Operation Boneration

Elbow saga continues…

I went for another checkup at Hadassah Hospital this morning. The doctor said that the current x-rays show an improvement in the round part of the elbow at the edge of the ulna, which originally went to kibinimat as is clearly visible in the x-ray below. But there is also a split of the bone a little further down which doesn’t show any signs of mending.

The doctor also said that I should come back in three months for another checkup, and if at that time, the bone hasn’t mended, I would have to have another surgery to remove the plate that is there now, clean up some soft tissue, and implant a couple of screws on that particular bone to help it along the mending process. Which ultimately means that the total number of surgeries I will have at the end of this ordeal would be three, because I assume I will need one more to remove the screws once the motherfucker decides to mend.

I asked the asshole why they didn’t screw in that split when I was knocked out on the operation table with my elbow wide open. He didn’t have a definitive answer.

I left the hospital depressed as hell. I mean, I didn’t expect it to be fully healed anyway, but I expected it to show signs. At least signs. An intention for healing.

During the holiday, I asked my dad about one of my cousins who had a bicycle accident some time ago. He suffered severe injuries to his hip and had to have his butchered leg amputated. He is now in a wheelchair waiting for a definitive answer regarding the condition of his hip to see if he can have a prosthetic leg. There’s a possibility that his hip may be in no condition for it.

My dad said that my cousin is in a deep state of depression and refuses to speak to him on the phone.

I thought to myself that if my elbow injury is enough to make me depressed, I don’t want to imagine what it would have been like if I would have been riding my bike just as the truck comes barreling down the street, and I would end up in a heap on the side of the road, unconscious, with a shattered hip and a decapitated leg.

So yeah, it could always be a hell of a lot worse. But remembering what it felt like after I woke up from my previous surgery, I’m scared shitless at the prospect of having to go through it again. And I’m still stuck with this metal plate that will not be going anywhere for at least the next few months.

Peace, love and fuck this, I don’t wanna be Terminator anymore.

The Man with the Spiky Moustache

Now it’s Passover, and I still love it better than any holiday I ever spent overseas. The mere fact of hearing “chag sameach” at the beginning and the end of every conversation, and seeing it on top of every bus makes me smile. Only in Israel.

Seeing as I don’t work on chol hamoed (except for today, but it’s alright) because I have a normal boss (thank the Benevolent Goddess), I had a chance to catch the Salvador Dali exhibit in Haifa yesterday. I ordered the tickets a few days ago and picked the middle of the day so that Elad and I would not have to stress to get there. From Jerusalem, it’s pretty much at the other end of the world.

But then, we decided to leave early and take a detour to Tel Aviv. We walked around Dizingoff rather aimlessly, looking for a good quality clothing store, and found none, so we settled for a coffee shop and ordered a (fucking awesome) milkshake.

We started heading to Haifa at 14:00. The exhibit was set to start at 16:00. I was worried we won’t make it on time and my boyfriend said that Tel Aviv is closer to Haifa than Jerusalem and that it should take us no more than an hour. But what we didn’t know is that Tel Aviv has more cars than people and that on Passover, the entire world and its sister goes for a road trip. So we were stuck in traffic the entire fucking way. I got super upset and pissed off because I stayed up late the previous night to make food for the road, and I tried getting up early and leave early and I was so excited and looking forward to it, and still I would miss it because of awful traffic.

We finally made it at 16:00 sharp just as they started letting people in. I think that if we would have made it a little earlier and I wouldn’t have been such a wreck by the time we did, I would have enjoyed the exhibit a hell of a lot more. I would have also probably noticed more features of the exhibit that I would have taken advantage of, like audio material with information about every artwork, extra rooms with more art, take more pictures… But I had to settle with what I had.

All in all, I enjoyed the exhibit, because Dali is really a genius. I love his art and the recurring themes in his images. Even without a signature, you could recognize Dali’s unmistakable lines, curves, energy, movement and life pulsing through any piece of his artwork.

