Get Back on the Horse

I recently celebrated an anniversary of sorts. A year ago, May 8, 2009, I had my closest brush with death. Those who know me know that this is saying a lot.

Allow me to explain what happened. Actually, I can’t explain what happened. This I know – I fell off my horse. But I have no memory of the fall or what lead up to it. Or roughly two weeks following the fall, for that matter. I can’t look to anyone else to explain, either, because I was riding alone.

The recovery was rough. It took weeks for my vision to mend enough that I didn’t get nauseous just trying to keep both eyes open at the same time. In my words at the time, “My eyes aren’t working together. They’re not cooperating.” Vision in my right eye was blurry and skewed and the eye wandered. I had partially torn my right rotator cuff, and could scarcely raise my arm without searing pain. And of course I had headaches. I don’t normally get headaches, but these were crippling, and again, often nauseating.

Maybe if I remembered anything after the accident I would be embarrassed about some of the things I said and did in the days following. But when I hear stories about myself, it’s almost like I’m hearing about a totally different person. It wasn’t me. Imposter Lauren was mean (I’m not really mean). And impatient. And emotional (I cried about EVERYTHING). And needy (I called my Mom constantly. As soon as she left my hospital room, I phoned her. Of course I was always crying…). And Imposter Lauren made absolutely no sense (something about cars in refrigerators, I have no idea. Was also convinced the IV in my arm was a zipper). I can assure you that the combination of “constantly confused” and “impatient/rude/mean” was very special. Imposter Lauren made things up in her head and then got mad at you if you didn’t follow her jumbled train of thought. She walked funny, talked funny, and clearly was not me.

I used to rack my brain, really grill myself and try to remember something, anything, about what might have happened. Maybe if I remembered a single moment it would help me piece together the whole perplexing puzzle. Finally my neurologist, sensing the frustration I felt with myself, spoke to me frankly. “Let it go,” he said, “it’s not coming back.” Amazingly, I didn’t get upset by this, I simply did as I was told.

So a year has gone by and I wish I could say I am 100% back to “me,” but I’m not. I try not to be discouraged, to give myself time. My doctor said I should allow five years. Really? Really. I hope it won’t take that long. I am slow sometimes, and still very forgetful. I hate that I must come across so absent-minded. That I have to ask people to repeat themselves when I know that they’ve already told me, I just can’t remember what it was that they said. Hate that I have to preface everything I say with, “stop me if I’ve already told you this.” I can’t stand making excuses for myself and so often I don’t, just let others think I am scatterbrained. I still get annoyed with myself when I have a thought and it just vanishes. What was I just thinking? It was important! Maybe half of the time it comes back to me.

I’ve learned to carry a pen and paper with me everywhere and to jot down these fleeting thoughts before they vanish. My life is ruled by notes that I write for myself. But when I get completely and utterly discouraged, think that this is no way to live life, I remember that even if it doesn’t feel like it, I have improved in the past year. The recovery has been terribly difficult and very trying for me, but it has also shown me that I am a strong person capable of overcoming a lot and it has taught me the value of patience, particularly patience with myself. The recovery is not complete, but it is in progress and I’m learning for that to be enough for now.

Why am I the only one who knows how to drive?

Well? Actually, don't answer that question.

I will tell you why. If only others could drive even half as well as I do, then maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't get so homicidal behind the wheel of my car.

I'm a mild-mannered person. I think I'm pretty polite and I'd say that I get along with most people I meet. I hate to offend people or hurt their feelings in any way. In fact I go out of way to smooth things over usually.

All bets are off when I'm behind the wheel of a car, though. An alter-ego I fondly refer to as Mega-Bitch rears her ugly head.

When Mega-Bitch is in charge, I take no responsibility for what goes down. For your safety and those of all others within a 35-mile radius at the time you may come into contact with the wrath of MB, please obey the following rules of the road:

- There's almost never a reason to go under the speed limit.

- If for some reason you can't follow the aforementioned rule, pull it over, let the normal drivers pass, then get back to putzing along. Resume putzing until another person traveling at a normal, above-the-posted-speed-limit drive comes along. Then pull it over again!

- If you know the lane you're in is ending, get over! Don't try to get as far as you possibly can in the ending lane before you even make an attempt. Don't go flying up the dwindling lane expecting me to let you in when I've been waiting patiently. I will do what I always do to these self-centered, inconsiderate drivers - I will look right at you, right in your eyes, and shake my head- "No." Nope! No, I'm not letting you in!

- Your turn signal is just that. A signal. That you will be turning. It is not a turn indicator, that you flip on whilst mid-turn, or once you're already halfway in my lane. We already know by that time, and you're already broadsiding me at that point as well.

- Do not tailgate me if I'm tailgating the person in front of me. I won't chastise tailgaters - sometimes I feel that it can be justified (see above rule about driving under the speed limit). But if you know that I'm not the offender, that I'm just in a long line of putzers, another mere victim of the lead putzer, there's no reason to ride my rear. What is that going to accomplish?? I can't go faster. We're in this hellacious trap together, man!!

