We Survive The Best We Can

This blog entry is very scary. How do I sum up all the things that have been happening in my life here? It's been so long. On so many occasions something has happened and I knew I had to write a blog entry. My life is measured in blog entry ideas and gathering myspace items, (be it pictures, quotes, or even friends). After taking a good picture, it is declared, "that is your new myspace photo". Twice yesterday, things were said that immediately were assigned as "my new headline". ("Makes depression fun again" being the only memorable of the two.)

An alien, time-travler, or grandparent would be lost in this new world. The way we talk, the things we do. I read a letter from 1934 from my grandfather to my grandmother. It was the most sincere, lovely letter I've ever read. A real love letter. (Postage and all). There has to be something so intimate about receiving a love letter. The other person licked the envelope. For some reason I find that so intimate. Like they are sealing this thing that only they will share. My mother still hasn't read it. She can't bring herself to do it. I told her it was great. My grandfather calls my grandmother an angel and pledges, "we will be together until we die". They were.

My mom and her two brothers had the very difficult task of cleaning out their parents house. They found a box of similar letters. They were all in such a hurry, they all picked one and threw the rest away. One of her brother's got one to my grandmother from another man. I try not to be sad knowing that the rest of those letters are probably incinerated by now.

I wish my grandparents could have seen the Nintendo Wii. They would have thought it was the most amazing thing ever. They were mystified by their Gateway.

The people across the street painted their door yellow. That makes me feel like a character from a book. The yellow door.

I love that complete strangers say I'm a talented writer.

I love Veronica Mars now. I think it's the best tv show on television.

I often feel like a character from one of Pamela Ribon's books. I feel like I could be best friends with Pamela Ribon. That makes me feel like a crazed stalker. I'm not.

I've fallen in love with my Brooklyn neighborhood. As much as I hate New York, sometimes I love it with equal passion. Ever since I've declared I was moving to Los Angeles, this place hasn't seemed all that bad. That always happens, doesn't it? I like waving to people on the street, because we see each other everyday. I like that even though the liquor liscence of the store next door was revoked, I can still buy beer there by going into the back room and picking out my desired brand. They double bag it. I love that on New Year's Eve, they were giving out shots to all their patrons. I love that at one point in the evening, I took a shot with about fifteen strangers. I love that I see most of the same people everyday, and I've become a regular in many places. I love getting the deals that only the regulars get.

I love that when New York let me down the most, strangers were there to help.

It was last week, my dog had been sick. So sick that on Sunday night, I got little to no sleep. I was up every fourty five minutes, almost on the dot, taking my dog outside. She had diarrhea. (Such an ugly word that I'm now immune to.) It didn't go away. I stayed home from work on Monday, and on Monday night, it seemed to be getting better. She was going about four hours without having to go. It was an improvement. I was feeding her nothing but boiled rice, and she seemed her normal self, only a little tired and wouldn't eat or drink much water. By Tuesday, I had to go to work. I left the office early and when I came home, she had used the old towel I had laid out for her. She had also used the floor, in what could only be a last resort. It wasn't her usual diarrhea, This had blood in it. A lot it seemed. In all the research I had done on doggy diarrhea, the one thing I knew was that blood was bad. Very bad. I called my vet who directed me to the Animal Hospital. They told me to bring her in ASAP. They were located on 62nd st and York Ave. I freaked. I didn't own a crate. That was the first thought that went through my mind. I didn't have a car. I needed to somehow get her there and knew that most car companies, if not all, didn't allow uncrated dogs. This is when I cursed New York. I was trapped and this was the thing I had always feared. Desperately needing a car, and not having one. I always thought this would be how I died. A natural disaster and no way to evacuate. Being trapped. One of my biggest beefs with this city. I wasn't going to let my dog die. And from the tone of the woman's voice from the hospital, this was a life or death situation.

I called my friend completely lost in what to do. I asked her to buy me a crate and I would meet her by the store. I think I was hysterical. She told me I didn't need a crate. That I should call Northside, (our local car service), and tell them my situation. I did and through my tears, explained what was happening. The guy responsed without hesitation, "I'll be there in five minutes." I grabbed my dog, (and the thinnest jacket known to man, dumb adrenaline), and jetted from my apartment. Ran into the store next door, and asked if I could bring my dog in to use their ATM. They said yes. I got money and by the time I was out, my savior was outside waiting. He was the nicest man ever. He kept telling me she'd be fine and even offering to put on his emergency lights and go in the emergency lane. I couldn't believe how great he was. I guess I didn't have much faith in strangers here in NY. He certainly didn't have to pick me up, much less be so nice about everything.

I get to the hospital in record time, and thank him profusely, trying to tip him way too much. He declines and only takes half. We can't see the hospital but traffic is so bad, I tell him I can find it. I know it's near this intersection. He starts to ask other strangers where it is, when I spot it. Once I get my dog in, I wait two hours, watching emergency dog after emergency dog go in. I sit there with my dog going to the bathroom on the floor twice, with the receptionist telling me I couldn't take her out because they were going to call my name any moment now. To just let her go on the floor and someone would clean it up. I sat there watching nearly everyone in the place crying for some reason or another. I watched people leave teary eyed empty handed. I watched the nervous glances darting around the room everytime a code anything went across the intercom system.

I rarely wish that I had a boyfriend. There are always moments, but for the most part, I have this single thing down. This evening, sitting in the animal emergency waiting room, by myself, scared and sad, I needed someone. Everyone had someone there for them, so they could use the bathroom, or step outside to make a phone call, or get them something from the snack machine. I hadn't eaten dinner, I hadn't called my mother, I hadn't used the bathroom in hours. And Hopper was getting restless. I needed to get out of the vortex of sad, but couldn't move. I had to stay there and wait for them to call my name. I needed to cry. And did a little, but not like I wanted. I wanted to be in the fetal position and with my mother patting my head saying it would be okay. I needed someone to tell me it was going to be okay. I watched all these pet owners being comforted by their significant other, and was jealous.

We finally got called in, and the doctor was great. He was nice and understanding when I told him, yes, money is an issue for me. He mentioned a possibility of an overnight stay and I tearfully explained that a two thousand dollar overnight stay isn't in the cards. There's literally no possible way for me to pay for that. I broke down at the prospect of me not being able to get my dog the best care possible because of my monetary restraints. The doctor was great and said that we'd deal with it if it was necessary, but he didn't think it was. He took Hopper and sent me back to the waiting room. I felt a little guilty to be so relived to have her off my hands for just a few minutes. I knew she was in better hands than mine at the moment, and I needed to pee. I needed something to drink. I needed to go outside and call my mom and break down. I had been holding it back for far too long.

When they brought her back out to me, she seemed happy, and normal. She was wagging her tail, and smiling, and I was relived, but felt so guiltly for having a seemingly heathly, happy dog. Especially for the couple in front of me, with the dog that was bleeding and had been waiting for far too long.

When the doctor came out to explain to me what the results showed. She had some sort of a parasite, or bacteria, or something small and unwelcome. The results were thankfully positive. She had great results. He put her on some medicine and a diet for the next 48 hours, just boiled chicken and rice. I took a doggy taxi home, (who knew such a thing exsisted), and within 48 hours, she had her first solid poop in what seemed to be a year. Cartwheels.

In some weird, twisted way, this city is livable. Things work out, and people are great in times of crisis. Faith was restored in humanity and in the backwards way things seem to work around here, I survived a crisis the best I could.