Bleach Mode
Last post of the decade! WooOoOOOoooO!
Nope. That's not what this is gonna be. Life didn't really get better, it just got different. The last two entries here were super depressing so hopefully some kind of a yearly wrap up will bring out the better instances of 2019 instead of the two that really destroyed me.
In 2019, I only had to go to immigration one time. One. Time. Last year I think I had to go eight or nine times to the decrepit little office on the outskirts of Brno where the clientele mostly looks like the third class cabin from the Titanic. Lots of phrase books, interpreters, people getting handcuffed, some people who just said "fuck it" and went down with the bureaucratic ship. After solidifying my position with IBM, I got to drop off my contract with a shit-eating grin and not care so much that I was getting yelled at in Czech. Again.
Getting yelled at in loud Czech is a common facet of an immigration office visit. Most employees there can actually speak English, but they won't. Passively armed with the pseudo-Czech I know, I was able to slide my IBM contract under the glass and give a woman who has zero time for me a quick smile. Pieces of paper were stamped and I signed where I was pointed to sign and I left. Twenty minutes, in and out, and I'm good for another two years. Usually this process takes a lot longer.
I'm not going to say my position at IBM is easy. The job itself is actually quite simple, but the communication with my team and other technical teams based around the EU can be challenging. I spend my time double, sometimes triple checking the phrasing of emails or the instructions on a task just to make sure the air quality of my snark is perfectly clear. A lot of my time is spent in Excel or IMing other folks on my team because we all have our headphones in but refuse to have a real conversation with the person sitting across from us. I really can't complain. I have good relationships with my superiors and I've only been late once in the last 11 months. I'm a 10 minute bus ride from the office and I can work from home two days a week if everything isn't really crazy, but January 2020 is going to be really crazy.
I also got to visit Seattle and Tucson in November like I did last year. I'm the only one on my team not taking any vacation during Christmas so instead I took two weeks during my birthday and Thanksgiving to go home. This trip was fraught with travel-inducing headaches but I was able to schedule time with the people I wanted to see and I got to headline my first club back home. I think when I come home next year I'm going to try to record my first album, but that's gonna depend on how much stage time I can get in Bratislava or Olomouc or wherever I end up performing beforehand. I have the material, but like last year, I was spending a fair amount of time on stage figuring out what jokes actually worked in Bratislava but not Portland, OR. I have a new closer in the US, but not in Brno unless I want to waste time explaining who the Zodiac Killer is (or isn't.)
In Tucson I spent time with my dad, step-mom, and uncle for some nuclear family time. My uncle gave me my favorite gift and it came with an unknown story. Before getting a job building Boeing planes during WWII, my grandfather practiced his machinery skills with small projects. He made a silver ring in an Art Deco style that my uncle has had for a number of years, and at Thanksgiving he passed it on to me. I haven't taken it off since I got it. In a way it's incredibly reflective of my grandfather's personality: simple, nothing flashy, but purposeful.
When I returned home to Brno, I came home to Gossamer, a cat I adopted in May after Patrick died. Gossamer's very different but equally cheerful and entertaining. His name was initially "Ragy," translating to "rags" in Czech. I sat around with him for a day before deciding on Gossamer, the delicately named big red hairy monster from Looney Tunes. He's a younger cat, definitely in his terrible twos. He's got a lot of energy but he has calmed down to snuggle since the weather got colder.
The woman who fostered him got him fixed and cleaned up and medicated after he had been on the street for an undetermined amount of time. When he was found at my neighborhood Tesco, he looked like he had just gotten sober so I knew we'd get along. She thinks he's a flame-point ragdoll because of his markings and serious floof and size. It's hard to imagine such a cat to be alone on the street. I'll never know his full story, but some people I've talked to actually don't think he was homeless and that perhaps he was abandoned, or a family moved and didn't take him. It makes me really sad to think about, but I'm happy I can give him a good life and all the little crinkled up paper he can handle.
Right now I'm writing this and Gossamer is playing with his new favorite toy, a condensed ball of his own hair. He's a little crosseyed and it makes me chuckle. He can't not look like that. Sometimes I ask him if he's a nerd and he has to look at me with his goofy expression. He's an amazing cat, a good companion. He likes stealing my glasses off of my face, headbutting me, and waiting outside my shower to get little drinks out of my drain.
One thing I'm going to try to do more in 2020 is travel because I'm a white woman in her 30s. It probably sounds ridiculous for a person living in Europe to say that, but it's true. Most of the travel I did this year was mostly little 18-24 hour trips for comedy, there and back in one night. These were mostly jaunts to Poland, and while I love Poland, I was technically at these places for work and wasn't taking the time really needing to relax or experience anything culturally significant. So I put down some money, something I hardly do because I'm...what's a good way to say this, thrifty as fuck, and I bought at ticket to Pearl Jam and the Pixies in Italy next summer.
After doing some research, it turned out the show at the Ferrari autodrome was the cheapest option because all of the tickets are general admission. The shows in Vienna, Budapest, even Krakow were more expensive and they didn't give me the option of exploring uncharted territory, so off to Bologna I'll go next July. I'm happy because I'll be doing some traveling just for me. Not for stand up or holiday obligations, but just for me. The concert is on a Sunday night so I'm debating about taking the whole week off and doing some exploring in the Balkans or something. I dunno, I have six months to figure it out but that doesn't mean I can't start the incessant, impulsive planning meant for late spring.
