songs about leavin'

The past week has been rough. I am not scared, I am not nervous, I am not stressed. But I am in pain. Pain so severe I can't put it into words.

I've been so organized about this move -- my love of Excel spreadsheets shining through -- that there's not a single thing on my to-do list that hasn't already been done. Two days ago. Aside from the one thing yesterday that I had scheduled: the epidural.

I promised myself I wouldn't go on about the state of my back because it's both boring to read and write and I hopefully will have much more interesting topics to delve into. But I have to put it out there because I realized how overwhelming it's become when someone asked me yesterday, 'Are you nervous?' and I said, 'No -- he's a good doctor.' They were talking about the fact that I'm leaving behind everything familiar and moving to the West Coast, to a city I've spent a grand total of eight days in. My thoughts focused more on the giant needle that was soon to be launched into the soft tissue of my spinal cord.

The epidural was the most painful thing I could ever imagine. They plunge a needle in between your vertebrae and let loose a pharmaceutical coctail of anti-inflammatory medication that is supposed to reduce swelling and thereby relieve some of the pain. In order for the steroid injection to be successful, they use the need to find the place where it hurts the most and then recreate all the pain I've felt in the past year -- all at once. It felt like being electrocuted. I couldn't breathe. Bent over my knees, I was gripping my feet and staring at my gold sparkly nail polish, trying to just Get Through It. The nurse kept asking me if I was okay, and telling me to breathe and I asked her cordially to shut up and stop talking to me. The doctor withdrew the foot-long needle from my back and in a mind-shattering stab of pain I promptly passed out.

Ruby drove me home after giving me this gorgeous gift -- a portrait she had painted as a reminder of a conversation we had about the importance of taking care of ourselves and not letting other people's bad energy seep into our space and affect us. I'm working on that. I was on the verge of unconciousness when she dropped me off at my house, still drugged and shaking, and it made the goodbye to one of my best friends anticlimactic and strange. After I locked the door behind her I crawled into the safety of my Aerobed and slept for 26 hours.

And now, here I am.

It liiterally took me half an hour to get dressed this morning. I can barely walk. My heart stops every time I try to shift my position. Mon Frere and I have decided to change our route and just drive straight through to Seattle, minimizing movement and pain -- even though it means missing my friends in New Orleans and Austin and a rare acoustic in-studio by the Wrens in NYC that I was elated about. But our new itinerary will calm both our misgivings that something down South would go awry. I've learned to trust my gut feelings, and learned to trust other people's as well. When we're having the same premonition, a change of plans is in order.

And that's all I'm going to say about that.

Kobie the Wonderbunny will be the guest at several places in which he is not welcomed. I realized it became necessary to devise a plan of sneaking him into said places. Enter PetFlys. Omigod. These pet carriers are little psuedo-handbags. The one I got is black with bright red stitching and a smiling skull and crossbones on the side. It's got an over-the-shoulder strap so it looks like a purse, and a little peek-a-boo window with a shade that rolls down to hide Kobie's tiny, tireless orange bunny nose. Plus it's airline certified for our future trips to Florida. Sorry, mom. No can do with the kennel.

My first choice model from PetFlys was bubblegum and cherry colored with a winged heart on the side. Totally hot. But when I realized that Mon Frere would most likely be carrying it, I figured a boy -- gay or not -- carrying this brand of handbag might draw more attention than me walking through the lobby of the hotel carrying the rabbit, a parade of dancing clowns behind me. Skulls it is.

I've had three going-away parties. My folks at Harvard took me out to my absolute favorite restaurant in the square -- the Border Cafﾈ -- where I consumed inhumane quantities of guacamole. The chips at Border are illegal, I swear. They serve them piping hot from the fryer, perfectly crispy and sea-salted. And they never allow the bottom of the basket to be seen. The Chip Police constantly patrol the floor, delivering the harbingers of salsa in mass quantities. As if the Tex-Mex indulgence was not enough, my team hosted a good-bye breakfast Tuesday and said nice things about me and sent me on my way with a new messenger bag and a belly full of bagels. Was is it about leaving and eating? Hey -- I'm not complaining. I got some pastries for the road. Won't Mon Frere be excited.

Speaking of Shea, he'll be here shortly. I should go clean up shop as my dad says.

There will be much more to follow. Stay well, everyone. I miss you already.