It is official -- we are of that age, the age where people start taking their careers seriously, start thinking about buying homes and start getting engaged! A close friend (who shall remain un-named so that I don't unintentionally steal her thunder) just called to tell me her big news. Well, first she said she had some good news, and after some hesitation I figured, "Ellen was just talking about your blog on her show!" was a bit of a long shot so I said the next thing that pops into my head whenever someone asks me to guess something.
"You're getting married?" I asked.
"Yes!" she said.
I was just about to say the second thing that always pops into my head ("You're pregnant!") when I digested what she said. Immediately there were chills and goosebumps, the good kind, even better than the R.L. Stine kind.
She is the first close friend of mine to be endowed with a left ring finger bauble, and I couldn't be happier for her. But what a novel feeling it is to realize that everyone is seriously growing up, these same people who I used to stay up late in college with, eating pie and watching marathon episodes of The Gilmore Girls.
My freshmen year in college, my major was officially "undeclared." But when people asked, I would follow, "Technically, I'm undeclared" with "but I'm going pre-med." Everyone I knew was pre-med (or so they thought), except for the kids that were declared art majors or design majors, the same ones who took to loudly discussing the subthemes and cinematography of David Lynch's disturbing Blue Velvet and who considered video clips of people eating feces to be highly artistic social commentary. I think pre-med was such a popular notion for the undeclared to claim because the career path following it was so clear cut: first you would be pre-med, then you'd major in some form of biology, you'd attend med school and eventually become a doctor.
It's odd to think that I was asked at age 18 to decide what I wanted to learn and what professional occupation I eventually wanted to take up. Especially considering that not even a year before that, the highlight of my year was planning Senior Cut Day with my friends (we planned a trip to Taco Bell and then we wildly walked the streets of Santa Cruz. We didn't drink and we didn't smoke but I don't think any of us wore sunscreen that day because, by golly, we were rebels!)
It soon became evident that I did not like pre-med classes. (It might have had something to do with the fact that I was not so good at them, but that is just one small, minor, insignificant theory.) The summer after freshmen year, I came back home to San Jose. I picked up the UCLA catalogue and sat hunched over it on my bed. For the next few hours, I thumbed through the black and white pages and ran my fingers over each of the majors the school offered. As my finger slid past each one, I read it out loud and envisioned myself in the major. Finally, two felt good to me and it was those two that I majored in: economics and psychology. Turns out these were a much better fit, and I was happy.
Until recently. Recently, with Alan's "short" hospital stay turning into a week long visit, I wish I had a medical background. I wish I knew why he can't eat anything and what could be done about his intestinal blockage. I imagine the pieces of lettuce he ate in his In 'n' Out burger (the ones I know he secretly suspects blocked his intestines) and I imagine them creating a seal, preventing anything from properly traveling through his digestive tract. I would have a better solution than sticking a tube down his throat to suction out his Jamba Juice. My solution would be better because after the tube would be removed, he wouldn't continue to be blocked. And I definitely would not tell him he would be released in 2, 3 days, only to have him stay for 9 days and counting.
Aside from wishing I might have tried harder in biology (or at the very least, wishing I had paid more attention to how the "House" team deduces all their brilliant, medical solutions), Alan's hospital visits have taught me a few very important lessons.
1) Do not get cancer. I know no one wants to get cancer, and sometimes it just cannot be helped how one's cells want to mutate or express themselves, so maybe I should rephrase this lesson as Do everything you can to decrease your risk of developing cancer. Visit the doctor early on if you think something might be wrong (hint (and don't be embarrassed if you need this hint because some people do): something might be wrong if blood is coming out from places where it normally has not come out from in the past or if you feel nauseous for a good, solid month for no good reason).
Alan's post-surgery recovery has been hard, really hard. Like a solid month spent in a hospital room hard. But all that time spent in the hospital has also enlightened me to lesson 2.
