my baseball goiter

i admit it. i used to be just a little flattered when a bum on the street whistled and winked at me. of course, i'm not making excuses for people who like to objectify women, and i also know they don't do it because they think - with any serious rationale - that i have such a look to carry me to the heights of america's next top model, but it does nothing to harm a girl's spirits to hear a stranger audibly and non-derogitorily (yes, that's a word for today) notice something attractive about her. so yes, i really don't mind accepting those recycled compliments tossed out to me and every other girl walking down the street. it makes me laugh. and i like to laugh.

it had been a few days since i'd received those light words. since monday, i'd been holed up in my apartment, recovering from a full 4-wisdom-teeth extraction. by tuesday evening, i had developed a baseball-size goiter on the left-hand side of my face, making my other slightly plump cheek look gaunt in comparison. the doctors had told me that everyone healed in their own time, and i shouldn't panic if i was still swollen two days later.

well, i panicked. and don't roll your eyes - i had good reason!

sleeping on wednesday night was no lullaby dream. i couldn't move from my right side, my neck uncomfortably propped atop two firm pillows, and my left cheek throbbing methodically, musically almost: ICE. me. ICE. me. ICE. me. i woke up several times throughout the night, finally reaching for my alarm at 6:10 a.m. and discovering a cold, wet spot of bloodstained drool on my pillow. lovely. i know.

the bathroom mirror confirmed my suspicions: the swelling hadn't decreased over night, nor had the redness returned to my my now dearly-missed pale shade of white. i looked hideous. and yet work called. and my flight home to mpls called. and then shelly called.

"how are you feeling?" she asked sympathetically.
"good. no, not good. awful, actually. my neck is stiff, my cheek is the size of a whiffle ball and my eye is red and bruising. but i guess, other than that, good."

i had mentioned to jon, poor jon, the day before that 3 days at home eating soft foods and watching mindless tv was not the picnic so many had made it out to be. i grew restless at home. after erin left in the morning, i'd count the hours till katherine came home. and all day long, i'd wait for my phone to ring, just to hear something REAL, something not brought to be my Tyra Banks or Maury Povich or The Brady Bunch. i needed people. lots of people. interaction.

before i realized this, however, i had made sure to lay all the blame on jon during our phone call one evening. did he not care enough to call me more than 3 times a day? wasn't he concerned i might die?! did he even like me as a person?!?!

fortunately, jon is a patient man and has already learned that - though comprised of often even an ounce of truth - much, much of what i saw in my distress has been dramatized for effect (hello, can you blame me? i was watching soap operas all day long!).

i think i heard him exhale slowly when i'd hit the end of my rant and decided i - an extrovert - had been suffering from forced post-op exile. again, thank goodness he really likes me.

so when i told shelly thursday morning that i was good, i meant it. i'd be at work, surrounded by people who had filled in for me, checked up on me, missed me, and had weekend stories yet to share with me.

granted, the way to work was no fun. but i sucked it up and stared at the ground, not wanting to smile apologetically for looking how i did nor wishing to stare anyone in the eye and frighten them so badly i'd appear as the Creepy One in their dreams that night.

i'd made it all the way to the corner of my office's intersection, pleased that on one had run in terror from me or screamed and handed me their children in fear. then deborah, my favorite waitress in the city, stepped out of the diner where i was waiting at the stoplight to cross the street.

more later ...