48 Hours of Turbulence

Angela in bathrobe, wearing no make-up, with IV band-aid and hospital bracelet. Taken now, after writing this post.

I've had a crazy couple of days. And right now I'm in pain, which I'm not happy about, and I have decided to blog as a distraction. HUZZAH!

By the way, I'm currently typing with my eyes closed (although by the time you read this, I hopefully will have had the good sense to spell check it). And I was recently under anesthesia, and am dehydrated, so this might be a big old mess. Also, lie I said, I'm in pain. And that removes all logic from me. Most of the time.

So you know how I've had weird random pains that no doctor has been able to diagnose for years? Well, maybe you don't, but that's the case. So I've been hitting up a ton of doctors lately, in light of the fact that I'm moving to LA shortly and have hit my deductible for the year...

And every doctor tells me to go to a different doctor. Every procedure just rules out more things. Over the years I've had an endoscopy, a cystoscopy, a couple of CAT scans (I'm not actually sure if that's supposed to be capitalized, but whatever, my eyes are still closed and I have no desire to put effort into opening them so I can look it up), a couple of ultrasounds, a lot of blood work and urine tests, and probably some other whatnot that I can't think of at the moment. And last week, after my fourth doctor visit in about 14 days, my gastroenterologist decided that I might as well have a colonoscopy.

By the way, aforementioned gastroenterologist flat out told me that I'm "a puzzle" and that he has no idea what's wrong with me. Always encouraging. At one point, while I was sitting in his office post-exam, he started flipping through some giant medical books. By the time he pulled the third book of his shelf (at which point I'm pretty sure I was playing Temple Run on my phone), he asked, "When's the last time you saw a doctor consulting text books mid-appointment?" Yeah, the answer to that is never. And I should mention, lest you think he's an uninformed idiot doctor, that the guy went to Harvard for medical school, and that when I went into the hospital today, my anesthesiologist remarked that he's "the best" guy to see. I'm just that mysterious.

Two of the tests that my doctor had ordered on me last week, he has NEVER ordered. They're checking me out for some of weird genetic mutation that is rare amongst Italians (which my doctor probably knows because he's a paesano -- and I'm half-Italian, which he knows, so he decided to give it a shot). Even his nurse admitted that she had never heard of the things she was testing me for, and there are like 6 doctors in that practice, who presumably all have her order these sorts of tests on their behalf. (Behalves? Behalf? Behooves? Sorry guys, English just stopped making sense in my head. Also, still typing with my eyes closed. Why the hell my eyes hurt from having a colonoscopy, I have no idea. But I'm extremely light-sensitive at the moment.)

Anyway. So I'm moving soon. And the doctor tells me that he's going out of town, and there is exactly one day that he can see me for this procedure... which is today. Tuesday. Fine by me, I wasn't working today anyhow.

But that meant I had to go through prep yesterday. I won't go into details on what prep entails (is entails a word? I think it is, but again, something is wrong with the language sector of my brain right now.... en tails. in tails. entails. Yeah, I'm going with it. I think it's a word. If it's not, you get the idea). Suffice it to say that I wasn't allowed to have solid food past midnight on Sunday, and I had to take a bunch of pills/powders/liquids that I was warned would make me feel icky.

This would all have been fine, except for the fact that I had scheduled filming on Monday.

See, I wrote this short silent film. And it's probably stupid. In fact, I know it's stupid. And dopey. And predictable. But it's my first go at producing my own work, and I've put a lot of effort into it, and I'm really proud of the whole thing. So I shot the first half with my director last week, and the second half of the shoot was scheduled for Monday.

My character is a bit of a spaz, so the idea of me not being on my game was a bit worrisome. My director and I discussed moving the shoot (actually, she tried to demand that we move the shoot, but I wanted to push through and try to get it done)... But we ended up keeping it on the day, and just moving it about 5 hours earlier (with the idea that I would probably feel worse as the day went on). And we had a crew of 4 and a cast of 18... so the idea of trying to reschedule everyone at the last minute was pretty daunting. I told my reticent (is that a word, or did I just blend reluctant and hesitant in my head? I think I might be misusing reticent... sorry guys. Substitute reluctant/hesitant) director that if I weren't doing well in the shoot, that we'd call it off, send everyone home, and try again another day.

Fast forward a bit, and to an entirely different subject.

So I've been casting this film. I put some postings on some websites (not Craigslist) to see if I could get some actors to do it. And I thought, "Getting extras is going to be the single hardest part of this shoot. I can't pay them. It's not going to be useful to their reel (footage that actors use to get auditions) because it's silent. It's not exactly a great credit for their résumé. And on top of that, the scene is a costume party, so I need them to bring their own costumes. No one is going to want to do this project."

