The End of Funk

It would so often just be the two of us in Sam’s Honda, an early 2000s model with leather seats and two doors and a CD player with Stevie Wonder inside. His greatest hits became the soundtrack to my fall, the Disabled Fall, the Fall I spent in the passenger seat of Sam’s car, listening to “Isn’t She Lovely” and something that starts with “do do do do do dooo”. On the rare nights we’d go out, Colleen, Sam and I would singalong and I’d mix up nearly every word.

I watched the seasons change through the windows I stare out now, the windows in my grandmother’s house, where I have lived this fall with my cousins, the aforementioned Sam and Colleen. We ate dinner every night at the round, ancient kitchen table. My grandma cooked. She cooked a lot, actually, for someone who just turned 77. She says that a good square three meals a day will keep you healthy and maybe make you lose weight too. (It might be true, I lost about 9 pounds of the prednisone weight, which is the size of a large baby.) She bought this house over 40 years ago for $19,000 and damn, was it a good investment! Did you know they almost moved from the Bronx to Levittown instead? I could have been a Long Islander.

I learned that fact this fall, and I learned other things too. I learned a lot about babies and toddlers  when I spent a few days at Katie's, hanging with my favorite people in the world. There I woke up at 7 with Emma hollering at me down the stairs "I'm up, Kelly, come get me!" But other than those early mornings, I stayed up late most nights and slept in until the afternoon. (I recently read that this is the sleeping patterns of geniuses. Which, yeah.) If I was awake by 2:00 for ABC Family’s reruns of Full House, then I was pleased with myself. That’ll have to to change, because this week I go back to work and the real world and all the trivialities of daily life that I have forgotten.

I had no money this fall and I still don’t, so keep those Christmas lists short, family. I kept my apartment in the city but my bed was largely unused. I came into Manhattan for Halloween, to gallop drunkenly around a bonfire and break my 3 Blind Mice cane over my knee. I also came in to make a few bucks off literary superstar Julie, and to see my friends, and to go to doctors and have my armpits mangled. But mostly I stayed at Grandma’s because I have felt warm, and safe, and home here.

I watched the seasons as they changed and I tried to go outside every day. Most days Sammy and I would hit the open road, the glistening pavement of Route 18 leading us to Guitar Center that one time Sam let me jam or Starbucks where once we nabbed a table and took advantage of free Wi-Fi. But our best destination was the public library, the library my grandmother cursed to hell because my grandfather (God rest his soul) once donated $1,000 without her permission. One Friday night, Sam and I happened upon a Jewish Klemzer band, and boy, did that accordion player jam.

It was a good fall, a time warp for me, a respite. So often I feel paranoid, fearful that everyone thinks I'm  being lazy because I'm not working. But this year proved that I needed this time off. It was necessary. I know that it has not healed me, and I'm not sure I am better. But to rest without judgment, to have the advantage of living here--this has fulfilled me.

If you had told me at the start of the year that I’d spend two months living at my grandmother’s house in suburban New Jersey, I wouldn’t have believed you. But the beds are warm here, the linens old and broken in. It felt right to be here, a perfect place to rest and write and work. I got things done, I watched the leaves fall, and this week I will go back to work, ready to close out the year.

(Also, thanks to my parents--and grandma-- for filling in the $$ gaps when the disability checks failed to supplement my rent/lifestyle.)

They're Ba-Ack!

I wake up choking on my spit. My eyes water and my face reddens. I run to the bathroom to gulp water from the faucet and wipe my face in the mirror.

It is 7 am and I have been asleep for just a few hours. The pain kept me awake, as did "The Nanny" marathon on Nick at Nite. (No one cheers me up like Fran and her struggles against the upper echelons of New York society.)

At night, I perfect my dance in the kitchen with Colleen and Sam. But in the mornings I am alone and so painfully awake.

I cough again and swig Orajel mouthwash- antiseptic, bitter, unkind. I take prednisone, even though it makes me crazy and fat. (Which, come to think of it, is not such a departure.)

My mouth has blown up again—sores have moved in, taken residence on my gums, lips, tongue. The crater on the tip of my tongue is offended easily; the passing wind of my breath aggravates it, like 
peroxide on an open wound. 

It hurts to talk, so I only speak when a good joke or insult comes to mind and when someone is about to eat the last of the lo mein. And It hurts to eat, so I only eat popcorn and noodles, where I can place each bite in a non-infected spot. 