Now that I have some decent job security, I've been able to be more flexible with my appearance. I spent half the year platinum blonde and half the year bright pink. I got my hand tattooed and I put my septum piercing back in. I'm basically the person 23-year-old Liz wanted to be. I honestly don't notice myself looking that alternative except for when older Czech people stare me down with the same eyes that have witnessed multiple political revolutions. My look definitely isn't conducive to the semi-conservative atmosphere in Brno. In Prague or Vienna, I'm more anonymous, part of a seamless crowd. Now if I see people staring at me, I stare back at them because I'm no longer a shy, language-less foreigner.
So here's the official nonsense count for 2019:
Three notebooks/jokebooks
Six pairs of headphones
Two vaporizers
Three hair colors
Two bouts of serious depression
Six flights
One break from Facebook
Seven countries visited
Two new medications
Eight phone chargers
Five vet visits
Three books read
One minor heartbreak
Two refrigerators
Two new flavors of Skittles
One political demonstration
Zero hospital visits
Pretty good overall. The 2020 election will most likely decide where I'll be spending my time in 2021. But if I have to stay here, it's not the worst thing in the world. I'd actually prefer that. In terms of "resolutions," which aren't really resolutions but a romanticized list of things I'd like to accomplish once I get my shit together, there's only a few:
Write poetry more regularly
Pay more attention to gut instincts
Take some kind of Czech language course that isn't just Slavic memes
Continue good control of my blood sugar and a1C (6.3!)
This isn't too crazy of a list. I think I'm intentionally setting the bar low knowing I'm in a funk right now and I've yet to come completely out of it. I have the whole year to work on it once we stop hibernating.
You can't fight in here! This is the War Room!
[Spongebob narrator]:
Ahh, the first post of 2019.
I'm a week in to my new job at IBM and OH HOTDOG is it different in a lot of good ways. I haven't had an actual committed schedule since October and once again I've turned into that semi-responsible person who cooks their lunch the evening before. Sunday evening food prep has reminded me I can't cook at all. I mean I can. But it's a real grab bag of "frugal fusion" since I'm not getting paid until next month. I've been freelancing on the side to help pay for my morning muffins, but I'm happy to be in an environment that isn't up my ass as soon as I walk into work.
To be blunt, working for AT&T was a fucking nightmare, a just a huge fiery butthole of furious idiots who faxed us copies of gift cards as a presumed form of payment, ran over their dropped telephone line with a lawn mower, or fought with their sister-wife about if Big O Tires offered a cheaper tire rotation than Les Schwab. I originally got hired to become a manager, but I was moved onto a team which was led by a woman who turned out to be vehemently anti-American. I've encountered some misogyny in the workplace, but never before from a woman. Our small team consisted of some folks from India, Scotland, Bosnia, Australia, and Azerbaijan. It was mandatory to speak English at all times, even if it wasn't your native language and I was one of three native speakers on my team. My manager would often coo and blubber over the two Scottish guys, who were polite and soft-spoken on the phone.
I was the only American who was actually speaking with other Americans, and as a result, I was often told by customers south of the Mason-Dixon that they were so happy to talk to an American, or "someone they could understand," or "someone on shore." I had the easiest time of anyone doing tech support because I was helping people I understood and they understood me. There was even a number of agents we could transfer the customers to if they wanted to speak to someone between Canada and Mexico. One of the education modules I had to complete early on was about the NFL and college football because half the calls we received between September and January were about bowl games and schedules which hasn't exactly branched out into the European mainland. But this ease wasn't pleasing anyone. With the full use of my vocabulary, idioms, and nuances unknown to the ESL student, I could express empathy and connect with people more so than any other agent in that call center. I was getting paid more because of it and at some point, I believe I became a threat to those around me, especially my Egyptian manager.
It eventually got to the point where I would be at work for less than two minutes and was already being berated by this woman. She couldn't not say anything condescending or insulting to me. It was always something about having my bag under my desk (for easy access to food and insulin) or about not adhering to the strict schedule by 30 seconds. Then it was becoming obvious to the rest of my team this woman had somewhat of a vendetta against me. I was the best person on my team so why was I being singled out? She would pull me off the phone because she "didn't even want me on the phone right now." The last time I interacted with her she took me off the phone unannounced and yelled at me for an hour and 20 minutes. She came with such hits as
"How did you even get this job?", "I see no evidence that you've done this job before",
and the crowd favorite, "Do you even know what you're doing?"
Instead of offering me ways to improve the already satisfactory calls I was receiving, she insulted my intelligence. I don't even think I answered those questions. I just nodded and shrugged, the only war cry I had left that wasn't NSFW.
What are we going to do, Liz? "
I'll tell you what I'd like to do...
I caved at that point and took a 45 minute break instead of my mandatory 15. I went outside to smoke and text my mom about the situation. I was incredibly close to walking out of the job I had fought so hard for. For the eight months before this, I had been tied up with immigration, translators, bureaucratic meetings, notaries, certified stamps, seals, and approvals trying to get this job. I was already sick and I'm guessing the stress of this made me sicker and when I came back to work from being ill, I was immediately fired on the day before my 10-day paid vacation started. My hair was falling out. I was incredibly depressed. Most of the information I had been told about the job for the last eight months had been a lie. I was given false information numerous times, information I had to confirm with four or five different sources before I landed on the right answer for questions I didn't think I'd be having to ask. This sudden firing also made me have to delay my trip to Seattle, pay British Airways more money, and once again rely on my parents for help. When I asked why I was getting fired, they answered with "legally, we don't have to tell you." Oh cool, doubling-down with the word "legally." I grabbed my shit from my desk and was escorted out of the building. On the way down to the lobby, I told the HR representative that AT&T was discovered to have donated money to white supremacist political campaigns in the United States, and it probably would be a good idea to have an actual American on staff to handle those complaints instead of some people who think the entirety of our country is Texas.