I especially loved the series of paintings he made in homage to Israel and in memory of the Holocaust. I was so proud to see how much he supported the Land of Israel and how obvious he made it in his art. The exhibit featured a series of paintings of the 12 tribes of Israel and the 10 Commandments. It also included paintings with Israel flags, Israeli soldiers, victims of the Holocaust, an homage to the Israeli national anthem, the Western Wall, and more.

In the hall leading towards the main exhibition, there were quotes by Dali (translated to Hebrew and English) highlighting his sense of humor, as well as his extreme sense of hubris. As my boss said, “Dali’s so full of himself.” Yes he is, but if I could draw half as good as he did when he was 4 years old, I would be full of myself too.

My favorite part of the exhibit was the statues, ranging from enormous to minuscule. Dali’s obvious hand is present in all of them, and the recurring themes abound. Every time I see Dali’s statues, the first time was at the Ralli Museum in Cesarea, I am amazed over and over again at how something so hard, heavy and static as a statue can exude so much life, grace and movement.

I liked how they included a legend of the recurring themes listing what each one of the objects stands for, as symbols and metaphors. I took a picture of that legend to keep it in mind whenever I look at Dali’s paintings. My favorite themes are eggs (form of hidden life, like seeds), crutches (an object to lean on at a certain point in life. To hold something that falls), and burning giraffes. Unfortunately, the latter one wasn’t mentioned in the legend.

The only thing I regretted was that I didn’t see any of the photography work by Dali, such as the skull formed by naked women or the photo of Dali, a cat and a jet of water in mid air. I also regretted not seeing a projection of any of Dali’s films such as Un Chien Andalou. Although I’ve seen it on YouTube a million times, I would have loved to see it again projected in a dark room on a bigger screen.

Also, if there were any of his famous paintings, Persistence of the Memory, A Dream Caused by a Bee Flying Around a Pomegranate a Second Before Waking, Geopoliticus Child Watching the Birth of a New Man, or any of the paintings I’ve seen in the enormous Dali book I have at home, I didn’t find them at the exhibit. That was the most upsetting part. When they said that over 500 original works would be showcased at the exhibit, I expected to see those as well.

Dali is in fact a true artist and a true genius. But his most genius work remains in his house in Figueres and at the Dali Museum in Barcelona. I was truly blessed to have been there. No exhibit can come close.

And now, the pictures.

 

Peace, love and Vision of a Genius

Give Me Back My Body

I just read a blog post about rape culture and how the blame of rape is put on the victim if she was drunk or wearing provocative clothing. Throughout the post, I felt like ownership of my body slipped right from under me. It’s not like I never knew it before, but every time I read a story about this girl or that woman being raped, followed by statements by the others such as “She shouldn’t have been drinking,” “she shouldn’t have been wearing that skirt/shirt/shorts/hairdo/makeup,” I feel objectified and just plain disgusted by the entire world and this shitty fucking society.

Like is mentioned in the above linked post, I sometimes get responses such as “Until you go live in the Middle East, you have no right to speak about rape culture.”

Number one, rape culture exists in every corner, in every cave of this godforsaken world because patriarchy perpetuates it and makes it ok to demonize a rape victim.

Number two, dipshits should know I LIVE IN THE MIDDLE EAST. So there. We’ve just cleared me of any silencing statements and from any declaration that says I have no right to speak my mind.

In terms of my opinions regarding ownership of my body, I feel like I constantly need to prove myself and stand up for myself in that respect. I’ve mentioned it in countless earlier posts, but my family clearly feel like they have the right to tell me what to do or not do with my body, my style of clothing, my hair, and body art. This for me is a blunt expression of “I own your body and can therefore tell you what to do with it.” If I were to confront my family about it, they would dismiss my claim as an exaggeration and make me feel stupid and guilty by saying something offensive like “Gosh! We can’t even talk to you anymore!”