But when the night has dried my mouth and the air is particularly offensive against the open wounds, I must look for something to distract me.


I throw my fists into the air. I punch the armchair in this old bedroom in my grandmother’s house. I kick, kick, kick.


And then--I take a deep breath through my nose and think: 

This is not easy.

Life in the 'Burbs

Month two of disability leave finds me in the suburbs for most of the time, as money is tight and the city is filled with shiny alcohol and cheap Forever21 frocks that I just have to buy.

I've been staying with Grandma for awhile, after my parents, in a fit of frustration over my lack of cleaning abilities and my tendency to scream downstairs for more water and Panera bread, suggested I go to Grandma's for a few days. (Typical joking conversation between my father and I: "How did you become so spoiled?" Me: "I AM WHAT YOU MADE ME!).

Life with my cousins at G's house has been nothing short of a vacation. It is a world on a whole other level. I love my parents, but the dinner discussion is more likely to be about grad school and colleges for my brother. At Grandma's, we spend 20 minutes discussing the price dry-cleaning one coat's might be at the dry cleaners. ($15, if you're curious.) Easy stuff. And G doesn't look over my shoulder, counting the amount of questions I got right on a GRE practice test. If I were at home with my mother, I'm sure she'd be quizzing me on what "temerity" means. And I would fail.

A few days vacation turned into a month, so here I stay, studying for the GREs and watching marathon episodes of "The Nanny". It's been productive: my score went up 200 points in each section and I can do a dead-on impression of both Fran Fine AND Mr. Sheffield. I hope to continue to do the Fran one all the time, at paid events and impersonator conferences.

I've also spent a lot of time trying to master the moves in Hanson's new video. I did a trial run of my very loose interpretation of the dance in Grandma's kitchen last night and Colleen laughed so hard she choked on her water.

At least I think she was laughing.

I've loved living with my two younger cousins. Last week, we decided to get a bottle of red wine at the local Browntown shopping center. (I have high blood pressure and WINE HELPS!) I got home with my purchase (ten bucks for 2 liters. CAN YOU BEAT THAT?) and was immediately disappointed to discover that we broke the corkscrew the last time we indulged in vino.

After Googling how to open wine without a corkscrew and trying to open ours with a shoe like some dude on YouTube, little cousin Colleen (also known as Jolly) decided to push the cork all the way down, into the bottle. My lack of knowledge regarding physics did not prepare me for what was about to occur.

Throwing caution to the wind, we took our place on the kitchen table, in the presence of two laptops and my beloved iPhone. Having lost my iPhone to a wine spillage before, I covered it with a napkin just in case. Jolly pushed the cork, as I held the bottle.  Colleen pushed and pushed on the cork until we heard a satisfying pop! of victory. I looked up just in time to get sprayed in the face with pungent cheap red wine.

Jolly lost two of her favorite shirts and my laptop is permanently stained red but we poured ourselves a glass and moved on.

The next morning, I was chatting with Grandma in the kitchen. She was making her usual cup of tea when I looked up at the ceiling and down at the walls. They were absolutely covered in specks of our cheap Yellow Tail wine. Horrified, I attempted to distract G from this sight.

Samantha and I spent the rest of the morning scrubbing our family history off the walls and ceiling.

It took a long time. But even though I was elbow deep in 409, I was immensely grateful for the position I am in. I have been afforded the opportunity to rest and be well.

I haven't been sick every day of this disability leave, but I have used every day to reflect upon the position I've found myself in. Without having to work full-time, I have been graciously allowed to be well and revel in it. It has been a long time since I've had such a stretch of good health. (And by stretch, I mean two weeks). So I have lived in these moments. They have been big and small and sad and happy but altogether, they have been meaningful.

This morning, I woke up with a mouthful of sores and a fever. Instead of wondering why this happened, I decided to just accept it. I am not better but that's okay.

I will accept it, be happy, and move on.

For now, at least- this is a reasonable goal.

Ah, Bloody Hell! (Said in appropriate British Accent)

I shook in terror even before the needle touched my skin.

I cried when the needle numbed the first abscess and again for the remaining two.

I kicked a tray table involuntarily. And I tried to remember: deep breaths.

Those yoga breaths didn’t work.

So I cried and cried through it. Large, grabbing sobs. I wiped my shirt on my hospital gown and silently berated myself for being such a wimp.