- There is never a reason to brake on the highway. Unless an animal runs out in front of you. Yes cats count.

- Don't park like a jerk. If you're all up on the white line of one side of the parking space, take two seconds (literally!), back up, and straighten out. You're just starting a vicious cycle when you pull crap like that. Next thing you know, someone is going to need to park in the spot next to you, but - understandably - they want to give you a little space because if you're going to hug the white line like that, there's no telling the reckless abandon with which you fling open the car doors. So they park crooked. Then the car next to them - they park all cockeyed too. All because you couldn't spare a few seconds to make yourself look like you weren't drunk when you parked.

On a related note, do not even get me started on those people who purposely take up two parking spots, positioning their car right in the very middle. What makes you so freaking special?

I could go on, but I think I better stop now. I can already feel myself getting riled up and it's too late in the evening for that.

When I was your age, we didn't have moccasins!

Buying gifts for old people is hard.

Most older people are trying to simplify in their golden years, and if they want nicknacks, they want to pick them out themselves. That's half the fun (or so I hear).

My grandmother lives in an assisted living home. She does not need nor does she have space for home decor, decorative soaps, clever doormats, afghan blankets, cook books, coffee mugs that say "#1 Grandma" etc. etc. Now the best gift we can give her is a "gift certificate" to the local casino - she loves her field trips there.

My best friend Jocelyn went to Quebec for her Spring Break (she's a teacher) last week. Before she left, she asked me if I wanted her to bring back any souvenirs for me. Remember what I said about grand parents and nicknacks?

Jocelyn: "I'm taking orders! What do you want me to bring you?"

Me: "I don't know, what do they have? What are you getting for other people?"

Jocelyn: "I don't know yet. I'm getting moccasins for my grandma."

Me: "Are you going to an Indian Reservation??"

Jocelyn: "No! What else would you get for an 80-year-old woman?"

Me: "True, Native American apparel is totally appropriate."

The Fountain Of Youth Lies Within My Bathroom Cupboard

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Water- It Does a Body Good

All things good about me, I attribute to water. I drink a lot of it. And unlike these "eight glass a day - or else!" nazis, I do so naturally. I don't have to remind myself. I just like water - the taste, the feel, the way it quenches my thirst.

I really do credit water for a lot. I have nice skin? It's because I drink a lot of water. Oh you like my shiny hair? It's all that water I drink. Nope, I don't get hangovers. It's because I stay hydrated by drinking a lot of water. I keep fairly slim and trim because all that water I drink helps flush my system.

Water is pretty amazing, but it's not a miracle drug. Water is.. well... water. I might attribute powers it doesn't entirely deserve. It will not cure leprosy (though I don't know this from personal experience). It will not solve all of your life problems- won't earn you money and get you out of debt, help you find your perfect soulmate (though maybe the good skin/hair might help with the love aspect), won't get you out of trouble you're already in (unless that trouble happens to be a drought). But I'm pretty sure it might make you smarter. I mean I drink a lot of water, and I'm pretty near brilliant...

Got H2O?

What is today? No, not the date, the year.

I once sat there and debated with myself for a good 20-25 minutes about how old I was. I had to grab a pen and paper and do the math (let's see, I was born December 5, 1981 and the day was June 16, 2006.) That made me 25. And that was a beautiful realization because I could have sworn at the time that I was 26, but it just didn't seem right. I know plenty of people forget their age, especially after they hit 40. As I understand it, the years start to "blend together" at that point. But at 25 years of age, it shouldn't have taken me a half hour of pondering and long subtraction math to figure out things.

But wait, it gets worse. I'm a bit ashamed to admit this one, but what the hell. One day I nearly had a panic attack because I could not figure out the date. No, I wasn't just confused about what day of the month it was, or even what month of the year. It was June or July and I could not for the LIFE of me recall the date. And I thought for one minute that maybe I had suffered from a stroke, or amnesia, or come down with a case of down syndrome. It was definitely, positively 2006. No! It was 2007. Like a schizophrenic I argued with myself for at least a half hour. Then I really started to panic. Who on earth was I going to call to find out the real year? Who, who would not be concerned (my parents), think I was certifiably loco (the cute guy who sat behind me in Marketing), or confirm that I was off my rocker (my friends, who were generally suspicious anyway).

So what, do you ask, was the solution? Google. Thank you for not judging me, Google. I don't know why I didn't think to check a newspaper (or a news website), but Google kindly and gently nudged me in the right direction.

I'm going to create a website and it's going to be a fantastic hit. Totally anonymously, you too can find out the date (day, month, and year included!) There will also be a section where you can plug in your birth date (if you can't remember the year, you're SOL I'm afraid) and it will then magically tell you your age. You can thank me for that - whether it's now, or when you're 40-... something.