"Better late and with all your fingers"

The saga of the stitches continues!

Unlike the other members of my cohort, I am not currently taxiing down the runway in New York en route to Brussels. I am also not in Philadelphia, weeping because I missed the bus or in New York, wailing having missed the plane, because I wanted one last bagel.

I have been medevac'ed before I've even left. What does 'medevac' mean? Thank you for asking! For the most part, when a PCV (Peace Corps Volunteer...or in my case PCT [Peace Corps Trainee]) has a health issue, they are treated in their host country. On occasion though, the staff in country doesn't have the equipment or training necessary for something strange or drastic, in which case they send you back to the United States for treatment.

In my case, I obviously hadn't left yet and my stitches aren't terrible exotic (despite the Muppets bandaids), but they decided to keep me in the United States. They didn't want to potentially go to the expense of flying me all the way there and then having to turn around and ship me right back. Also, according to my dad, once infection sets in in your finger(s), you are in a bad place. It's a bummer that I'm not leaving with everyone else, but as they say, "Better late and with all your fingers."

I'll be taking my time here to visit some grad schools, maybe do the rest of the Smithsonian museums, and definitely watch an unhealthy amount of Grey's Anatomy.

The Most Dangerous Game

For those of you thinking that I will now start to describe how I started hunting shipwrecked humans on my private island or a particularly intense game of Monopoly, I'm sorry to disappoint.

I'm talking about the waiting game. These past couple weeks have been a series of highs and lows. It was lovely to get to see almost everyone I hold dear, but outside of that, all the packing and the buying, buying, buying was hellacious.

On Friday morning, the tension came to a head. I woke up at 7:15 am to the dulcet tones of my neighbor's carpool blaring their horn at which point I rolled over, which my dog, Faye, took as a cue to come over and harass me. I gave in after a few minutes of cussing and groaning. I got up, did my business, brushed my teeth and got dressed. While I let Faye out, I took out some more recycling from the night before and watered my newly planted hydrangeas. We both went inside and she had some breakfast. I decided I wasn't hungry yet and felt productive.

I started tidying up my apartment - got the dirty dishes into the sink, hung up damp towels, got the laundry in a pile to to be transferred to the basket (once the clean clothes were put away), etc. Then I decided that I should start going through my Peace Corps goodies my mother got me to get some of the packaging gone. I consolidated a few boxes of pills (mostly Immodium, so I can go from shitting my pants to not at all) and was feeling pretty good.

Then I moved on to the kitchen stuff. Took a tag off a spatula and another off some silicone hot pads (gifts for the host family).

Then I decided to remove the packaging from the knives. We all know where this is going and the tension is building. The stupid teenager decided to get something from the basement in the horror movie despite the flickering bulb and the "weird" smell. Knife number one was a cinch. Knife number two was a little trickier. I held the handle in my left hand and the scissors in my right. Using only dull pink scissors and my razor sharp wit, I would open that knife!

Why, no! Those are not stylish rings!

All of a sudden, the knife cover disappears and blood droplets are falling from the air. Actually they are falling from my hand! AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH! Pressure on the wound! (Thank god for Girl Scouts)

I seize a towel from my living room floor that was somehow miraculously missed in my tidying frenzy. I think: I need to go to the ER stat! I find my keys. I go outside. I attempt to lock the door. Then, I remember that I'll need my ID to sign in. I go inside and find my purse, which I weirdly wear around my neck.

It occurs to me suddenly that I am a well-documented hypochondriac. How embarrassing would it be for me to go to the ER to get stitches, when all I really need is a couple of Muppets bandaids? I lift the towel. Nope! Definitely need to go to the ER.

After a million point turn, I go to the hospital, where after I confirm that I have not been attacked and that my fingers are definitely still attached (twice), I receive 8 shots of lidocaine and 16 stitches (4 per finger).

Learning to eat politely, brush my teeth and dress myself with my left hand have been an experience so far, but I can say that I put on a real bra and cut up ravioli, so I consider myself a success as a human.

T minus 22 days

Yes, it's another blog! The reason for it?

I AM DOING THE PEACE CORPS.

Sorry about the yelling, but it is some pretty exciting stuff! I started applying fall of 2011 on one of the rare sunny days in Metz after getting on facebook and reading about various friends (Peace Corps Volunteers=PCVs) and their assorted bowel problems in Mali, Burkina Faso and Uganda. I was inspired! I too wanted to have stomach problems in exotic locations!

After many moons and issues including translating the fingerprinting cards for the guy with the ink in France and running out of minutes on my cell for my interview, I got an invitation to go to Eastern Europe. I was ecstatic that I got in, but in the back of my head, all I could think was "Russian winter." If Napoleon couldn't handle it, I was pretty sure I was not up for it, but started researching Vitamin D lamps and what kind of outlets the former Soviet bloc uses.

Then one happy day in January 2013, I got a telephone call and an email asking me if I wanted to go to Cameroon in May. The answer was an emphatic, "Yes, please!" on the phone (You have to use that filter for professional settings).

Since then, I have quit my job as a nanny, moved to Jacksonville, bought a quadruplex, become an expert wall patcher, a mediocre painter, and a substitute teacher; and witnessed my first physical fight (it was dirty and involved nine-year-olds).

And the countdown begins....

I leave for Philadelphia on May 26th to do a little touristing and if there is enough time, perhaps reenact some of the more dramatic scenes from National Treasure. On the 29th, I have 'staging,' which is Peace Corps lingo for orientation/policies & procedures/don't get malaria or mugged. I leave the 30th from New York to go to Brussels and then onward to Yaounde. I'm very excited, but am definitely starting to freak out a little. My method for dealing with the madness? Mostly by cuddling my dog and flirting with the very attractive, bearded lanky man attempting to sell me a $350 backpack - the Cadillac of hiking backpacks, he says. Tomorrow, I intend to return and see if it comes with a sunroof, stereo and built-in GPS. Then we'll talk.

Other news from 'sunny Florida,' I am currently being serenaded by so many frogs and toads that they are drowning out the car sounds outside (extra impressive considering we have had almost 2'/about 50cm of rain here in the past week) My house is doing fine, but all 4 of the a/c units are in danger of being under water, my scooter had to be moved and the pond at my parents' farm overflowed its banks and is inside the barn, which is the highest point on the property. Oh, Florida.

At least I'll be prepared for the rainy season in Cameroon?