Still, I couldn't help it. So the tears and sobs escaped me. Until all three hard, nasty abscesses, located right above my armpit, were sliced and drained. The surgeon applied pressure after her scalpel work was done, and she pushed her hands against my arm so hard that I gasped.

There was a lot of gauze and blood on the floor, and I looked to remember, as I always do. I remember the most jarring of medical experiences; my tenth birthday was spent on a surgeon’s table with my face cut open for the same kind of infection. I cried then too, but I was only a child.

The surgeon apologized afterwards for being “vicious” but she had to get everything. She had to get all the MRSA, the infection that has caused so many problems this year. The infection that lives inside my body.

I choked out “It’s okay.” It's not her fault.

I rarely cry. I have an extremely high pain tolerance. I mock people who faint when they get their blood drawn, even though that’s mean. I am trying to get better at realizing that pain is relative (BULL!), but I don’t even feel it when I go for my monthly blood test.

I failed at being strong this time and I failed last time, too. And it pissed me off.

I signed discharge papers and heard a 30 year old woman WAILING because her blood was being drawn. I listened to a girl my age gripe about going for a chest X-ray. 

"Piece of cake", I said, once I reached the hallway. She just ignored me. But I couldn't ignore her and her bronchitis. It seemed simple. Pretty-faced, clean clothes, no hospital gown soaked with snot and blood and tears.

The nurse helped me put on my sweatshirt and I put on my headphones and ducked outside. Inwardly, I wailed just like the grown woman inside, afraid of needles.

I left the emergency room into a New York City storm that soaked me until my mother pulled up with her car. Hail pelted the car as we drove down the turnpike.

And I cried.

I feel split open,

and I suppose today I was.
For the second time in a month,
I was split open.

A Disability Leave Update

I have been on disability leave for well over a month now. (NO WORK! SCHOOL'S OUT FOR THE SUMMER!)

In that time, I spent one day in the emergency room getting an abscess underneath my armpit drained. I was in a wedding. I went to Atlantic City. I spent time in the city and then, tired and out of breath (and money), I left the city for my parents' house, where I was given Gatorade and pretzels on command. It was nice, and it was fun for awhile. Life with Ozzie and Harriet got boring though, and I craved the company of peers, so I headed to my grandmother's. She's not exactly a peer (Sorry, G.) but my two cousins, Colleen and Samantha, live there. And we are close in age and have been raised (sometimes like a pack of wolves) pretty much together, so I spent five days there. I studied for the GRE and wrote. I even went to the Rutgers Library, where I realized that I am old and college boys are loud. And hot.



And then I returned to the city, for more doctor's appointments to devise Kill Lupus, Kill! treatment plans. I was prescribed new medicines and a flu shot and then I spent two days puking and feverishly moaning on the couch, clutching my left arm (now infected) to my side while watching marathon of classic episodes of The Nanny. I went out briefly in Brooklyn on Friday, for Ross' birthday, but Gen punched me in the wrong arm so I went home and took painkillers. On Saturday I went back to New Jersey, to see Katie, Allie and Emma. Aren't they cute?

Now I am back in my parent's house, in my sister's bedroom. Today I will be back in the ER.

This will have come full circle.


I have rested much of this past 40 days, but to what relief? None. There were bright, shiny days when I felt I could do what I wanted. These were days I cherished, perhaps in ways that healthy people do not. I did what I wanted while I was well, but I have spent much of this month with the shades drawn and my laptop humming beside me on the bed.


I am supposed to use this time to get well, or at least better myself in some way. Despite my lack of physical relief, I know I have. I feel stronger mentally and emotionally than I have in the past 2.5 years. I feel loose on my feet, and even though steroids have made my face fat, I think I might be. I did a jig in Grandma's kitchen last week, and I thought it was pretty damn good.

It annoys me that my life is so cyclical--sick, okay (for a week or so), and then sick again. I haven't turned a corner because I have been jogging in place. I have no progress to show and no idea when I will be ready to work again.

But I can at least rest knowing that I'm using this time for some good. Later today will be brutal, gruesome, bloody and unpleasant, but at least I have a better grip on it than I did a month ago.


This time has not been fruitless, after all.

(Thanks, as always, for the emails, Twitter @'s, messages, care packages, and kind words. I appreciate it all.)

Who Let Me Have A License, Anyway?

In order to break up the monotony of sleeping, napping, and overdosing on Xanax, I decided it would be in my best interests to join my friends for One Night In Atlantic City for Declan's birthday. The whole gang took the bus down, but since I was in New Jersey being disabled, I drove down.

