Wednesday Morning Incoherencies

I'm starting to think NYU had it wrong when they designed this hospital. The building is huge but each room is tiny and each day here feels like a WEEK.

My parents arrived in the morning after rounds. They crowded into my half of the room for only minutes before the space dissolved and my dad took the paper to the waiting room. He also stepped out to get me a computer charger, as I believed death would become me if I didn't have Twitter to check. My mom fetched me Gatorade and actually tried to change my shirt for me before I reminded her that I’m 24, not 3. They stayed for most of the day until I got cranky and told them to go home.

I wasn't in the mood for visitors to due to the fact that I look like I got some "work" done down in South America, but I had Meghan come by anyway. She’s good company and she promised to bring Chinese food. We've been friends since before I discovered eyeliner and hair straighteners, so she's seen me in far, far uglier states. She stayed until I decided to try and go to sleep.

But sleep is impossible in the hospital so I listened to the attending doctor try to explain to a team of residents and medical students what was wrong with me. I listened for 5 minutes before I got bored and cranked up the music. Four songs later, the students and doctors came in and beckoned me to repeat "what happened this time" for the 30th time. (Here's an idea, guys: check the fucking chart! It mentions it hurts to talk.) I pulled a bit of Helen Keller move on them: I didn't say much, grumbled and made no eye contact. Rude, maybe, but it's no fun to have 10 nerdy med students staring at you when you know you look like Joan Rivers: the Prequel.

Later, my rheumatologist came by and said I’d probably in here until the end of the week. Before she left, she cocked her head to the side in sympathy and said: "Poor Kelly Bergin, I'd hate to be you!"

I get this comment a lot. That and: “You're always sick! God, I would never want your life!” I understand the sentiment behind both, but sometimes it sits me with me the wrong way and I never know how to respond.

I want to have a life that others want, too. I mean sure, I’m sick and my hair is badly dyed and I’m lying when I say I’m 5’2 but it’s not so bad, is it? Do you not see these blue eyes? These irises sparkle!

I'm livin' the dream here, people!

Anyway, I’m here until Thursday unless my elaborate bribery plan works on the attending. I keep refreshing the new Hanson music video for entertainment and downloading episodes of Six Feet Under on iTunes. (Well, I was until I realized it's not the best show to watch in the hospital...did you know people die on that show?). I just want to go home and back to sleep and eventually see the outside. There's only a short time period in which I can take advantage of the official Kelly Bergin Mouth Sore Weight Loss Plan™, and that period is the next week. Soon my appetite will come back, and boy do I have plans with some complex carbohydrates and some good food. (Yuca, Supper, Frankie's, Luke's Lobster--I am coming for you.)

UPDATE: I tricked the residents into letting me come home early, as long as I rested, took mad drugzzz and ate and drank. Thanks for all the well-wishes, offers to visit, flowers, phone calls and messages. I appreciate it all, I really do.

The Fallout

Oh, Bonnaroo.

I love you, but you're letting me down.

I thought we had something good going. I fed you with my money and spirit; I danced in your muddy streets. All I asked in return was some good music, expensive beer, and some damn good fried food.

And you provided, oh so willingly. You gave me Bruce Springsteen and Bon Iver and the best curly cheese fries I ever had.

But now, eight days after my return, I have a bone to pick with 'roo.

You and your delicious microbrews and your loud campers and your late night shows have landed me in the hospital! I look back at pictures of my adventure and want to scream at my former, healthy self. "Sleep another hour! Put down the acid and crack! (kidding!) Step away from the Natty Light!"

But perhaps I shouldn't really blame Bonnaroo for my current situation. I mean, everyone else is healthy.

I could blame this disease. Or maybe the other.

Whatever the cause may be, I'm stuck here for at least another night. I've been here since Thursday after my throat started to feel like I was getting strangled by Benjamin Linus. I put off coming in because strangulation? No big deal. But when I lost the ability to speak, I knew it was an emergent situation indeed.

