I’m going to be honest with you, as I lie flat on my back on my living room couch, in unfair amounts of pain, I’m having trouble being thankful.

It’s not that I don’t have much to be grateful for, because that’s not true. Even I’m not that self-involved. I am so blessed in so many areas of my life and for that I am endlessly thankful. I just feel like I’m only able to see these good things because of the myriad of bad. And I hate that. I want to be thankful for things, not in spite of others.

But I am thankful anyway.

I am thankful for my friends and most of my family. Because I’ve gotten to witness, even today, how crappy some people can be. And without the other good people in my life, I would not be able to get up in the morning.

I am thankful for my husband. Because he is the only thing keeping me from quitting everything in my life. Because he is the only sure thing I have right now.

I am thankful for my medical care. Because even with thousand dollar medical bills sitting on the table, and sore backs and spinal headaches from lumbar punctures, I know that without the doctors I have, I’d be nowhere (which, I know is actually NOT ANY DIFFERENT from here, but at least we’ve sort of ruled some things out now, right? RIGHT?) Because I know that others can’t get the medical care I can and they suffer for it.

I am thankful for the roof above my home, the couch under my back, the heat from my vents and the food I’ve over indulged in. Because I know others are without a home and the luxuries within it.

I am thankful for the internet. Because without you, I would be fighting so many battles alone, if I would even be fighting them at all. Because without many of you, I don’t know how if I could’ve come as far and survived as much as I have.

I don’t feel the way I have some past years. I don’t want to fall to my knees in thanksgiving for this year. I don’t feel like weeping with the gratitude over the things I have in my life or the great things that have happened. But I am clinging to the good for dear life. And I am trying to be thankful for the fact that in the midst of all the badness I can still find these blessings.

That in the midst of the darkest time in my life, I can still see that there are things worth living for.

Happy Thanksgiving.

On Monday my mom, dad and husband will be walking me into a hospital.

The last time this happened, was November 27th, 2007, the day I had brain surgery.

I’m glad my family is coming for the cisternogram, I’m glad for the support, but I cannot deny that the situation scares the shit out of me. It reminds me of the surgery I had, of the days of pain and fear and endless retching that followed. It reminds me of feeling completely helpless.

And, more than anything else, it reminds me that there’s an excellent chance that I’ll be facing a similar surgery soon.

I can’t hardly wrap my mind around it. I don’t want to have another brain surgery.

And yet, at the same time, I’m so afraid that this test will show absolutely nothing. That after 16 weeks of headaches, we’ll be completely without ideas, solutions or help.

It’s hard to straddle this line. This line of wanting something fixable to be wrong, but being completely terrified at how we’ll have to fix it. It just feels like an entirely no-win situation. And as much as I want to run for my life and get away from it, days keep passing, time keeps moving and the appointment keeps getting closer and closer.

I’m scared. Of what this test might show. I’m scared of what this test might not show.

And most of all, I’m afraid of what comes next.

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For the latest on Anissa, check here. She is fighting like we knew she would and now we have to wait and see. I think that Anissa would probably appreciate how many people have had a glass of wine or a tranquilizer in her honor (because, dude, we’re trying to cope). There’s also a button on the right where you can donate and help Anissa’s family with the costs of her care. And most importantly, don’t stop praying. She needs us now as much as ever.

I met Anissa at BlogHer. Only, I didn’t. Because I was too chicken shit to actually go introduce myself. Instead I sat within 5 feet of her for like two hours, not saying a word and sweating like crazy. Because I’m a lady.

I sent her an email last week whose title, I’m pretty sure, was the least coherent email title ever. And then I babbled like an idiot for a few sentences and clicked send. And then I sent her a tweet about it, because I was embarrassed about what an uncool jackass I was/am.

Last week I got into a twitter conversation with her where I essentially blamed her for 3 of her friends having Chiari Malformation and for my sore throat (because I have class, yo (and I was kidding, of course)). And then again Sunday night she tried to help me understand a sexual innuendo about a sausage that flew right over my head (because she also has class).

No, I don’t know her that well. I haven’t spent time with her. But she’s my friend.

And she had a stroke today.

She had a stroke today.

I keep saying it and typing it, but it still just doesn’t seem possible. I feel like someone punched me in the gut and I just can’t catch my breath. I can’t find my words.

Maybe there aren’t even words for a day like today.

For a situation like this.

For an injustice like this one.

Anissa has 3 young children.

