November 25, 2012

First of all, peace an’ blessins. Second of all, I fucking hate the amount of disingenuous gratitude that comes along with this time of year. I would like to condense a few of the previous week’s meaningful vignettes together to make this blog post, so here goes.

Friday before last Friday I almost kicked the bucket. I woke up to six paramedics in my bedroom trying to get me to identify the people in the posters on my wall. Not a fun experience, though also not unfamiliar. Frustrating is more like it. I’d been sick the previous week, and, like a true dia-dumbass, blamed my chronic illness and took much too much insulin before bed Thursday evening. I have made this mistake before. Life has gone on. The following day, my expected post-almost-dying Simoment was listening to Divaville on KMHD, and having a delicious blueberry bagel. Uneventful on the whole, but, I was alive. (Previous day after almost dying Simoments have been: seeing Anthony Edwards run the NY Marathon *swoon*, and becoming acquainted with Mary Oliver.)

Wednesday evening, I was too hyper to go to sleep. I made it through half of Woody Allen’s Thanksgiving classic “Hannah and Her Sisters” before trying to get some shuteye. I ran through a list of things I am thankful for in my head, and it grew immeasurably large before I finally was tired enough to sleep. It felt good.

Thursday evening, my family goes around the table and says what they are thankful for. I was trying to be as truthful as possible.

“I am thankful for coffee, because it’s good; and jazz music, because it’s good.”

The previous evening’s list had already been made, so I didn’t feel like I wanted to rehash it with an entire group of people. Everyone else goes around the room and says something trite like, “Family” and “We’re all together”. My mom goes last, and starts crying about what a tough week she’s had, and she’s happy all of her kids are still alive, and other ridiculousness.  For a second, I felt like my answer was stupid, and I *should* have said something more apt like, “I’m thankful for my life, and all that business”; but even if I had– the fact that I’d almost  bought the farm wouldn’t have compared to my mom’s “hard week” because I didn’t fucking lose my shit over it.

Dinner was good. Family was good.

Friday I met up with my friend Andy. Andy who’s mother was with mine when they found me unconscious. (“Found” meaning they broke into my house.) We shot the breeze for a little bit;  and I rolled up my sleeve to show him the bruise on my arm from the I.V., and he starts cracking up.

“My mom only told me the story about her having to crawl through your window.” He says, “What actually happened?”

After explaining the whole story, we started laughing. I almost died. Let me repeat myself: I almost died. The candor of that conversation was exactly what I needed. His mom wasn’t crying over my legs, my mom wasn’t trying to convince a room full of people that her week had been really difficult; it was just me, and him, cracking up because I was still there to drink coffee, and listen to jazz music with someone.

I think that’s what I’m most thankful for.


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