on the case

One of my college friends died last week. Amber was kind and funny and beautiful, leaving a 10 year old son and her husband, who was also a classmate. She’s the second of our school peers to die of natural causes in 2 years (Phillip, my high school friend, having a heart attack at the beginning of 2020), and I know that number will increase exponentially from here on out. Thinking about people a lot this week. 

Also keeping an eye on the storm, as it tries to knock down the houses of a few of those people. I’m not counting floods and falling trees as “natural causes”, you guys. Don’t do it.

The continuing saga of the hole in the window

My tear ducts finally unfcked themselves, but not before breaking every blood vessel in my eyeballs, giving me the unfortunate look of a librarian who has been lighting up at the reference desk. This maybe explains why the detective who showed up to have another look at the bullet hole in our window sat down and explained to me very slowly that without "proof" he can't just arrest anyone who looks guilty, because that's called a "violation of their civil rights". I nodded, also slowly, and explained that we really just needed a paperwork trail for documentation in case it happened again. 

"And anyway," I said, "I don’t think the guy we trespassed is actually smart enough to get his hands on a real gun. There would be bullet holes in everything, including himself. My running theory right now is 'kids shooting at chickens with pellet guns'."

"Well," he said, "That guy did just get picked up for busting out the windows of the property next door, and there was a witness, so we got him on that, at least."

"Did he shoot the windows out, or throw a rock?"

"I can't speak to that. But yeah, a rock."

"So can we assume, if there's another incident, that it's not him, because he's in custody - or has he already been released?"

"I can't really say. But yeah, he's out."

Look at me, expert interrogator.

The detective hung around chatting, either because he was enjoying the air conditioning or because he was hoping I'd offer him some weed, until my boss finally shooed him out so we could close for lunch. 

And that is how we became not at all closer to solving the mystery.

In other news, I’ve been back on the workout program and doing ok. My doctor gave me pills that should “correct” my middle-aged metabolism and allow me to lose weight again, but so far all that’s happened is my bosoms have gotten bigger. I’ll take that as progress anyway. One more week of the intermediate program, then I’ll take progress pictures again.

Busted

Spent most of the week laying on the couch, watching British comfort tv. My doctor was mad at me for doing sit-ups and then calling to ask why my insides were hurting again, so I was being a good little invalid and staying horizontal, with a hot compress on my face because all that crying in the ER had freaked out my desiccated eyeball ducts.

But Saturday was showtime. The library was celebrating its 95th anniversary, with a band, cupcakes, ice cream, speeches from local politicians, and a big storytime with sing-alongs and a craft activity, performed by the children’s librarian. Who is me. So I had to be there, messed up eyeballs and all.

Just one thing went wrong.

Eight years ago, when I was first introduced to our local senator, his wife thought my name was “Heather”, and it took me two years to notice. By year five, it was too late to correct her, and by year seven I was actively trying to prevent her from finding out the truth. Yesterday, I walked in and there it was: my name on the program; a seat with my name printed on it next to the senator; and an introduction on the loud speaker in front of a hundred people. As I was making my brief speech, I made eye contact with the senator’s wife in the crowd.

Oh no, you guys. 

Ducked out afterwards and led 30 preschoolers in clapping songs until the formalities wrapped up and the important people left.

I could always change my name to Heather before she picks up her next book holds.

Update

ER doctor was wrong, and macerated my insides for nothing. Now it looks like I have a kidney infection after passing a stone they didn’t check for. 

My doctor put me on antibiotics. 

So that’s good.

Except I have suddenly started feeling worse again. Back on the phone with my doctor. 

And because I’m embarrassed and kind of horrified about  talking this much about my insides, I’m just going to sit on the rest of this process until it’s resolved, or until I’m sending out irritated deathbed confessionals. The longer this goes on, the more grouchy they’re going to be. “Look, asshole, we’ve had our differences, but what I did in 1997 wasn’t cool, and I’m sorry about that. Get bent, xoxo, H.” 

Etc.

I’ll post something periodically to show I’m alive. 

Day 5 and return home

On my last day, I laid in my hotel room and took notes on live-streamed sessions. Threw back some ibuprofen in the evening and slowly walked out to the shuttle stop to meet a librarian for a last dinner. She was easy company because she was excited to be traveling and had a lot to talk about, so I just smiled and asked questions while picking at my barbecue platter. We found a candy shop on the walk back to the shuttle and picked up treats for people back home. I was so relieved to go to bed and be done with this trip.

I tried, you guys 

Bathroom graffiti in Tennessee 

4am ride to the airport, 10 hours of flying, and I’m home. Gingerly hugged my kids, dumped candy out for them, and went to bed. Calling my doctor today. Something is still not right.