Just this past month, I’ve been made to suffer endless pleads from my mom to show up at the Passover table wearing something “festive.” She was simply following her usual banter whenever holiday season comes around and dreads the moment I would show up at my grandmother’s house wearing plaid pants and an Arch Enemy t-shirt. Now I won’t have any problem wearing a skirt (except that I do prefer plaid pants and a metal t-shirt), but why do I still need to justify my style and claim my right to individuality and self-expression at 30 years of age?

Under the law, I’ve been considered an adult for the past 12 years. Twelve motherfucking years! Why can’t my mom just accept that I’m an adult, an individual, a mature woman with a unique style and who, despite all of society’s claims to the contrary, owns her body?

I’ve had this conversation (read: fight) with my mom on countless occasions. And on all counts, she made some dismissive statement that ultimately made me feel guilty.

I am in the process of writing a book about my years of psychological therapy and how I learned to free myself from the chains of guilt imposed on me by my parents. And although this therapy took place over four years ago, I feel like I’m back to square one. I know for a fact that my mom would make me feel guilty if I showed up with an outfit she doesn’t consider festive, or with a new piercing or a new tattoo… And she could do it without saying anything. The disappointment on her face would be inflicting all the guilt in the world and reiterating the same “I gave birth to you. I own you,” statement she says without even speaking.

I am so upset right now, I could cry. There is absolutely nothing I can do to make my family understand that I don’t want to be treated as a doll. If I said anything, it would be dismissed as quickly and painfully as a slap to the face.

OK, now I really am crying. My inner child is in pain. This isn’t right. This isn’t right.

It’s not fair that none of my male cousins get this treatment. They own their body from day one, no questions asked, while I’m 30 years old and still have to keep insisting and fighting and kicking and screaming for my body, and still have no claims to it.

I don’t wanna go to my family’s house for the holiday. I don’t want to cave in to my mother’s pleas and take my inner child’s needs for granted once again. And I also don’t want to respond to my inner child’s needs and suffer the guilt inflicted on me by my mother’s expression, yet again.

Enough.

Not Funny

Yesterday, a couple of women came over to see the offices we have for rent. One of them was rather on the curvy side and when my boss introduced me, all she could think of saying was “You’re so skinny, it’s so unfair!”

When I responded that it’s not exactly my fault with an offended tone, my boss says “Don’t worry, she was just joking.”

My boss then proceeded to walking them around the office. As they were walking away, I hear the plump lady saying “OK, so the reception is where Hadass the Skinny works.”

When they came back to the reception area, the same woman turns to me again and says “Tell me, do you ever eat anything?”

I got offended yet again, so I went on the defensive and reiterated the fact that I’m not responsible for the way I look. “It’s genetics,” I said. “My mom is like that too.”

Then, the woman responded with an even more offensive statement: “Such chutzpa!” Chutzpa in Hebrew generally means arrogance or disrespect. “Such chutzpa that you have good genes and I have shitty genes!”

This time, I knew that if I responded with how I actually felt, which was not only offence but humiliation, my boss would again dismiss me by saying she was only joking.

Yeah, a joke, sure. My sides are splitting.

So I boiled within, and was almost on the verge of tears.

I wonder how it is that some people can say such horrible things, such insulting and hurtful things, and then make them sound ok by adding “I’m just joking.”

Some members of my family have picked up the habit of telling the younger family members that they’re ugly, when they actually mean that they’re the cutest thing on the face of the earth.

My older cousins keep talking this way to the four or five-year-olds in my family:

“What an ugly face!” They say, and then throw a fit of laughter. The little ones take it lightly as well, and laugh along with everyone else.

So maybe I’m kinda touchy on that subject, but what I do know is that if I ever have a child one day, I would never let a comment like that pass. Nobody will call my child “ugly” and get away with it. Especially if my child is a girl, because growing up, she will no doubt have enough body issues drilled into her mind without having to deal with family members calling her ugly, even as a joke. In fact, being bombarded with so much beauty propaganda from society and the media, my future daughter will actually benefit from a kind word from her family.

“You’re so beautiful!” Doesn’t that sound so much better?