One week later, I interviewed at IBM with a group of four women, three of whom I'm working with directly. The bureaucratic immigration process took roughly eight weeks instead of the usual 20, and even with a small delay, I was able to start on time, get dependable information, and adapt to their much more professional environment. To put it this way, IBM is more of a democracy and less of a regime.
The more and more information I found out about the job, the more relaxed I became. For the last week I've been busy but I haven't been stressed out. I'm at work by 8am and home by 5pm. It's still light out upon my departure and my return. I'm not tethered to a phone so now if I want to get some coffee or some water or go to the bathroom, I don't have to send out a literal signal to all of the managers to let them know where I am for the next two minutes. It's quiet. No one talks to me. Most of the time everyone leaves me alone. At one point one of my managers told me she was worried I'd think the job was boring because I'd be "doing the same thing a lot." I would much rather do the same thing day in and day out with all of the possible repetitive motions than have someone standing over me while I'm trying to tell someone else the reason they can't watch TV right this minute is because there's a Category 4 hurricane barreling towards their quiet little beach community.
But most importantly, I'm happy that I'm learning. I'm doing data security, and without going into all of it, I'm making sure the correct people have the correct access to the correct things. Most of this last week has been spent reading PDFs, doing educational modules designed for the company, and quickly learning an atrocious amount of acronyms. There's no life or death situation and the work is fairly straightforward once understood and experienced. Yesterday was the first day I did any actual work and I got excited because I was finally contributing to the cause of keeping information safe! Or something. This job can take me places. I feel like I'm learning and by the end of the day, I feel accomplished. You can only restart someone's modem remotely so many times before you want to blow your brains out. What I'm doing now is current, freeing, and relevant. They're excited to have me on the team and I'm getting the impression I'm doing well for someone who is only five days into the job. I could tell it would be different solely by the on-boarding process they took me through prior to my first day. It was precise and clean with no room for error. Their HR speaks English incredibly well so if there were any complex questions or concerns, they were answered with clear confidence.
I have 23 days of vacation this year including some national holidays thrown in. I'm more giddy than I usually would be about this because my mom just retired. My happy beautiful mom had her birthday last week and retired the following day. She's worked so fucking hard (sorry, mom) for me, herself, her family, her friends, her former president, the amazing women in her life, and for the causes she believes in. Her last day at her job was my first day at IBM, like she tagged me in to take over so I can take care of her. What this means is more opportunities to travel in the future. I'm not chained to a specific timeframe and neither is my mom. She's looking forward to going to New Orleans with Max and there may be a summer trip to Mallorca taking shape. AT&T had such a hold on me where I had to bail out of so many things and let go of opportunities I wasn't sure I'd ever have again. I lost $450 on accommodation for Edinburgh Fringe and I could never make travel plans due to imprecise information. But now that it's the beginning of 2019, I can fuck around with the dates that are free to me and it'll make my family more flexible in the long run for our plans. I also like Facetiming my mom on a weekday where she's up making coffee and I'm home from work with a snuggly kitty who I whine at if he whines at me.
I'm also trying to be more careful with my money. 25-year-old Liz would have gotten money for Christmas and then immediately booked three tattoo appointments after buying a flat of Coors Light. 31-year-old Liz went to the Czech dentist to get fillings in her teeth replaced because the last dentist she saw before she left the country did a real shit job. Actually, it's because of this heinous contraption that my dental health was compromised:
This is a Herbst appliance, which I'm assuming was named after a German guy named Herbst. This car engine of an orthodontic apparatus adjusts your jaw to replace the need for elongated headgear use or potential surgery. It seemed like a good idea. It sounded like a good idea. But while my jaw slowly shifted into place over 18 months, my dental health was completely destroyed. No matter how diligent I was with a toothbrush, floss, toothpicks, those rubber pokey nibs on the end of toothbrushes, or mouthwash, there was no way to get that actual good clean feeling Orbit always talked about (no matter what). It was like having two pistons on both sides of my mouth, digging into my cheeks and chugging along as I spoke. A few days after getting it "installed," I went to a friend's house for dinner and ended up crying out of embarrassment because I couldn't chew anything . I wanted to be polite and finish what was in front of me but there was this shiny metal shame protruding from every breath, bite, or word.
When I got the thing out, it was a miracle.
I could yawn and not have it get jammed open like a stupid baby bird! I could chew gum! I could brush not the best but better!
After the entire ordeal, my teeth were straight and white just in time for high school. I was no longer an awkward gawky kid trying to be cool while also trying to find out who I really am. But shortly after this I discovered that having the equivalent of a pawnshop renting out my mouth weirdly created some permanent damage for my now structurally compromised teeth. I have severe cavities in the four points where the Herbst appliance connected to my teeth. Had I known this was going to cost me thousands of dollars in dental work in the future, I would have foregone the process of slightly moving my jaw. The dentist I saw prior to leaving Seattle did a shit job and I think I still owe them money but now they're in the same category where I placed my student loans: if I'm not home, I'm not paying for it.