My two days of kicking it like Keller were the worst days of my life. You might as well have taken away my ability to breathe! I saw so many opportunities for my wit to be vocalized, but they just drifted away, like bubbles on the verge of bursting. I even heard my coworkers discussing the latest celebrity news. They had so many important details wrong (Brangelina's children's names! Whether TomKat was married!) and it was painful to hear them, unable to jump in and contribute about Sarah Jessica Parker's surrogate twins or John Travolta's hidden homosexuality.

Celebrity gossip aside, it was also quite difficult to do actual work at the office. When coworkers addressed me, I grunted and would try to speak, but usually ended up spitting on myself and mumbling. I sounded like the Sloth from Goonies.

I knew that I looked like a freak but I insisted on hiding my illness. I had just returned from vacation and oh yeah, had recently missed a bunch of days for my fallen appendix. I didn't think it would look good that I was sick again.

Eventually I couldn't take my own silence anymore, so I popped into the ER, hoping for a quick tune up. That was five days ago and evidently, I'm still here. It's gotten past toleration at this point. This is mostly due to my roommate, who makes very questionable noises. All. Night. Long. She kind of sounds like Meg Ryan in "When Harry Met Sally". I think you all know what scene I'm talking about.

Awkward.

Fortunately my unlimited supply of morphine puts me to sleep so I can tune her out. I don't want to sound like a junkie but that drug = happiness.

And since I've been locked up in The Hospital That Is Not Bellevue, I've had a fair amount of visitors come to help lessen the pain. Meghan came tonight bearing some great gifts--ginger ale, powdered donuts, Chace Crawford. Sure, he was on the cover of People, but pictures of Chace are probably more interesting than the actual Chace. Derek brought me the same magazine, which I find reassuring for two reasons: 1--that he knows me so well and 2--that he supports my love of Gossip Girl. His sister also dropped by with OK! magazine. I guess my love of celebrity gossip really is known by everyone. (If only I was known for my love of James Joyce).

My family has also been here multiple times, giving me an excuse to unleash the crankiness that I typically hide from nurses, doctors and friends. They're family, so they can't really get mad when I scream at them to buy me a very specific brand of popcorn and then get angry when they take an hour to find it.

Genevieve also stopped by to fill my "weird gift" quotient. This time around, she brought me a stuffed flower that said "It's a boy!" and these really weird glasses that can be used as a straw.


Anyway, I'm hoping to be sprung tomorrow. I'm getting so bored and delusional that I actually emailed my boss for work to do from my bed. I was also so anxious for activity that I bit the cultural bullet that is Stephenie Meyer and rented Twilight. (Advice to you all: do not mention to me that you like the movie Twilight. I will fearlessly mock you until you are a shell of the person you once were.)

So if you have anything for me to do/look at/ read, send it my way.

Until then, I'll be here.

Lovingly yours,

Kelly 'The Fungus Is Among Us' Bergin

I'm ALIVE!

I'm BA-ACK!!

You may/may not have heard that my appendix decided to commit suicide and rupture in my precious body.It all started last Monday. I was here at my office on West 22nd st when I started to feel...a bit off. My mind flashed to the day before, which was Mother's Day. "Hmm, what did I eat...what did Kelly eat yesterday?" Many, many things came to mind as I had decided that Mother's Day was my last full day of eating before my crash diet began on Monday. Cold cuts, Peppermint Patties, tuna, Sour Patch kids, old Passover candy I forgot I had bought...the list was long. I tried to stick it out at work for as long as possible, but when I started vomiting in the company restroom, I resigned myself to using a precious sick day. I headed outside where I promptly hailed a cab, hurled in a cab, and was questioned about the possibility of my having swine flu from the driver.

On Tuesday the decision was made to go to the ER. Mother came up to "Spanish Harlem" (or what she calls my Brooklyn enclave. Clearly not Harlem.) and took me to the ER. I had spoken with my doc from NYU. She advised me to head quickly to their famed emergency room. I googled "NYU ER", wrote down the first address that I saw and hightailed it to the east side of Manhattan, clutching a tupperware for puke the whole way.