2) Never ever ride a motorcycle. The number of hospital roommates Alan has had who have suffered serious injuries from motorcycle accidents is beyond belief. One day, we stepped outside the hospital to find the cutest basset hound sitting on the steps with his owner. The basset hound was wearing a mini vest and because we are curious people, we stopped to ask the owner what his dog's vest was for. The man looked at me and said, "He is a therapy dog. I was in a motorcycle accident and I died two times. Both times they brought me back to life. But because of that now I am a little bit dumb and this dog helps me meet friends because people come by to pet him. I think he is beautiful." It was shocking to hear such a candid response and I almost wanted to help him revise it so that he could make friends in a more natural manner, but that is a very hard thing to suggest to someone, let alone a complete stranger, so we didn't say anything and moved along quietly with crashing motorcycle images firing off in our heads.
Sometimes, the only thing better than eating one of your favorite foods is learning how to make it yourself so you can make it all the time and eventually open up your own food cart outside your cubicle at work or outside a hip, happenin' club in the City. It's fun to learn how to make things, especially when the making is easy and when there are puppies involved.
Last night I played with a puppy named Cookie Monster and learned how to make my favorite drink, which is sipped and eaten simultaneously. It was like I had died and gone to some other realm in which an Asian Martha Stewart exists, one that knows how to make boba and who owns the cutest puppy ever.
Before we get to boba making history, you must first meet C. Monster, a 2-month old, fluffy puppy, not to be mistaken for a stuffed animal.
That fluffy thing is Cookie, sleeping at my feet in the car.
Everyone is mesmerized by her fluffiness, even other dogs.
OK, here is the secret to my future success...
How to make Boba/Pearl Tea:
1) First, prepare simple syrup. Meaure 1 c. filtered water. 2) Boil water. 3) Find brown sugar in your cupboard. Once it's found, someone may need to go retrieve a cleaver or a small ice pick to get the brick into smaller granules if the brown sugar is stale, but whatever works for you is fine. 4) Measure 1/2 c of brown sugar. 5) Measure 1/2 c of white sugar. 6) Stir both brown and white sugar into the boiling water. 7) Bring the concoction to a boil. Keep stirring. You will know when all the sugar has been melted when the bottom of the pot doesn't streak when you move your spatula across it.8) When all the sugar is melted, simple syrup is ready. Place aside and let cool.
9) Next, prepare your boba balls. We used rainbow ones because they are rainbow and com'on, they look cool, but you can use whatever kind you want. We used 1 c of boba balls. For every cup, add 7 cups of water.
10) Add the boba balls to the pot of water; cover. Let it come to a boil and boil for 15 minutes. Turn off the heat and let the boba balls sit uncovered for another 15 minutes. 11) Drain the boba balls and rinse with cold water. Rinsing will keep the balls from sticking together and stop them from cooking into a gooey hot mess.
12) Add your boba balls to your simple syrup and chill in the fridge next to the Soyrizo and milk.
13) Now onto the tea, prepare whatever kind of tea you like. We made Jasmine green tea.
14) When your tea is ready, add milk and simple syrup to your desired sweetness and creaminess.
15) Add boba balls to your tea and serve. If you are trying to impress guests, it may be best to visit tea shops in your neighborhood prior to serving so that you can pick up a few extra straws. But spoons will also do.
And for your tea drinking pleasure, here is a video of Cookie eating and generally being cute.
When I think of the Fourth of July, I think of fireworks. Sometimes I'll think of barbecues, but mostly I think of waiting to welcome the night's darkness with hundreds of other people to watch the big fat light explosions in the sky.
Last year Alan and I were late to the fireworks show in San Jose because we are chronically late people who were born late and will most likely die late, too. We stood on the sidewalk in between some buildings downtown and watched the very tops of the fireworks because that is the only view our standing perch would give us.
This year we watched the fireworks on CBS from his hospital bed, lying next to each other, him splayed out across the bed, exhausted from being in pain all day, and me lying gingerly on my side, holding up my weight, holding my breath almost, so as not to crush his tubes and wounds and catheters. He had been writhing in pain for most of the day and well into the night. We asked for pain meds, ones that wouldn't require swallowing because anything he swallowed came right back up again. Impossibly late into the night, around 9 or so, the dr. finally came in and apologized for the delay in getting him his meds. She explained it was the Fourth of July and that everyone wanted to play with fireworks, and they were busy in the ER treating all these foolish people. (OK, she didn't call them foolish, but I could tell that's what she was thinking). Then, before she left, she mentioned that later that night they would be busy working on all the gun shot wounds sure to come in after the fireworks died down. I'm not sure why hospitals expect Independence Day to be a big day for people to start shooting each other, but she seemed to know what she was talking about.