I imagined the Czech dentist to be like a scene from the Saws or Hostel. Deep underground in a putrid stoney cavern, a man with blood for sweat and a metal ribcage would saw my jaw out of my head while I screamed and you wasted $14 seeing a shitty movie. But instead it was...calming. The practice I went to was owned and ran by two Czech twin sisters who get a fair amount of business from expats since they both speak very good English. Initially when I walked in, I thought I had the wrong place. Their reception area was shabby chic and for sure belonged on a Pinterest board somewhere in the Bible Belt. The floors were a gray wood and the furniture was clean, white, unassuming flatpack. They even had a chrome espresso machine on top of a bureau in case the mood struck while you were waiting to get your teeth cleaned?
The equipment, technology, and bad music was the same as every other dentist office I had been in. The procedure of getting numbed the fuck up and then drilled into was no longer a foreign or scary concept to me; as a tattooed diabetic person, I don't exactly fear needles. The cost is also roughly the same IF you had insurance in the United States. This wasn't covered under my state health insurance here, but it was still less expensive than what it would have cost at home with no coverage. A week later, I can feel my upper lip and I can drink hot and cold liquids without flinching my entire face. My next goal is to get my eyes checked because my prescription has drastically changed since I've been here. I started wearing my glasses more often but when I came into IBM on my first day as a platinum blonde with Gryffindor glasses, I needed to reintroduce myself to a few people.
It's about 9:30pm here. Tom Brady is a good football player but holy shit is that guy super boring. What a lame Super Bowl. I can't stay awake for a lot of the primetime television events due to the time change, so I skipped out on the Super Bowl and the State of the Soviet Union address or whatever people are calling Trump's rambling babbles now. The days (err, nights) of staying up until the wee hours of the morning are over. But I'm going to bed early and I'm not stressed so I'll take it. I'll make my weirdo food concoctions of something spicy with protein, vegetables, and a sauce made up of three other sauces. I'll drink my tea with too much honey in it, and I'll snuggle with my cat whose newly discovered affinity for wet food has made him so much more annoying but in the best way.
Czech Healthcare Adventure! Part IV
"The flu hit late that year" will officially be my "the sea was angry that day, my friends."
I honestly thought the bacterial infection I had would have been the end of my health issues for the month, maybe even for the year. I was a hopeful adult child staring up into the cosmos over Brno after I should have been in bed hours before. This wasn't the "what am I going to do with my career" gazing that some of us do. I didn't want to become an astronaut or a president or a truck driver like I actually wanted to be at one point. I just wanted to be healthy. I'm not going to say the universe had other plans for me because the universe isn't capable of designing paths for people. But I did have a string of health-related events I'm hoping ends with the norovirus.
Ah yes, the norovirus: amphetamine for bowels and gasoline for the highest of fevers. The antibiotics I took to clear the bacterial infection wasn't effective against the dormant virus and the contagion reared its pestilent head right after I crawled into bed last Friday. My body clamped up like a fleshy vice. I was freezing under my blankets but knew it was impossible due to the summer temperatures that have descended upon Brno and most of Europe. My spine and thighs were fraught a seething tension that only let up if I squeezed myself into the smallest of fetal positions, like a sore muscle engulfing my entire anatomy. I hadn't felt this sick since 2007 when my college boyfriend and I were horrendously ill. We slept in separate rooms to try to avoid spreading the collegiate-bound plague to each other, but it was only a matter of time before widespread damage was felt from the bedroom to the dining room floor where I was sleeping temporarily.
I called my mom via FaceTime from within my FEMA blanket shelter. I told her something wasn't right, even though my blood sugars had been back to normal for over a week. This was something else, an ugly side of science reserved for medical experiments during the thick of wartime and that sticky ambiguous film covering plastic toys for children under 5. She convinced me to seek help like I had two weeks before and I dialed 112 in hopes of a better result.
Me: Mluvis anglicky?
Operator: Yes, do you need help?
Me: Yes, I need to see a doctor.
Operator: What is wrong with you?
Me: I have a high fever and I can't untwist my body.
I realized "untwist" was probably one of the last remaining vocabulary words a Czech bilingual speaker has yet to learn in English, but I continued.
Me: I'm very sore in my back and legs.
Operator: And where do you live?
I gave the woman my address and she spoke some Czech to a colleague just out of earshot. She returned to the phone with what seemed like good news.
Operator: We will send you a doctor.
Me: You are sending me a doctor, or do I need to go to the hospital?
Operator: We will send you a doctor. Thank you goodbye.
She hung up and I had zero idea what to expect. Who was going to show up at my house at 4am on a Saturday morning? Dr. Who? At first I thought it might have been one of those doctors with the reflective plate on their head and a stethoscope around their neck regardless of whether or not the situation required its use. Can an IV fit in one of those vintage leather doctor bags? Do they even still make those? I had a lot of questions which were soon met with disappointing answers.
My doorbell rang. Like an old Czech babicka, I hobbled down the stairs draped in the blanket that's the exact same color of my favorite dog. I opened my door to two gruff EMTs wearing bright orange protective gear and a mullet that was a little late to the party. I greeted them with my typical salutation I've been using for the past six months.
Me: English?
Them: Ne. Ceske?
Me: Ne.
So we didn't speak the other's respective language. We stared at each other while the birds chirped and greeted the day with a better sounding conversation. They spoke in Czech and then said to me, "Come. Insurance card. Passport." Okay, so it's not a totally lost cause. Usually when Czech people say they don't speak English, they understand some to an extent, or they only know certain important words, sort of like how I speak Czech. I went inside still wearing my blanket and got my bag, cell phone charger, Kindle, and any medication. I said goodbye to Patrick and told him I loved him before I locked my door.