We pulled up to Bellevue-NYU Hospital. In my drug-addled, dehydrated, hallucinating state, I didn't connect the name Bellevue to the notorious hospital that it was. Big mistake. Once there, I was directed to the pediatrics ER, even as I argued that I was an adult. ("I'm a grown up! A real girl!") But apparently the peds ER is also for "young adults" up to the age of 25. And thank God for that! The scary "adult" ER held all sorts of committed Bellevue prisoners, who were defecating on themselves and slurring at me. After a few hours, I went for a CAT scan down the hall and couldn't help but notice the scan room was right next to the New York City Department of Corrections. They brought a prisoner out and I got so excited. Just like on Law and Order! The prisoner even yelled at me and said "you'll be seeing me on the fucking news tonight." I made a mental note to tune in. He also kept checking out my mom, which made me jealous because I am insane.

To my great dismay, I wasn't able to tune in as it was decided that I indeed had appendicitis. And I spent the next four hours waiting to be taken to surgery. (Apparently gunshots and life-crushing tumors are more important than my suicidal organ.) Right after surgery, I woke up to an extremely high fever and alarms going off. My appendix had actually ruptured and I was in really sick. All I could think was "don't die: you get so many presents in the hospital." This is what I hold on for, people.

After they popped old appy out, I spent the next 6 days in the hospital. I ate Jell-O, accumulated numerous brusies from repeated injections, and learned Bengali from my neighbor (apparently screaming AH-EYYYY! means Get me out of here, I'm dying).

One morning I woke up and a woman in a Saree was staring over my body, attempting to extricate my Blackberry from my cold, dead hands. Now, I didn't really have a TV (It was from circa 1973, and I believe it was the first TV ever created. It also barely worked and you had to pay $5 a day to use it. I love Bellevue.) and my Blackberry was my lifeline. This woman, who I presume was the daughter of my Bangladesh bunkmate, mumbled in incoherently that her phone was broken and she thought she could just "take" mine. Now I'm sorry. But it was the only way I could check Twitter and reasure my tens of followers I was alive. I told her to take a hike and ask the nurse. I would have felt bad, but her mother was a real faker. Crying that much over kidney stones? I've had them. I've seen worse. Grow a pair, Bangla!

Fortunately she was dismissed from the hospital on Saturday, and I was finally allowed to leave on Sunday morning after a week of fevers and way gross stomach stuff. My dad claims that I hallucinated this in my fog of Morphine (I. love. drugs.) but I swear one asked me for a cigarette to sell. I know how things work in prison! I've read the memoirs!

All in all, staying in the hospital pretty much blows. I don't know where I got the romantic idea in my head that it'd be "fun" to stay in the hospital for a few days. It's no Club Med. Sure, I got to miss work. But they woke me up at 6 am anyway to poke at my belly. They also served really questionable food. Their "gourmet" dinner was fake eggplant parm, half cooked noodles, and some green substance that my mother called spinach. I'd have sooner ate one of Bangla's beads (which looked like they were made of pasta. Or her kidney stones.). 

But I had tons of nice visitors who appropriately enough brought gifts. Gen brought a balloon that said "Get Well Grandpa". This entertained her for her visit. And Brenna brought the best gift of all: laughter. When she came in and nearly fainted/threw up at the sight of my needles, I laughed so hard I almost busted my stitches.

As most things are, my hospital stay was a learning experience for me. Here are some things I learned from this latest go around:

1) Do not invite prisoners into your bed, even if they look like a young Montel Williams.
2) Don't mix NyQuil and ExLax.
3) Hospital gowns really do open at the back. Wear your best underwear at all times.
4) Always shower before going to the ER. It may be your last shower for awhile. (My parents can attest to the scent.)
5) Get a Twitter account and make sure everyone knows you're on your deathbed. You will receive a copious amount of gifts.

Thanks to everyone who called/ sent stuff (I especially enjoyed the Pookie books my aunt and uncle sent. Apparently Pookie is a pig, to which I can only say: fitting.)

Till the next time...

BERGIN OUT.