Monday, December 3, 2012

Poets and Electricity: Medical Plans and Encouragement

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I've finally got a tentative date for the surgical implant. It's been a little difficult to explain the procedure, so I snapped a photo of the model at the clinic when they removed the trial version. It's a shitty photograph because:
  1. I was shaky because any minute a nurse was going to yank tubes out of my spine. I knew it wouldn't hurt, because the literature on the implant promised the super unholy sticky adhesive bandage would hurt worse coming off than the removal of the leads, but I'd imagined (very accurately, it turned out) that it would feel really wrong and was filled with squicky dread. 
  2. The nurse walked in while I was photographing the plastic spine and I told her it was for my blog and she looked at me like that was a foreign term and I was embarrassed to take more shots. Also, the squick was then very immanent and I wanted to run away.

I've done my Photoshop best, though, and here is what the inside of my butt will contain a week from today:

The little device with the 'Eon' logo is a battery and controller for the levels of stimulation. By stimulation I mean electrical shocks, but you cannot know how awesome this feels in neuralgia-wrecked legs unless you've had a TENS unit massage. If you have had that, imagine that perfect tingly bliss in every nerve below your waist. Bionic nirvana, man. Just unreal.

Meanwhile, I'm just waiting and last week was the most painful in ages. I mentioned to my sister-muse and co-conspirator in creative collaboration Crystal, that I want my life back. She sent me this, which sent me to tears. It's just so much what I needed.

I'm surrounding you in pink light. You are loved and your art is a treasure to so many. 
I value you and want all your challenges to go away.... Be gone, I say. 
Why must anyone suffer? 
I do not know but I'm thankful for This moment. To share with you in creating and that... I think is the key. 
You do it well, you are an intuitive artist with skill the dangerous type. 
Your life is there for you to create, you are creating. 
No need to take back, you have never been stolen... I know this in your art. I see it. You are there. 
Don't take. Give. 
Give that life it's color on the canvas, give it your thoughts, pain free. Give the vision of your days how you want them to look, feel, taste, touch, smell your enthusiasm, your details, your smile. 
Give it and it will kiss your forehead, Honey I'm Home. 
I love you dear One. 
Thank you. 
Damn, woman. That is beautiful. Through my tears, I was beaming at this: you are an intuitive artist with skill the dangerous type. That made me feel like a certified badass, and I needed some of that mojo really badly. It's very appealing to me to think of art as dangerous.

It makes me feel like a dark-wild witchy woman, and 'damn it feels good to be a gangsta' insisted that I quote it. (I told it no, that witchy woman and gangsta don't play well together and then both phrases told me they don't take orders from self-censoring bloggers and made me do it anyway.)

"Honey, I'm home."

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