The EMTs motioned for me to get in back of a bright green and orange ambulance. Once I was inside on a stretcher, they attempted to remove the best blanket in the entire world. My fever was keeping my bones tight and close to my body, so any release of appendages was hurting pretty much everywhere. I pulled up the hood on my hoodie and crossed my arms. The EMT with the mullet sat down next to me and yanked my arm out straight. He could see me shaking from being cold but mistook it for being scared. With my arm in one of his hands, he used the other to press lightly in the air like to tell someone to take it easy. I told him "zima," Czech for "cold" and "winter." He nodded at my poor pronunciation. "Take off," he said pointing to my hoodie.
I realized I didn't put on a bra before leaving the house. I had thought about it but it would have required more angular movements than I wanted to commit to. So I sat there with no blanket or hoodie literally freezing my tits off in a wife beater, my chosen attire for time spent at home. The mullet grabbed both of my arms and held them out straight in front of me. He was being more forceful than he needed to be. You'd think EMTs would show some finesse given their profession but this felt more like I was an action figure, simply being moved into whatever position they see fit. The guy started hitting both of my wrists, which hurt a lot considering my bones were already in pain. Each impact was like a shock to my skeleton and the norovirus was amplifying every sensation I was feeling physically. The EMT showed me a needle so that I knew he was going to draw blood. I'm a diabetic person with tattoos so I don't exactly have an aversion to needles, but this was different. Because of my fever, my veins weren't showing up at all, which lead to multiple attempts at finding them intravenously. He spoke to his buddy about what I assumed was his lack of luck. Eventually they found a vein in my right arm and he gave me back my hoodie to cover up.
As soon as I draped myself and recoiled my limbs back in like a dying spider, the EMT pushed me back on the stretcher and took the hoodie he had just returned to me. With no warning, he yanked up my shirt and listened to my breathing. I couldn't even look at myself. I found other points in the ambulance to look at. Eventually he started pushing on my stomach and asking "yes" or "no," but I didn't know what kind of answer he was looking for. "Yes, it feels fine." "Yes, that hurts." I relied on facial expressions without making eye contact to convey the pain. I was sensitive to pressure since my stomach and bowels had become completely unreliable. Have you ever had a cat knead your stomach only to feel like you're going to totally shit yourself if you don't stop him right that minute?
The EMT recorded his results while I rolled over and pulled my shirt back down. I started crying. I'm incredibly tough with physical pain, but this was more than I could bear, especially with a fever. I was embarrassed and exposed. I didn't know these people and they weren't overly concerned with my general comfort inside this mobile ER. I just wanted to feel better but getting to that point seemed like a challenge. I want to communicate effectively, but how? I suppose it was my own fault for not learning enough Czech sooner, but even in the medical world, there are certain words in English that don't exist in Czech. I felt stuck and now I was actually scared.
Mullet strapped me in the stretcher and told me "Hospital." Most of my responses at this point were either nodding or simply "thank you." The ride to Bohunice, the biggest hospital in Brno, only took 15 minutes. It was hard to tell where I was going since I was on an actual road and not a tramline for once. On arrival, they wheeled me down and into a completely empty ER. It was dark and poorly lit but all of the technology seemed up to date and identifiable. The EMT unbuckled me from the stretcher and told me to sit in a chair for a nurse. Finding someone who spoke even the littlest amount of English proved difficult, but I soon saw a nurse to whom I could speak in just words and not complete sentences. I handed her my passport, insurance card, and the paperwork I had with me from my last ER visit two weeks before. It was in Czech and possibly provided some answers as to why I was in the condition that I was, but in a more detailed fashion.
The nurse took my vital signs and told me initially I didn't have a fever. I was skeptical since on the surface I was burning up but inside I was freezing like the frigid hipster I am. The nurse yanked out my arm to draw more blood. She wrapped a rubber band around my bicep and knocked on my elbow ditch as if she was expecting someone to answer. When she inserted the needle, the pain got to me and I tried to retract but she looked me dead in the face and yelled "NO." Ah, okay. Sorry. It's not like I was trying to be difficult or to fuck up the end of her night shift. But that shit legitimately hurt.
She then hooked me up to an IV and I tried with all of my stupid might to not flinch or move. I started crying again because I just wanted this to be over and I wanted some answers as to what the fuck was going on. I figured it was some kind of flu but wasn't aware of how severe. I kept my parents in the loop. My dad was in the hospital at the time as well with his own issues so we sent IV selfies to each other. After an hour, my bag had emptied and the nurse came out with my results. By this time I wasn't as shaky as I was and felt more like my temperature had returned to its rightful baseline. I definitely had a flu but my only instructions upon exit were to take ibuprofen to keep my fever down and drink lots of water to remedy the literal shit storm brewing within. She said it was good I wasn't vomiting, so I had that going for me!... She also urged me to have a friend come pick me up to take me home. I don't have a lot of friends here, and the friends I do have are carless or would straight up tell me to go fuck myself if I asked them for a ride home from the hospital at 8am on a Saturday morning.
I paid the 90 crown ($4) fee for my discharge and plodded around the hospital wearing my blanket cape and smudgy glasses. Through a maze of linoleum and indecipherable signage, I followed my blip on Google Maps to try to find my way to the bus stop. The complex at Bohunice has many floors and many of the floors look exactly the same. It was quiet, like a medical ghost town since no one was working on Saturday morning. I followed signs to what I thought were exits but then they turned out to be offices. I pushed my glasses up my nose and tried to keep the sweatpants I bought for rehab above the edges of my slippers that I also bought for rehab. I didn't look my best.