When I was little, my family used to make fun of me because I had a lisp. They thought it was cute and imitated me whenever I said something with a lisp. I was obviously offended by that and as a result spent hours in my room practicing talking without a lisp.

I lost my baby fat and my skinny genes kicked in at a very early age, so my family also used offensive language when they commented on my weight.

I never got over it, as proven by my reaction to the curvy woman’s comment. And I never will get over it. Joking about my appearance and saying I’m arrogant and disrespectful because I happen to be born this way is totally inappropriate.

And no, I’m not joking about that.

Peace, love and beautiful words go a long way.

The Reason God Made a Dog

I finally managed to develop some pictures from an actual film camera. It seems so hard to do that these days with all the digital shit.

I took these pictures outdoors during days where the sun was unapologetic. It’s because my dog likes to run around and low light would mean slower shutter speed and cause blurry photos. It was still hard to get good pictures because the focus on my old-ass camera is also manual. But I got some pretty good shots. Diamond is super photogenic.

The scans do not do justice to the quality of the photos, but here are some of the better ones anyway.

Queen Diamond.

What’s that behind me?

That one was probably before we applied the Gentle Leader. So beautiful.

Out for a walk.

In the backyard.

Diamond is out of focus on this one. But I like it because the focus is on the drain, and Diamond’s blurry shiny texture gives the photo a unique matty quality.

Totally out of focus, but it’s the only semi-decent photo I managed to get of Diamond’s “crazy” expression – Hanging tongue, wide eyes, ears back.

Peace, love and camera, lights, woof!

Final Touches

I’m almost done writing my book. I think.

I estimated to have something like 200 pages, but made it to barely 160. It’s just as well. And although I almost finished writing the bulk of it, there are still a lot of elements missing and will take me a little while longer until I can say “I’m done writing my book” without adding “almost” and “I think.”

Here’s my checklist for things to add:

1) Cover art
2) Divide chapters into parts
3) Add foreword and afterword
4) Add missing parts
5) Spellcheck and verify info
6) Look into copyright issues
7) Read the whole thing a couple dozen times
8) Pick out photos to include
9) Add a Hebrew/Jewish lexicon at the end
10) Try an Adobe layout for the whole thing

Peace, love and hope it turns out good

Doctor’s Orders: Drugs

I’m stoned. Fucking blasted. And it’s not entirely my fault. I was duped by the physical therapists who told me that this is what I should do.

I went to a session last Wednesday and took Optalgin right before. A rather soft-core painkiller, OTC, similar to something you would take for a mild headache. The physical therapist tore me to shreds. Optalgin had no effect whatsoever, not before, certainly not during and not even after. The pain lasted for a few days.

Today, I decided to not squirm with excruciating pain on the Phys.T’s table, and took the painkiller they gave me at the hospital following my surgery – Percocet. Seeing as I had stopped taking it over a month ago, and even while I was still taking it, it was only at night before going to sleep, I wasn’t entirely ready for the actual effect it has on me.

It hit me on the bus on the way to the clinic. I got drowsy, then dizzy, then nauseous and sick.

I got to the clinic stumbling and falling over myself, feeling completely wasted. When I was called in, the therapist asked me why I was limping.

“I’m tripping balls,” I told her.

“Painkillers?” She asked and I confirmed.

The pain was just as bad as I remembered it. Fucking painkiller was anything but. However, while on Wednesday, the pain lasted pretty much until yesterday, right now, I’m feeling just fine. I felt the pain only during the exercises, but not beyond it.

I’m still considering whether or not I should keep taking Percocet before every session. It’s still a narcotic. I mean, a nasty one with a bad kind of trip, causing nothing but nausea and constipation, but an addicting substance nonetheless. In fact, I just learned that Percocet is a combination of Tylanol and Oxycodone, the latter being one goddamn heavy ass drug. So really, is it actually worth it?

Pharmaceutical suggestions greatly appreciated. I’m looking at you, Shay, if you’re reading this… which you’re probably not. But in case you are…

I just hope I heal fast. I’ve had it with this pain.

Peace, love and flex!