She’s a sister, a wife, a mother. A blogger. A friend.

I know that not all of you believe in prayer or God or any higher power. But Anissa does, and Anissa needs your prayers. Her kids and her husband need them. And If you live in the Atlanta area and can help, go here and see what you can do.

Tonight I put my own problems and worries aside. Tonight I hope and pray for Anissa.

So, I know this is the second post on the new blog and I should probably be posting a lot about happy, excited BlogHer stuff (and I will, probably tomorrow, and soon enough you’ll be bored to pieces by it), my mind is elsewhere today.

You see, while at work I got a chance to see an old friend.  When I say old, I mean I’ve known her for a while, in fact, she’s actually a year or two younger than I am.  And she has cancer, Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.

I didn’t get to spend much time with her today, but I did learn that she’s in need of a bone marrow transplant and as I understand it, is trying to find a match.  I don’t know her blood type, but I know she’s a while female (and typically non-caucasian races are tougher to match) and that she’s too young to face this future.

Just a few years ago, my friend was applying to medical school, a dream she didn’t get to pursue.  Just a few years ago, she was strong as ever, standing in the sun for hours with a big goofy sombrero.  Just a few years ago, she was just like me.  And now, her life depends upon the generosity of others.

I wish that I was getting ready to tell you that I had gone and registered myself in the marrow registry, because that is my first inclination.  However, because my duraplasty (brain surgery patch) is made from cow parts, I am permanently forbidden from donating anything due to an increased risk of the human variant of Mad Cow.  I can’t help my friend.  But maybe you can.

I’m not asking for money, and I’m not even asking for you to run and join the Bone Marrow Registry (but if you want to, here is the link), but I am asking you to just think about it.  Consider what good you can do for people like my friend, who have exhausted their chemo and radiation options.  Whose very lives depend upon the generosity of strangers like you.

For me, and more for her, please, think about it.  And even if you can’t commit, spread the word.  You’ll never know all the good you can do until you try.

So, you may or may not have known that I spent the past weekend at my new best friend, Daisy’s house.

She and I had both worried about the awkwardness of meeting in real life after our very limited interactions of texting each other 10,000,000 a lot of times and emailing pretty much constantly a lot of times. But, dude, it was so not awkward. It was fantastic (okay, maybe the first few minutes were a little clouded by having just found out that my cat was lost and then having sobbed through O’Hare to such an extent that a woman gave me a full bag of tissues. Um, yes, I am a sexy crier- why do you ask?).

On Saturday, I did not go to my interview. It wasn’t laziness or the fact that there’s like almost zero chance we’ll end up moving in Chicago, but rather that we both learned that, hey, guess what? “North Chicago” and the “north side of Chicago” are not the same place. And also? That it’s too effing cold to get up to catch a 6:30 train to get to the interview 2 hours early because the next train wouldn’t leave early enough to get me there on time.

So I didn’t go. Instead, we went window shopping and building admiring and then came home, I watched while she made dinner (pork tenderloin with goat cheese mashed potatoes and steamed fresh green beans), we made cinnamon rolls from scratch (which required both of us to roll up and involved serious hemorrhaging of cinnamon butteriness. But holy hell are we good bakers!) and then we waited for the Chicago blog (Chicog? Blocago?) crew to show up.

And they did. Included in this group was The Alleged Lady, Law with Grace, The Namby Pamby, The Artful Blogger (who I did not mention when I initially posted this because I am a huge jerk. It should be noted that the Artful Blogger brought a HUGE 3 layer red velvet cake, which was superb and taught me a little about the history of DNA. And that I feel super bad for not listing him earlier) and several other of Daisy’s good friends (including Melissa, who comments here and who is bloglessly awesome). If I had to guess, I’d say that about 8 bottles of wine were imbibed by the 8 of us, and the next morning Daisy asked me if she’d broken a wine glass (she had) because she couldn’t quite remember. And I had/have a goose-egg the size of, well, a goose egg on the back of my head from slamming it into her wall. Both signs of a rocking good time.

Oh, and Grace? Totally called me a whore. (Did you hear that? That was the sound of a whole crap load of google searchers finding my blog with the newly introduced swear word. By the way, also, this no-swearing resolution is going crapfully awesome.)

Sunday morning, Daisy and I sat on the couch until noon, then we did more awesome window shopping (okay, we bought some chocolate, but otherwise no money flew out of our collectively barren wallets) and then had like the GREATEST LUNCH OF ALL TIME. Seriously. It was amazing.

