, veggie burgers. But rather the stuff that makes me suffer right now: knowledge, awareness, thought, compassion. This war may drag on. It could be months, maybe even years… I mean, how many troops do we still have in Afghanistan? Who has the contracts to rebuild what we’ve destroyed there? Who is going to tell me that the warring tribes aren’t celebrating the demise of the Taliban so they can control the country? How often do we still hear about it? And whatever happened to our fall guy, good ‘ol OBL?

But I am thankful that I care, that I know, and that there is a network of people across this country who care and know, too, and who will question every word in the NY Times, because there is no cause to believe anything they write. I am thankful that my head isn’t stuck up the proverbial musical theatre ass it was during 1994 when I probably couldn’t even define “genocide” let alone be aware that something kinda ugly was happening in Rwanda. I feel empowered by my sick stomach, enlightened by my disgust because at least I am feeling SOMETHING. My hatred of Bush is, sadly, fuel for some of my life right now. But at least I have fuel.

Others around me are feeling the same sort of paralysis, though. So many of us, after being stuck to the TV or news sources on our computers have now turned it off and don’t really want to hear about it. I haven’t read the paper in two days. When I scan the front page of the NY Times on the web, all I see is “Blah blah we did this blah blah they are bad blah blah they killed these blah blah Bush says something totally inane and wrong blah blah blah” and I just can’t take it anymore. After 9/11, they warned us that we would not be given very much information on the “war on terror”. “They” were right. We have no idea what is really going on.

On the home front, my new bike (the newer new bike, she’s no elf but her name is Sirrus) and I rode from Union Square in Manhattan, down Broadway, across Canal and onto the Manhattan Bridge. We then looped up Flatbush, which amazingly enough wasn’t the most terrifying ride of my life, and made it home in less than forty-five minutes. This was the first time I’ve done that ride, first time since I moved to Brooklyn, and it was so simple (and the ride over the bridge so beautiful) that I am going to attempt the reverse when I leave for work in the morning. It’s the end of my weekend and I got exactly no writing done on my two days off… and really, there’s nothing good I can say about that.

Two things: last Sunday, a guest at my restaurant refused a free glass of Billecart champagne because it was French. Last week, someone went to a French restaurant and asked to not have a French waiter. Here’s what I have to say to you two people: get the hell out of America. Or pick up a book once in a while. Or, better yet, and harder still: think for yourself for a nanosecond. It’ll change your life.

Sweet, small buds on the tree just outside my window this morning. It’s hard to believe that last winter might possibly be over. The buds are rust-colored- I wonder what kind of tree it is. It is as tall as my building, so perhaps it has seen half the life that has lived here since 1883. I would love to find a picture of my street from the turn of the century before last, and I would love to know what family lived here first. I wonder if their relatives are still around.

I cannot speak of the war today, just today, since I think of nothing else.

I am on my way into the city to buy a new bike. A new, cheap, hybrid that I can lock in front of my restaurant so I can ride into the city again. My old, beaten up Trek has served me well since 1995, but it is time, quite literally, to put it out to pasture at Ian and Tessa’s farm. There it can live the remainder of its days, cruising past farmhouses and cows, basking in the clean air. That Trek has seen Chicago, Kansas City, Hollywood, New Jersey, New York City, Boston, and the 350 miles between the last two cities on last year’s AIDSRide. It will always be my mother ship. But the gears are far from what they used to be, and believe it or no, there are plenty of hills right here in New York. So away she goes to greener pastures.

My new bike will probably be a Specialized Sirrus hybrid. I spent an hour or two at Bicycle Habitat, down in SoHo, told them my price range (very little) and what I wanted (something that won’t get stolen) and of course they laughed, but understood that I had to give it a shot. So I rode several bikes, and finally the owner said he thought they had last year’s model in a really nice hybrid somewhere in the basement, and that it was an extra small (yes, that is how short I am). And he said he’d give me a deal on it, and after surfing the internet on the model he’s offering, I have to say he’s right. They built it last night, so I will go ride it today, and possibly bring it home.

Beyond that, my mom is in town, and even better than that (or at least tied in the running), it’s the beginning of my weekend. I think I’ll head out and combine the two joys of today.

I have no time to write, as I have just begun my ugly work week. And all I would want to do is rant and rave with disgust for the people in charge of my country. But I have to quote one of the smartest people I know: my mother. In a rant today, referring to Hussein and his supposed stores of weapons, she actually said, “but I think he doesn’t have all that stuff they have been talking about, and I think Bush is going to have egg all over his stupid monkey face when this is over.”

Oh my god, I’m still laughing.

And you crazy people monitoring the internet, looking for terrorists in our very own country, know three things: I was born in Iowa, I am a certified NYS EMT, and I love the West WIng… I have to say that if I am not proud to be an American, I am definitely proud to be a New Yorker. If you want to see what the feelings are here, sit in Union Square for an hour and just look at the t-shirts. There is hate, but it is NOT directed towards Iraq. One t-shirt had a picture of our president and beneath the image it said “FOREIGN TERROIST”. I would love to know who they are polling to get this ridiculous 70% approval rate. I’ll tell you who: NO ONE I KNOW. And that is a lot of people.

When Bush was running for president, I scoffed at him, thinking there was no way he would ever win. I thought EVERYONE in my country was at least smart enough to recognize him for what he was. And then when he didn’t win, but took over the office anyway, I was baffled. But, I figured he’d just be a puppet, and we could work hard to correct his mistakes as soon as we got him out of office. And now… how many years, how many decades will it take for us to repair our ties with the ENTIRE WORLD? I am so ashamed of him. I want him in the front lines, dropping the bombs, breathing the sandstorms, risking his pathetic life rather than the lives of our young troops over there. I don’t think he’s so smart that we need him making decisions in Washington. I think he should personally observe the blood he is spilling.