And then I got HUNDREDS of responses. Seriously. Hundreds.

I was floored. And actually a little annoyed, because many of the responses were emailed to me, which overloaded my inbox.

I read -- actually read -- every single response. And looked at every headshot. And every résumé. Because, as an actor who submits for things, that's what I hope real casting directors do. That's how I would like to be treated. If I'm putting the effort into submitting to you for a role, then the least you can do is open my email attachments and give me a chance.

In doing so, I saw a lot of really horrible submissions. One guy sent me four topless "modeling" photos. A few guys mentioned that they were single. One woman wrote that she had "some college" and had studied something completely unrelated to acting (and I don't mean like psychology or literature, which could be argued to be tangentially related; I mean, like, architecture or something). And a lot of other random whatnot that I won't go into now. In summation: there are some not bright people out there who are trying to be actors. (I have even gotten several responses TODAY. The posting clearly says that my shoot was yesterday.)

I posted a couple of facebook statuses (which I have since deleted) referencing some of the asinine things that people had written to me. And my friends seemed to think what I had written was funny. So on Saturday, I decided to write a blog post (for that other blog I write for) about things that people should not do when submitting themselves as actors.

I wrote as I usually write: taking frequent intermittent internet breaks; watching tv; going to work for four hours... writing as I feel the need to write. So about 8 hours into composing this post, I accidentally click on something that I did not wish to click on, which took me to a different page... and lost my entire post.

I compose THIS blog on blogger. I make my website on wordpress. Both of those have auto-save functions. But my other blog is on Typepad. It does not have autosave. You know what it saved? The post title. THAT'S IT.

So on Sunday, I decided to have another crack at writing the article. It was not quite as funny as the original. It was far less thorough than the original. It was probably a little angry, because I was mad that I had to rewrite the whole darn thing. But I wrote it.

Maybe I should have also said this: I had not written for that other blog in like a month. Why? Because I somehow became one of the most controversial writers over there, all because of my posts about how actors need to know their moral boundaries. I have some detractors, but generally an equal number of supporters... But my publishing company hates controversy. So they asked me to delete some things from my posts (which were always phrases/sentences/paragraphs that I had mentally deemed innocuous bits). And my last couple of posts, they flat out wouldn't publish. Fine, whatever. I'll guest-blog them for someone else eventually. But I had to write this one quickly just to get SOMETHING with my byline up on their site. And I thought, "this will be light, silly, and innocent; they'll love it."

Sure enough, my direct editor thought it was great. She even sent me an email saying she was sorry about how my initial post was inadvertently deleted... but that she liked what I had written. She said, "I'm sure people will connect with what you wrote."

Great. So that task was out of my head, and I started concentrating on last-minute preparations for my shoot, and stuffing my face with chicken-fried rice before the traumatic experience of not being able to eat real food began.

Monday, the shoot went splendidly! I thought we would be shooting until 8pm, but we were done at 5pm. The extras that I cast came in fantastic costumes (one of which had a neck cuff filled with peacock plumage, and was the sort of accessory that I didn't know existed outside of Vegas -- but I've never been to Vegas, so I'm not actually sure what they have there). And they were all lovely, professional people, who seemed really excited to be there and to be helping. Seriously. I told them all, "I had hundreds of people respond, and I chose people who seemed nice, and professional, because I wanted the shoot to go smoothly. Thank you for living up to that and being lovely people." They beamed back at me.

Seriously, they were great. Obviously, I'm brilliant at casting.

(Me in costume for my mooooovie. It's okay if you don't get what the heck I'm supposed to be.  It's an intentionally terrible costume. That's kind of the joke.)

And I didn't feel sick. Well, I mean, a little... but I've been battling occasional unpredictable pain/discomfort/illness for about three years now, so this wasn't anything I couldn't work through. And *potential TMI alert* I wasn't in the bathroom every fifteen minutes, as I had feared I might be. (Which would have been terrible, considering the costume I was in.

My mother was my production assistant. So on top of signing everyone in, and getting union people to autograph documents, she was also staying on top of my medication schedule and making sure that I took everything that I was supposed to take (and wasn't eating any of the awesome food that we bought for the rest of the cast/crew... instead, she handed me Jell-o. Thanks, mom).

Is this going to be the best film that the world has ever seen? No. But I'm freaking proud of the fact that I wanted to make something, and it is getting made. And if it's not what I wanted it to be, oh well. It's a first attempt. And the fact that I've made that first attempt puts me ahead of everyone who hasn't. It's part of my learning process. (And I feel very much the same way about it as I felt about National Novel Writing Month; if I don't push myself to try while giving yourself the freedom to fail, then I'm never going to accomplish anything.)


AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!! PAIN!!!!!!! I THINK THIS IS WHAT PAIN FEELS LIKE!!!!!!!

AHHHHHHAHAHAH!!!!!!!

Sorry. It's getting more manageable. I'm kind of mad at myself now for having tried to make an esoteric joke while I was having an intense pain spasm instead of just not typing. Seriously, I typed that last bit WHILE I was having the pain. I even opened my eyes for a second because the pain was so intense.

(Side note: you are not supposed to have intense pain after a colonoscopy. This is not related to the procedure. This is the pain that the procedure was attempting to diagnose).

Right. Anyway.

So we wrapped production around 5pm. And I checked my emails on my phone for the first time in the day. And I get these little notification emails every time someone comments on my other blog, so that I can help the company moderate spam.

The most recent comment email is the one I open first... And it appears to be someone who is attacking me, and defending a previous comment that she had made in which she had previously attacked me. And she claimed that she had met me in real life, and had all sorts of negative thoughts about me, and that this company should not be allowing me to blog for them.

At first, I laughed. Who put sandpaper on her toilet seat?

But then I read all of the comments. Several of them were unfriendly. There was one kind soul (whom I do not know in real life) who took an impassioned stance to defend me (God bless Tim B.)... only for the original nasty poster to imply that she thought Tim B. was a pseudonym I had created in order to defend myself.

Okay, here's the thing. I've gotten some nasty comments on my posts before. I've gotten them on every blog I've ever had... (which is up to six now, I think). And I've written some controversial stuff, which I absolutely knew was going to incite that sort of behavior.

But this time:

1. I was not expecting it. I did not think I'd written anything remotely incendiary.

2. I usually get more positive comments than negative ones.

3. I am generally writing something that I have thought a lot about, and that I stand behind 100%.

4. I don't think I've ever gotten any sort of personal character assassination for it from a person I've met in real life (aside from one time on THIS blog, in which a person left a comment about how I end sentences with prepositions, and how this should prevent me from thinking I'm an excellent grammarian, which I generally claim to be in my real life.*)

*(NOTE: I do not take grammar very seriously when I'm blogging, and see nothing wrong with beginning sentences with conjunctions, ending sentences with prepositions, or using run-on sentences and incomplete sentences as style-defining story-telling devices.)


This time, I quickly ran off a silly little post, and people are FURIOUS. More than one person has said that I should be FIRED over it. And someone who clearly met me on set and has been reading my posts waiting to find something to attack me over chose this as her moment. (And made some inaccurate statements about me in the process, which I would love to refute.)

Now, as you may know from reading this blog, pretty much my greatest goal in life is to get every person I meet to like me (and to think that I'm talented and intelligent, but those are secondary). And whenever I find out that someone doesn't care for me, I'm hurt by it (even if I don't particularly care for them).

I try to steal myself against it. I know I'm a bit of an odd duck. I know I have some awkward tendencies and strange coping mechanisms for my social anxiety. I know that sometimes I get nervous around people and stop looking anyone in the eye and can't stop talking. I tell myself that it's okay if not everyone likes me. I tell myself that I'm just an acquired taste.

But the truth is, I think I'm a big bright ray of sunshine, and I just don't get how there are people who don't get that. I do my best to be positive, and friendly, and encouraging. I try to put goodness out into the universe with the hope that it will come back to me.

And I beat myself up if that doesn't happen.

Does everyone hate me? Is what this random commenter said true? Do people really laugh about me behind my back when I walk away from them? Am I deluded for thinking that I'm a skilled actor who is making progress in my career?

Five minutes after my shoot ended, these were the thoughts in my head.

And then the medication kicked in and I started feeling terrible.

Of course it did.

I wrote to my editor on the train. I asked if I should ignore the comments, or respond to them. Should I apologize? Should I delete my post out of deference to the offended parties? Should I delete the offensive comments?

She wrote back that it is not the policy of the company to delete either posts or comments. She said if she were in my shoes, she would "take the high road," which I assumed meant that she would not dignify their comments with a response, and would instead let them land with a thud. But that's not what she meant. She said:

"...contribute a comment that does something to the extent of reminding
readers that these are your opinions, which you have a right to, and that
you felt the need to write something based on the enormous amount of
submissions you received which, in your opinion, were working against
actors being cast.  It is truly unfortunate that someone has chosen this
forum to lob a personal attack against you, and anonymously at that.  It
is cowardly and tacky.  That's another reason I encourage you to take the
high road, and encourage this person to leave your personal life out of
this difference of opinion.  And mention your master's degree."