I plopped down at the bus stop and realized I barely had any food at home, so before going home, I stopped at the grocery store up the street. Lots of Czech women do their grocery shopping first thing in the morning and somehow they all found the time to do their hair and make up beforehand. Enter the haggard fleece-draped biohazard who bought soy milk and crackers. I returned home to drink as much water as I felt comfortable and hung out with my kitty. Six days later I'm still tired and groggy but the wretched fever I had has been exorcised. I got three decent sized bruises as free souvenirs and my bowels are mostly subdued and no longer having sudden and lengthy surprise parties.
I just want to be healthy. That's all I want. I mean I want everyone to be healthy and operating at full capacity, but I just want to be my best self and it's hard when your body won't let you do that. I don't know where I got the norovirus from. It could have been anywhere in Wroclaw and Vienna or somewhere in between. I missed the burning witches festivals and the 1st of May holiday in the Czech Republic where you're supposed to kiss the person you love under a cherry tree, but there's always next year. I'm going to roll over and kiss my cat instead.
Czech Healthcare Adventure! Part II
I've been on a real Bob Ross kick lately. My mom used to watch it when I was a baby and my grandfather painted along to his happy little creeks and cabins with roofs full of snow in his old age. There's a Twitch stream that plays all of the episodes, even the ones where Bob's son and his glorious mullet do a guest spot. I go to sleep at night listening to Bob describe a squirrel he rescued and named Peapod and his soothing ramblings about combining colors, techniques, and tales Florida and Alaska. It's very zen, something I've sought after for much of my life.
YES, YES THEY ARE.
Today I went to my first "diabetologie" appointment. The Czechs are specific when it comes to medical care, meaning that instead of seeing an endocrinologist like I would in the US to treat Type 1, I see someone who specializes in only diabetes and not other endocrine disorders. It was a relief knowing I wouldn't have to explain my disease to a professional who may not know all of the ins and outs of dosages, regimens, numbers, and time tables. Unfortunately, this has happened before. It's like if you woke up during open heart surgery and told the doctor "here why don't you let me take over for a bit."
St. Anne's University Hospital, or"fakultni nemocnice u vs Anna v Brne" as I've learned to refer to but not pronounce, is a sprawling campus of old Soviet buildings, newer, pristine architecture, and baroque moldings near the center of Brno. The map I downloaded to find "Building J" was color-coded but also in Czech, so I did that thing where you walk one way while watching your location on GPS to see if you are indeed heading in the right direction. Building J did exist, however it was quite a hike around the campus to locate it. At one point I wondered if it was maybe like the Back Building in Mean Girls.
With a low ceiling and steel chairs lining the hallways, I wasn't sure if I was going to a diabetologist as much as I was going to be contacting any form of asbestos. These hallways had seen better days with their scuffed patterned floors and shredding yellow and orange wallpaper.
On Pinterest it might be referred to as"Shabby chic!" I found a hallway full of doors and outside each door was a vinyl bench with no form of support.
The door with my doctor's name on it had people going in and out of it so I figured this must be a good thing. They're not being wheeled out of the room with a respirator or a blue face. So far, so good.
Like if this room was a hospital.
I have now spent enough time here to know that when you see a chair or an area for waiting, that's where you wait, which sounds obvious but if you go further to investigate behind doors that aren't marked clearly, a woman named Petra may scold you in Czech until you just sit anywhere close by until you're officially retrieved. So I sat and waited outside.
For Czech people, my last name is pronounced "Dawn-uh-hoo-ee." With the stress on the first syllable and no accessible diphthongs, I've learned to listen for various covers of my surname from people I don't know. A young nurse fetched me and my seemingly normal last name from the hall and brought me into a large examining room and office which didn't look like it belonged inside the semi-decrepit Building J. Brightly lit with new furniture, recently manufactured medical supplies and machinery, and surfaces free of dust or minerals, the nurse who spoke some English informed the doctor I had Type 1 and that I needed a new blood glucose meter and the appropriate test strips. Certain test strips only work with certain meters, and since I couldn't buy strips in Metric meant for an Imperial Measurement System meter, I needed a whole new kit. They spoke back and forth in Czech for a moment and then came the question: "Insurance?"
I signed up for state health insurance after my visa was approved, but my insurance card still hasn't arrived in the mail. I also didn't have anything on me that proved I was technically in the system, so in this circumstance, I basically didn't have insurance at all. I showed them my traveler's insurance, which only covers you in the event of a nuclear apocalypse or emergency treatment upwards of $200,000, but they shook their heads. They continued to talk in Czech as I brought out my bag of supplies filled with both types of insulin, spare needles, my glucose meter, and test strips. I could have just been some random person who came off the street, so I wanted to show them that I currently have the supplies needed for someone with Type 1. In broken English, the nurse said, "We give you a meter and test strips free, and in two weeks you come back when your insurance card comes, yeah?"
Umm, fuck yeah. I smiled like an idiot and said "ano, ano prosim." Getting a free glucose meter and the accompanying strips in the United States means getting one from a diabetic friend or selling your first born and sometimes second born. One of the reasons people with diabetes let their care suffer during a financial crisis is because they simply can't afford the test strips, let alone the insulin. I test my blood sugar four to five times a day depending on when I'm eating and how long I'm awake. In the United States, a pack of 100 test strips without insurance is $129, meaning every 20 days, I'm out $129 if I actually want to manage and treat my disease instead of slowly die. Test strips are a HUGE inconvenience. You need them to figure out how much insulin to give yourself before meals and to find out if you really do have low blood sugar or if you're just imagining it. Getting 100 of them for free in addition to the hardware is a big deal.