Scrolling through my FB feed, I saw I missed my high school reunion. All the cool kids who gave me shit for 4 years got together at the beach park to drink Heineken on concrete picnic benches and play “lap dance musical chairs” and “fashion show”, where they put on feather boas and did improv drag performances. Would this have been more fun than spending 12 hours in an ER with a torqued bowel? Too close to call.

Chattanooga day 4

Feeling like someone stomped twice on my stomach and kicked me in the kidney, but sat through a session and then walked like an escaped care home patient to the distillery with my group for a tour. Tasted the whiskey in tiny mouse sips and dutifully bought a bottle of the most average one. Finally had real food at a nice restaurant, and didn’t throw up. Having a good time.

The building is on the Historic Building Registry, with a tree growing out of it

A rainbow of headaches 

The barrel room 

Rowdy whiskey-drinking librarians harassing the tour guide because he looked like some football player 

My first po’ boy and collard greens - didn’t finish it, but it was good to have solid food again.

One more day.

Chattanooga Day 3

edited to add: this post is TMI and written on heavy pain killers

I’m in hospital. Morphine brought the pain down to not-sobbing-for-help-and-passing-out levels, but still very bad. Waiting on CT results to see if it’s appendicitis, kidney stones, or some other kind of exploding organ.

Scared the nice Lyft driver when the urgent care doctor shoved me in and told him to drive me to the ER. 

Will update this post later, meds wearing off.

- - -

Update: an ovarian cyst is rupturing, bleeding into my abdomen. It won’t kill me, there’s nothing they can do to help it, and I’ll probably need surgery to remove the ovary when I get home. They sent me back to the hotel with enough Percocet to get me through to Sunday. Feeling spectacularly shitty, had orange juice and nausea medication for dinner. The meds are not taking away the pain, just dialing it down a notch so I can rest for a bit. Fuck a whole bunch of this. 

Update 2: midnight, back at ER. Percocet did nothing, started vomiting up the juice. Need help.

- - -

Last update: it was a good thing I went back to the ER, because Doctor #1 stopped at Lady Parts and Doctor #2 did an ultrasound to find out if something else was happening. Behind the ovary he found an obstructed section of gut (twisted?), and that was putting pressure on the cyst and causing it to rupture.

So the worst pain of my life, the pain that almost had me sending out embarrassing “I still love you” deathbed emails, came down to two types of laxatives and a bottle of Gatorade. While I was laughing and crying through the narcotics, the doctor said, consolingly, “It really can be fatal!” And actually that did make me feel a bit better.

And so, after a very bad night, lots of interference, a CT scan, an ultrasound, two IVs, five Lyft rides, and three hours of sleep, my gut finally untwisted and the pain just suddenly went away.

Bodies are the worst, you guys.

So, in conclusion, do go to the ER when you feel like you’re dying, because you might be, but brace yourself because the trick to saving you might just be really stupid and embarrassing. 

Chattanooga Day 2

Of course I did not learn my lesson about walking alone. Someone said there was a phenomenal breakfast joint a few blocks away, and by god I was going to go out in the wild and hunt some eggs Benedict. I took my burning, red-rimmed eyeballs and marched four blocks, arriving at an empty restaurant with the door open and no employees or customers anywhere. Waited an awkward minute, then got creeped out and ran away. Arrived back at the Starbucks next to the hotel and found myself in a stream of people wearing the Tennessee Business Person’s uniform of black slacks and greige button-up shirts, all clip-clopping briskly in step, holding identical lattes and pastries. Went back to my room and ate a protein bar. I lost that round.

Worked out in my hotel room and closed my exercise ring by 3am, Hawaii time. Cardiovascular system was very confused about whether it should try to keep up or if we were having a stroke. Ruined a gouache painting in my sketchbook until lunch time.

A list full of Yelp recommendations, and my tired feet trudged me across the street to the seedy diner, instead. Cases full of pie, crooners on the jukebox, truly weird 10-page menu of breakfast and Greek foods, and every customer with burned out holes where their eyes should be. Perfect.

 

Conference session #1: how to talk some necessary shit to staff and angry patrons without being a weenie (“Crucial Candor”). Fantastic. More swearing librarians.

 

CAVE TOUR. Bought an ugly, overpriced (but very cozy) souvenir sweatshirt to keep warm in underground. Learned a lot about myself on this adventure.

1. Caves fuck up my brain and cause me to feel like the floor is rising and falling. It was kind of fun, except for feeling like we were all about to die in an earthquake.

2. I am scared of caves. 

It was great anyway. The tour guide was a dry-witted high school kid who gave very funny bored-teenager commentary. Loved him.