After the CBS special was over, we watched the news and learned about a shooting in Oakland in which 8 people were gunned down. News like this is why I forbid myself from watching the news anymore, but I always forget and watch it's sensationalized segments anyway. After the news, I went home alone thinking that I was fine, that I could deal with processing all the disturbing information. I parked my car, hurried inside and locked the door. Then I checked to make sure that I locked the door two more times. When I was satisfied that the door was locked, I tested its strength and gave the door a few tugs. Then I showered, but just as I started to let my guard down, I remembered the serial killer on the loose in the South somewhere and thought that if the South has serial killers, California must surely have a few out there too. I started thinking I started freaking out and then it was all bad. That lock is weak. One good kick and the door would swing wide open. With one eye open, I rinsed shampoo and conditioner out of my hair, barely noticing how the suds stung, dried off, and before jumping into bed, I made sure to put some sensible clothes on. The last thing I wanted is to have to run from a serial killer naked or in some complicated, hard-to-maneuver in clothing. I tried to sleep but kept hearing the serial killer coming for me. I kept hearing the 4 torturers conspiring outside my door, the ones that abused that 16 year old boy and locked him away for years in a dungeon beneath their home. I fell asleep for 10 minutes and had nightmares about not getting a ticket to Michael Jackson's memorial service on Tuesday. I jerked awake and remembered how sore my legs were from the Morgan Hill 5k Run that morning. How are you going to out run all the psychos out there and your door doesn't even lock? My brain made a good point and instead of falling back asleep, I spent the rest of the night worried I'd make it onto the 5 o'clock news the next day for all to gawk over.
Morgan Hill 4th of July 5k Run
The Morgan Hill 5k has become a little family tradition of ours. I like doing it with everyone so much I think it will be the one time a year I will disobey my yoga teacher and run.
At the beginning of this year, Alan and I began on a challenging course -- one that involved jumping over fallen trees in the middle of the road, outrunning mountain lions and navigating our way through a dark, overgrown, menacing forest, but one that ultimately led to his triumph over cancer. What we didn't anticipate was that to make it through to the other side of the forest, we'd first have to gather all our wits and strength together and climb Mount Everest's cousin called Recovering From Surgery. June had been nothing but an achingly slow ascent over this beastly elevation.
For the past month, it had been so confusing and heart wrenching to see Alan so completely different than his usual self, to see a broken body so unlike his normal one and his face almost unrecognizable save for the two huge blue pools of sad pain above his nose. But then there was the past few days when Alan had been doing remarkably well.
We pretended like we didn't notice when people stared at him in public, like the bags and hoses and pumps spiraling out of the various parts of his body were just a fashion statement and the bags of fluids clipped to his sagging shirt no more interesting than a man's backwards fanny pack. We walked around the lake, we paid an exorbitant amount to watch Up (worth every penny) and on Tuesday he even offered to make Sophie and me breakfast. Things were looking up to the point that I didn't come home to greet him, ready to burst with news of my day, only to immediately feel helpless and full of despair. It was like the clouds had parted and a bright, singular ray of light had shone upon us, smiling at us and singing, "The end is near!"
But the ray lasted for only so long. This morning Alan was in a lot of pain again, as if a hand had reached out from the forest and snatched us back into its darkness, pulling us back to where we were 2 weeks ago. All of a sudden, the taste of better days -- of walking, eating out, swimming, watching movies -- has gone dull again. While I was at work hoping maybe it was just a morning bug, Alan was re-admitted to the hospital under the suspicion that he may have an internal infection of some sort. And with this new infection comes a new rip roaring pain, lighting a fire and excavating ruins in his belly.
Please, please, please. Can we please be in the clear soon?