Woo! Czech glucose meter!
The nurse who spoke some English and another nurse who spoke zero English physically acted out how I'm supposed to use the meter. Even though I've been testing my blood sugar for almost eight years, I couldn't bring myself to stop their comedic safety demonstration. The Czech nurse poked her finger and said "owwwiiieeeee!" and then blew on it to exhibit the minor pain and inconvenience of pricking myself. "Into blood!" Aren't we all. They packed up my new kit and sent me into my doctor's actual office where he asked me some basic diabetes related questions: when were you diagnosed, at what age, what symptoms were you experiencing, how often do you go low, and which insulins are you on. I brought out my bag of supplies and showed him the insulins I use. One insulin I use is what's called a basal insulin and lowers me to a healthy "baseline" for 24 hours.
I use the other insulin before meals or when I'm consuming carbs, which can only be done every 4-5 hours.
He recognized both pens and told me he would give me prescriptions when I came back in two weeks once my health insurance card had arrived.
Basaglar and Humalog, the two insulins I need to use.
Insulin pen with a teeny tiny needle.
Then my doctor told me, "I'm not going to charge you for today since you only needed a meter and there's no exam. When you come back in two weeks, your insulin prescriptions and the appointment will be covered. If you need any lab work done, that will be covered, too."
I was floored. I smiled at him and almost cried. Normally in the Czech Republic you need cash in hand, although not much, before any medical appointment if you don't have health insurance for your visit. I was expecting to pay something today, but not nothing. If this was the situation in the United States, I might need to start a GoFundMe to cover the costs of staying alive. I told him that it wasn't this easy in the US. "We know," he told me.
Finally, a country that understands that staying alive is a basic human right. If we were brought into this world without consent, there should be an economic and social system in place to make sure we can be the healthiest capable people contributing to society. Why is that so hard to understand? If the US has such a hard on for being the greatest economy, shouldn't we have a healthcare system in place that takes care of the people who put forth the effort and time to stimulate a "great" country?
After gleefully leaving the hospital, I literally skipped back to the tram stop and went to teach for the afternoon. I showed the other teachers my new rig and spent the next few hours going over phrasal verbs, how "synonym" and "cinnamon" are two entirely different words, and the correct pronunciation of "hyperbole." I'll update again in two weeks after my next diabetology appointment. If the Czechs keep taking care of me like they are, I'm going to be here for a long time.
“So you're a Lebowski, I'm a Lebowski.”
I’ve been having trouble starting these blogposts. It’s unlike me to struggle saying anything that’s on my mind, but for some reason when I begin this first paragraph, it has become difficult to relay my thought process. Perhaps it’s because this is THE NEW YEAR’S EVE POST but when you’re sober, you don’t really take these "holidays" seriously. So maybe it’s the residual pressure of having to report on 365 days of…whatever.
This year started off with a relationship I wasn’t expecting myself to get into. It’s incredibly easy to date comedians, which is why I dated yet another comedian later in the year. It’s like when smokers go out to smoke but they don’t know each other. They immediately have a sense of camaraderie because they’re smoking anonymously. It’s the same for comics as any other artistic form of expression, I imagine. But it’s hard to not shit where you eat when all you’re doing is comedy. Like let’s not pretend I don’t know about it, because I do. I’ve dated a few comics. Some of them ended in a real Hindenburg type explosion but others softly glided down to an even relationship homeostasis. For a real paycheck, I was labeling, measuring, describing, and slinging mid-century modern furniture to people who had never been exposed to the design form everyone over the age of 50 is relatively sick of. The consignment shop was reminiscent of a pawnshop owned by Don Draper, but most of my time was spent listening to Creedence and try to upsell people on the experience of a reversible sectional sofa versus a love seat with no accompanying ottoman. For forty hours a week, sizing up furniture and thinking of ridiculous names that had significance to me but was beyond imagination for anyone else visiting the vast array of uneven concrete floorspace.
March rolled around and life’s challenges became unusually stressful both mentally and emotionally. It was around this time last year I was having conversations about wanting to better myself in terms of what I ate, how I exercise, and what I deem a healthy amount of sleep. And in the new year, I became obsessive over numbers: units of insulin, calories, carbohydrates, minutes spent expelling energy, low blood sugar, high blood sugar, pounds on the scale, inches of my waist. I unknowingly started to go through something called “diabetic burnout.” At some point many diabetics will experience the notion of feeling like they can’t go on because of their disease. They become tired over the mathematical labor it takes to act as your own pancreas, so their diligence becomes lazy and worn out. Except my burnout was the opposite. I was overzealous with my equations in the kitchen that doubled as my laboratory. If you take one pound of cauliflower rice with X ounces of protein over four days divided by Y sodium preservative sauces from Trader Joe’s, how many times will Liz cry by the end of the week? I wanted to be accurate and exact. I couldn’t turn into the diabetic person who is the case for the misinformation most people receive about the disease. I didn’t want to lose my toes. I didn’t want people to see me as someone overweight and finding out I had diabetes and saying “Oh yep, that makes sense.” I even pulled out of a comedy show that required me to strip to my degree of comfort. “Comic Strip” looked fun and exciting and it was refreshing to see a comedy show that didn’t involve smoking weed or drinking, and at the time, it felt like most of these comedy shows weren’t for me at all. My self worth was at an all time low and I couldn’t get a break from the autoimmune disease taking up so much of my brainpower.