And all too soon after getting back to Daisy’s (and meeting BISMOW), I had to get to the airport. Where I had my bag searched because Daisy gave me “Bath Bombs” from Lush, which, when I was asked about them at airport security I called “Bath Balls” because puns involving bombs are just not really appreciated at the airport.

And now I’m home. And in case this update was boring, no worries. Because I have an entirely fresh rant coming tomorrow. That New Year’s Resolution is also going swimmingly, obviously.

In short, Chicago rocked and I can’t wait to (hopefully) go back in July. Where I will not be called a whore and not slam my head into a wall. But I might bring Bath Bombs Balls with me. Just to freak out airport security.

One of the things I’ve learned since moving to New Orleans is that to celebrate any even slightly important day, like, you know, Thursday, there is a parade. Not a parade like the ones you see on TV or the ones your kids might have marched in at Christmas time- these are floats on a flatbed of a big rig truck and have wooden siding. And people do not ride and wave, they ride, drink a lot and throw shit (sometimes, literally shit, but more on that later) to the people screaming on the streets. It’s fantastic.

Today I went to see the St. Patrick’s Day parade with Nola, her family (not just CS and Sun, also her siblings, grandfather and more) and Pontchartrain Pete, and it was an absolute riot. I had read ahead of time about this particular parade, but even with advance notice I still found myself on side of the road wondering if some of these people were unaware of these magical places called GROCERY STORES. You see, at the St. Patrick’s parade people are literally screaming for food. Prized catches include cabbage, carrots (Nola got 2 moldy ones), Potatoes, Celery, Scallions, Lemons, Bell Peppers and of course, Ramen Noodles. What says Irish more than Ramen Noodles? The music is also quite fitting, I mean, I’m pretty sure Sir Mix-A-Lot was Irish, right?

Seeing as how I still lack the ability to tip my head back and stare up, this parade was particularly frightening because people are throwing full heads of cabbage and potatoes, and hey, did you know it hurts like hell to get beaned in the leg with a potato? because it does. There were also many beads thrown, and myself, Nola and at least two other members of her family caught beads with underwear attached. The man who gave them to us insisted that we put them on (um, no thank you) and I’m pretty sure one of the highlights of the day was when Nola’s sister walked up to her and said, “lift up this leg so I can put these drawers on you.” I died. It was great.

There was also some bartering at this parade, when someone in our group caught fake dog shit instead of the carrot she was yelling for, she made lemons into lemonade and traded the shit for a head of cabbage (ironic since when you cook cabbage they pretty much smell the same!). The only thing missing, and technically it wasn’t missing, I was just too stupid to use it, was sunscreen and subsequently half of my body is sunburned. It’s actually quite an attractive look.

It was really such a fun day, and a nice reprieve from the past two weeks of studying hell. The only things that could’ve made it any better were if The Fiance had been able to come, if this cold would ever die (I sound like a pubescent boy, it’s awesome) and you know, the sunscreen thing. I’m going to go bathe in some aloe vera gel and stalk my wedding registries some more.

In case you needed a visual, here’s what my chest/shoulders look like with the full sunburn having set in. Can you guess what kind of shirt I was wearing today? (and yes, I’m wearing a shirt in the picture, I just cropped it out…)

I heart weekends.

I need to be studying, but I just thought I’d fill you in on the dinner last night with NOLA and her husband and Sun (who seriously, just could not be cuter). We had wonderful food at a little restaurant I surely never would’ve stumbled across on my own, easy conversation and just a nice time. Even though I’d already met NOLA and Captain Sarcastic, I was a little nervous, though I did not iron my jeans this time (I may have de-wrinkled The Fiance’s…shhh). My nerves were unfounded and I really genuinely enjoyed the hell out of myself. Conversation with adults is so incredibly refreshing.

I’ve lived in this city for a year and a half now and I cannot remember the last time we went out to dinner with friends who were not in medical school and who, though fun people, did not plan on either getting completely shit-faced at dinner or high when they got home. And I know I don’t know NOLA that well, but I’m going to give her the benefit of the doubt that neither of those are true. And that RULES. I feel like I might be growing up. No really, it’s like I have real adult friends who can have real adult conversation. Who even knew that was possible?

That said, I think next time we’re going to have to bring out a wii and do some cow racing, and or duck hunting and if I can convince them of the wonders of Super Smash Brothers, some super smashing.