Low ceiling, no thank you 

Help

Whoa, lady

Accidental goblin selfie 

Topside, still alive and smelling dank

Went out to dinner with some ladies and then did a few laps in the hotel pool until my old suit ballooned out and spilled my boobs. Now it’s time to bomb myself with melatonin and trick my body into sleeping. 

Tomorrow: we find out what people on the mainland think a catered breakfast looks like. My money is on mini muffins and danishes. 

Chattanooga Day 1

This is just a running list of notes because I have not slept in 100 years.

The trespassed meth addict who shot the library was passed out on the lawn when I drove by to drop the kids off at school. Called the cops and noped out. Leaving the state. Not my problem anymore.

Overnight: Sitting in the ass-end of the plane, I got the last piece of pterodactyl (chicken) and everyone else was stuck with tofu & broccoli with peanut butter sauce. Diabolical menu planning, A+ mask encouragement.

Culture shock: people in Chicago keep touching me, what the fuck is happening. Do we rest hands on people’s shoulders while talking now? Should I do this to the cashier at Dunkin Donuts?

Couldn’t reach cashier, she yelled SMALL CHAI LATTE into my face and handed me a tiny cup with a complicated-looking plastic lid that I solved like Algernon. The no-caffeine wagon rolled away with the 6 hour time change and I was not on it. Trying to avoid actual coffee unless I’m sitting next to a defibrillator.

Boarded a tin can to Chattanooga. While taxiing, the man next to me sneezed without covering his face. I launched him out the window and under the wheels of the plane. I have paid reservations for a whiskey tour on Friday, motherfucker.

Of all the things that have been ruined by automation, taxis are not one of them. You can still grab your bag, drag it to the curb, bump into a parked cab, and just ask it to take you somewhere. Beautiful. Did not get murdered, left a good review.

HOLY SHIT MY HOTEL. The porter has a waxed mustache. I am not fancy enough for this hotel. 

“How many keys do you want?” “One.” “Do you like champagne?” “No.” 

lol I’m so much fun

Luckily, I booked the peasant suite (state employee) and my view looks out at a brick wall. Feeling more at home.

Fired up the keurig and dumped hot coffee straight down my throat. Can’t go to sleep, got to stay up until night and adjust to time change. Going to work out, take a shower, and try to make my sleepless raccoon eyes look like a fashion statement for tonight’s ghost tour. Everyone will be very happy to find an apparition in their photos, but it will just be me, sorry.

GET OFF THE BED NO SLEEPING

Did my workout and whatnot, then stopped by the “flapper bar” for a 3pm beer (it’s a SANDWICH OK) and walked to the Moon Pie store. Bought so many Moon Pies for the kids. Almost had to fling them all at scary people like ninja stars on the way back. Lesson: travel in packs, do not go wandering off alone in a strange city with a buzz, holding an armful of moon pies.

Joined up with some other people from my hotel and walked over to the bbq joint for two hours of VERY LOUD LIBRARIANS drinking beer and saying swear words.

Ghost tour! Took a hundred photos of parking lots and abandoned buildings with zero ghosts in them (but I’m dutifully scrutinizing them for shadows and blobs), the group got yelled at by three homeless people for devilry. Tour guide was an amateur comedian and did the “am I right?” swagger while cracking jokes. We tipped her for survival skills alone.

Ghost horses are supposed to be down here 

Somehow I was always at the back of the pack, the person first to get eaten by wolves 

Is there a figure on the third floor of old Carnegie library? No.

No ghosts, just pretty balconies and sculptures

I am going to bed, spread out like a starfish on the big mattress. 

Tomorrow: MORE WALKING, oh no.

Question of the day

What kind of weapon did the meth addict we trespassed from the library fire at our bulletproof window? Pellet gun or real gun? The inside screen was intact, so it ricocheted. Shot from 25-30 feet away, in front of those trucks in the background. The police officer who came to take our report didn’t have enough experience with this kind of glass to figure out what caused it, and I couldn’t find any projectiles in the driveway. I did find a tiny green plastic soldier’s head, but he looked innocent. 

Educated guesses?

Prep

834 librarians are attending the conference next week, and the more quick-thumbed/socially starved of us have been piling into the conference chat app to arrange meetups for cave walks, ghost hunting, barbecue, beer, and whiskey tastings. We are programming the absolute shit out of Chattanooga and getting ready to hit the streets in a cardigan-clad mob.

In nature, the word for this kind of group is "a menace of librarians".

And that one guy selling digital subscriptions.

Fitness update:

I still weigh the same, but I’m increasing in density and decreasing in circumference. Except for my legs, which are going to be able to kick through a wall soon. 

Everyone looks like hell in these post-workout pictures, I’m learning not to give a damn

Looking forward to packing my booty leggings, finding my swimsuit, and boiling my butt in the hotel hot tub.