I started contemplating killing myself. There wasn’t a cure and there most likely won’t be, so why slog through the next 40 years at limited capacity? At first, I didn’t know how I’d go about it, but I narrowed out things like using a gun. I didn’t even know where to get a gun. Knives seemed drawn out and painful and the IKEA brand stainless steel edges weren’t going to be effective. I thought about using medication but I didn’t want to have my last experience in life be that feeling where you take mushrooms and then just sit there idly waiting for them to kick in. I was too short for the rail in my closet. This insanity in itself was exhausting, and I ended up mentioning it to my endocrinologist, who submitted me to the ER when I told her the ideations I was experiencing. I was crying a lot, tired, dragging my feet. I was at my appointment in sweatpants and the slippers I wore to rehab because I stopped caring about my outward appearance when I wasn’t on the clock. I looked like I had a drug problem with all the drugs I wasn’t actually on. I was losing my hair from being stressed, I stopped wearing make up, and I rarely responded to text messages.
My endocrinologist walked me to the ER where my mom met me. I’m the only one in my family with diabetes so before my diagnosis, no one had any familiarity with the disease, and a lot of my stress manifested through having to explain to everyone around me why I couldn’t have dinner yet, why I was sweaty and clammy behind the wheel of a moving car, why I’m eating dessert after dinner before everyone else, why I needed to stop at the 7/11 for extra Skittles to keep in my glovebox. I explained to the ER social worker person (I’m clearly still unsure of her exact title) who met with me that I wasn’t in danger, I’m just tired and frustrated I can’t have a break. I told her I’d rather have cancer since I’d maybe have a chance to beat it. I told her that my life was narrowed down to prescriptions and the fear of President FuckFace ultimately making it so that my life would become completely unmanageable while living in the expensive, Amazonian oasis that is Seattle. I spilled out all of my fears, frustrations, all while trying to stay sober at the same time. I went home and called my boyfriend, who scolded me for not telling him of my ideations sooner. I had spent six hours under the care of medical professionals and when I finally returned home to the small closet I was renting on Alki, I was essentially shamed for having any kind of emotions. It was a real “I’m not sad, just disappointed” kind of vibe. Looking back on it, I understand his concerns. But at the time, it really wasn’t what I wanted or needed to hear.
I returned to my job at the consignment store the next day and was promptly laid off. The store had been hemorrhaging money to make it a competitive environment for people who wanted to buy and sell furniture. But with the economy the way it was, people were more interested in receiving money for their flatpack crap they had lying around for months in a damp garage than spending money on a cosmic shaped couch dubbed “The Jetson.” This was the third time I had been laid off in my life and the only one where I remained sober of the rest of the day. I was becoming overwhelmed, aimless, and unclear about how to proceed, so I ended my relationship, deleted Facebook, and I wish I could say I hit the gym and lawyered up, but instead I resorted to eating cereal twice a day and sleeping through the literal days of my two favorite seasons. I quit comedy for roughly six weeks. The last thing I wanted to do was present my unpresentable self in front of a bunch of my peers and a bunch of strangers. My sense of routine was demolished, but finding a routine elsewhere and doing the research to find some structure wasn’t completely out of reach.
90% of the time before I go to sleep, I’m on Reddit with my phone three inches away from my face. I scroll through the qualms of history and Seinfeld gifs retrofitted to current politics. The expat subreddit came up, r/iwantout, and I looked at the kinds of questions people were asking about moving abroad. I had wanted to move abroad for years but never did the thorough Googling it entailed, and since I had all the time in the world in the middle of the night because I didn’t have a job or a relationship, I slowly started compiling information about the former communist bloc country now known as “Czechia” except no one calls it that. Like I’ve stated in this blog before, the reasons I moved were preserving my quality of life and improving my cost of living. Being an insulin dependent in Seattle without health insurance was going to be a gamble. So I did what Reddit suggested. I got out.
At first my decision was met with extreme hesitancy. “The Czech Republic? That seems drastic,” my mom told me. And over the next few months, I completely inundated her with information about cell phone plans, rent, the language, transportation options, healthcare in the US vs public healthcare in what was going to be my new home, geographical points of interest, how far away I was from Russia and the Ukraine, and carb counting on the metric system. While my mom was concerned, my dad was pleased. I was almost 30 and reached a point where I was no longer clinging to anything in Seattle. No boys. No future in comedy. No job. I made a list of reasons I would return to the US; a family member getting seriously ill or dying, zombie apocalypse, or an outbreak of nuclear war were all reasons to book a ticket home. Some people estimate I’ll be gone forever. Others estimate I’ll be home by March.
And so here I sit on New Year’s Eve, in Brno, with the sound of rumbling and bumbling fireworks all around my concrete home. I wonder how bad the PTSD is here from the multiple transitions of power that took place in this country over the last 100 years. I’m finally living by my own guidelines instead of the false, fabricated, grandeur expectations of others. There’s a lot of verbs I could apply to my situation. I escaped. I failed. I lived. But whatever I’m doing, my ham of a kitty hasn’t left my side and I’m making new friends while learning a very difficult language and I’m staying in contact with my family at home. I’ll be going to a friend’s flat, another expat from the states for boardgames and home-cooked vegetarian food. I don’t know how to sign off on this, much like the beginning of all this bullshit regarding not knowing how to begin. So I’ll say fuck this year. Actually, no. This year wasn’t bad: it was just different. I’m assuming 2018 will progress in the same way. That seems like a good note to end on. Goodnight from Brno, Happy New Year.