Ugh. I need one day when I don’t obsess over this. Or one day when I can actually do something about it, actually help someone my government has hurt.

There are so many parts to my day that it seems as though today could have been a week.

First and foremost, there is a raging party, beneath me this time rather than above me, and so somehow less intrusive. Particularly since my downstairs neighbor was kind enough to drop me a note warning me about it a week ago. Secondly, my cat just tore open my palm in four places. I am bleeding and it hurts. And my palm keeps brushing the keyboard. Which hurts more.

I started this day by opening a package my mom sent me from California. It contained Pete’s Organic Gaia coffee, a few other treats, and the clothing I left in Mountainview after my trek this summer. It was strange to see these clothes that I lived in for over two months, strange to think about living in the woods for months. I can’t say that I miss being on the trek, but there are moments from the past summer that, when I think of them, stop me in my tracks. More than anything, I lived in beauty, wasted nothing, consumed only food.

In search of Brooklyn beauty, I took my bike out for a spin at the park. Somehow my bike felt heavier today, both when I rode it and when I lifted it, but maybe it was me that was heavy. I’ve been listening to NPR again, streaming through my computer the whole time I am home, and it just seems so strange to be flying through the park on my bike that cost more than most Iraqis will make in a year. Life, other than fear, is business as usual here in New York, and it is hard to negotiate the differences between my life and that of women both in our army and in the cities of Iraq.

Wow. The party is really starting to hop. As I think about bedtime.

As I was riding today, I flew down a particularly beautiful hill and came up behind a small little girl on a bike of her own. She must have been about six, and her bike had sweet tassels dangling from her handlebars. She was wearing a black dress but also a helmet, and she stood up in her pedals and weaved a bit in the road. I watched her skirt billow around but mysteriously avoid her chain, and I thought about my first bike. It was called the Desert Rose and had a banana seat. Nothing infuriated me more than my brother Sean stealing it- I have memories of him riding away, his knees splayed out because the bike was so small, and me screaming and crying and laughing all at the same time, begging him to come back.

After my ride, I took my adult bike, my Casati of the Dark Elves, into the city to get the grown-up clipless pedals installed. I’d also managed to buy two Casati bottle cages on ebay, so I asked Emey to throw those on, too. My next ride will be my first clipless one; I intend to stay in the park for a while. I then headed over to Chelsea to get fitted for my EMT uniform. They were out of women’s everything, so I ended up buying men’s pants, a men’s shirt, and when they sewed on my patch they did so crooked. I was making cracks about this being a man’s business, and the two who helped me didn’t think I was very funny. The only women’s EMT shirt they had was an XL. Ugh. But in the end, I bought what I needed to buy (except boots… that will have to happen after the next paycheck) and I am ready to go to work.

I joined the Central Park Medical Unit last night, after an almost three hour orientation. I’m really excited about it, for several reasons. The park sees mostly trauma, so it is a great place to learn about bleeding control, splinting, traction, and everything else that comes with physical injury. It is also a great place to get used to the sight of pain and blood. They are also heavily into continuing education, and drill and teach their medics when not on a job. They also seem to be very thorough, and don’t want anyone joining them who is into cutting corners. The downfall is that they only operate on weekend days and for special nighttime events. I work both weekend days, and it is really difficult to get them off. But I know I could get one or two Saturdays covered a month, and I’ve already told them to put me on the bus the next time they have a Saturday opening. I’m excited and a little nervous. I can’t wait.

And now I’m home, listening to the party below, longing for bedtime. I think I might go have a sleepover at Ian and Tessa’s.

As I write this, NPR is streaming live on my computer. I’m almost thankful that I don’t have a TV because I would be wrapped around it, hungry for news of the war. I just heard that 16 soldiers died in a helicopter- the first major loss, on “our” side. Who knows what has happened on “their” side. I can’t help but wonder if this is going to be just like the war in Afghanistan, if a year from now we will have forgotten about the fact that we haven’t caught Hussein, just like we never caught Bin Laden. Huh. Apparently we are still not in “all out war”. Kudos to the demonstrators around the world- even though you are preaching to the choir, and even though our president turns a deaf ear- I applaud you.

Tonight was my orientation for the Central Park EMS. But I will have to write about it later. Too distracted.

It’s over 60 degrees, I’m walking down the street with an iced (iced!) latte in one hand and a whole wheat bagel, in a crushed brown paper bag, in the other. I’m wearing a tank top and cutoff jeans, my hoodie wrapped around my waist for want of the warm sun on my skin. Spring seems possible, life seems possible, joy seems just around the bend. And then a thunderous sound fills the air, so loud I could feel it in my chest, and I look up to see ten helicopters flying in formation directly over my head. They are not flying fast. They are not media. They are circling my city. They are here to watch. They are here to defend against hatred coming my way because of the decisions of one small, foolish man. I am paralyzed with revultion and anger and fear. I am quite sure that life as we know it shall soon be altered again, and I am desperately looking forwards toward the day when this small man can be ousted and we can try to repair his mistakes. But… maybe this is what we need. Maybe we needed to hit this bottom, this ugly, short-sighted, greedy bottom, before we could become a compassionate country. Maybe these terrible times will give birth to a terrible time that the entire country can feel. Maybe all of the people out of the big cities who put this small man in office could be affected in a way- even if it means no gas for their cars, or perhaps just true images on their televisions of the blood and death that we as a country will inflict- that could possilby open their eyes to the reality our our country. I certainly wish no more ill on us, of course not, but I wouldn’t mind some of our conveniences taken away, long enough to create change and understanding.

And I feel it. I feel the other shoe dangling on a dirty, undernourished foot.