We stayed at the Tropicana and I ended up having the typical AC experience: I lost money, dignity, Ross' T-shirt, and got kicked out of a nightclub for taking off my shoes and trying to lay down. (I AM NOT MEANT TO WEAR HEELS. I still can't bend one of my toes and my calves are in constant spasm.)

After a long night out (for everyone else...I was asleep by 1:38, according to my last ill-advised text message), we woke up early because checkout was at the ungodly hour of eleven AM.


Bleary-eyed and beyond exhausted from this change of pace, I got my car from the valet (I don't know how to park) and set about driving home alone.


But first, I needed McDonald's. Because, you know, I was hungover. And a Happy Meal cures that.


OR SO I THOUGHT.


I pulled up to the window and ordered the usual: Big Kids Meal with Orange Hi-C and a side of ranch dressing. I paid and received my order. Looking into the bag, I realized that they gave me a fucking BOYS toy and not a girls! Um, I may not have the most feminine of voices, BUT I AM A FEMALE ADULT BABY WHO DESERVES A GIRL TOY.


Overcome with anger, I hit the gas pedal without paying attention to any signs and ended up driving down the wrong way of a one-way street.


"FUCK!!" I screamed and jerked the car in a retarded U-Turn, while simultaneously trying to shove a fry into the ranch dressing and then into my mouth. Because what's more important? Not killing others with my likely elevated BAL and idiocy. Clearly, it's French fries!


I got in the right direction and set about opening my McNuggets while the light turned green and fellow road rage sufferers beeped at me. Startled, I jammed my foot onto the gas pedal and turned onto Atlantic Ave, on the hunt for the Atlantic City expressway. But I was still distracted, so I missed my turn (again) and ended up on some shady street, the name of which I never saw in a game of Monopoly. I pulled over to regain my composure and to open my McNuggets and STUPID action figure (I wanted to make it dance to Rihanna). I checked Google maps, looked at myself in the mirror and said "You can do this."


I got onto the expressway and was cruising at 80 when suddenly, I was cut off. I panicked and swerved into the next lane, mid-fry dip. In the wake of my speedy turn, my beloved Ranch dressing was expelled from its container and drenched me, my awesome denim shirt, and the steering wheel.


"MOTHER OF ALL HELL, YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME." Still driving at dangerous speeds, I attempted to clean myself off while steering the car and flipping the bird at the Granny who cut me off.


Finally, I hit the Parkway at the exact moment my hangover decided to really kick in. Forty minutes of bumper to bumper traffic later, I pulled off at the Forked River rest stop and slumped over the steering wheel, near tears and cursing the beers I drank the night before.


Then, the nausea hit. So I ran into the rest stop, flecks of fries falling out of my lap and onto the dirty asphalt.The freaks at the stop (attracted by that machine that turns pennies into NJ landmarks and reading glasses, obviously) stared at me and my dressing-filled hair as I flew into the ladies room and puked in the first stall.


I came out of the stall, to the judgmental looks of the populace, splashed some water on my face and went to Sbarro. I bought myself a breadstick and some dipping sauce and got back into the car.


An hour later, I was home. I spent the rest of the day laying in bed and singing the song I made up in the car. Entitled "Blame Ronald", lyrics include "Kill yourself, Kelly/but kill Ronald McDonald first/When that is done/Shoot yourself in the face with a gun". (Note: I may have self-esteem issues.)


Lessons from this hellacious experience? Don't drive if you might be still drunk and/or mentally unstable. Signs of this may include--dancing with your Happy Meal toy, cackling with laughter at a sign that said 'poop' instead of 'pop', calling a breadstick a "crust thing" to the cashier, and using said "crust thing" to wipe the dipping sauce off your face while half-alive at a rest stop in Southern New Jersey.

And also, don't drive when your main focus in life is trying to dip a fry into a ranch dressing packet.

And also:

NEVER GO TO ATLANTIC CITY.

Life on Disability Leave

This, ladies and gentlemen, is Kelly Bergin on disability leave.

Not sleeping. Watching 50 hours of Six Feet Under in one week. Eating only sourdough pretzels and Gatorade. Listening to all the songs listed on Entertainment Weekly's 50 Most Depressing Songs. Developing a harrowing addiction to Xanax. Rereading Babysitter Club books to remind you of a simpler time. Being forced to shower by Mother.

It's not pretty.

Can you tell I majored in English?