I decided not to do anything yesterday, as I was more emotional than rational on the subject. And after the anesthesiologist's warning that I "should not make any major decisions today," I'm putting it off until tomorrow.

Right. So. I got home last night feeling just lousy -- both physically and emotionally -- and drained from the long hard work day on set. I ate some chicken broth, Jell-o, and magnesium citrate (which was clear, but carbonated and cherry-flavored, and actually really delicious). And then I was up half the night feeling less than great.

I went in for the procedure, which was the easy part. I cracked jokes that the nurses laughed at, which helped in rebuilding my self-esteem. I got a nice email from a friend, which I read on my phone from behind a hospital curtain. I got an IV (dude, I LOVE getting IVs, no joke. Also love getting my blood drawn. I'm not a masochistic needle lover -- or at least, that's not the whole story. It's just neat that it's simultaneously so simple and yet so science-y. Is there a word that means science-y? I can think of this word. I want to say scientological, but that can't be a word, and if it is, surely it has to do with Scientology and not science. SCIENTIFIC! I GOT IT! Sorry. I'm not going to delete this train of thought, because it's probably funny. I hope. I like funny.)

Right. And then they wheeled me down a hallway on the bed, past all the other patients, who were looking at me, and I felt like the Queen in the Homecoming parade (a title I narrowly lost in high school... I was runner-up to Ashley Cook, whom I had never heard of and never knew was in my class... I wonder if she'll be at the reunion so that I can finally meet her...). And then they wheeled me out into the hallway, and I was reminded of the opening credit sequence from The Monkees, in which they're riding down the street on a bed, and it made me happy.

The doctor said I'd be knocked-out 30 seconds after the anesthesia-nurse pumped me full of IV meds, and he must've been right, because the next thing I remember was waking up back behind the curtain. And wondering if everyone I've ever met secretly hates me and laughs about me behind my back.

The anesthesiologist had told me that if I had any dreams while I was under, that they would be pleasant. Yeah, I don't think mine were pleasant.

Oooh. I can open my eyes now. Shiny.

I tried to talk to my dad afterwards, but kept slurring my words. I'm not even a huge word-slurrer when I'm drunk, so that was weird for me. I don't drink much, but maybe I should start bringing an IV line around to parties with me, and getting anesthetically hammered intravenously. (On second thought, that's probably not going to get people to like me any more than they already don't.)

I talked to the doctor who did my procedure. He said that, once again, nothing looks strange. I look like I'm in picture-perfect health, which is why my pain is so mind-boggling. Honestly, that's disappointing for me. I'd rather have a less-than-clean bill of health, and an actual diagnosis. I would like medical proof that I'm not crazy, and have actual, definable pain. I would like to be able to describe what's wrong with me in terms that don't make doctors laugh (as I have currently nick-named my various discomforts with names like "the electric basket", "telephone wire", and "the egg-timer", so that I can keep them mentally separated. My gastroenterologist seems to particularly enjoy the code name "electric basket", which is, in fact, the most severe of my pains.)

That means the next thing up is another camera. I've moved past endoscopy, cystoscopy, and colonoscopy, so I'm now in line for a laparoscopy. Yes, instead of finding new places to shove cameras into my body, the doctors are saying, "Well screw it, we have no idea what the hell is wrong, so let's just cut her open and find out."

I told my doctor that I was having some mild discomfort ("egg-timer"). I asked if that was normal after the procedure. He said, "Well, not really," but that it also wasn't altogether shocking that poking around inside my body might aggravate whatever preexisting condition I might have (despite them not being able to locate the cause of it, which is frustrating).

They put me in a wheelchair, which I thought was cute, as I was perfectly capable of walking. But it's hospital policy.

Then, as I was being wheeled out of the hospital, suddenly "telephone wire" struck. So, so badly. The worst pain I've had since about April. I literally shoved my fist in my mouth and bit down (which as I'm recalling it feels reminiscent of the opening credits of The Golden Girls), because I figured that the last thing people entering a hospital want to see is someone screaming in pain as they are being wheeled to the exit and dumped in the parking lot. Once I got outside the hospital building, tears were streaming down my face. That wheelchair that I didn't think I needed? Either my dad, the nurse, or both had to lift me out of it and place me in the car. I don't remember how it happened, because all of my energy was focused on managing my pain. I do remember the nurse putting my seatbelt on.

Right. So. That's where I am.

I'm actually not in pain at the moment at all, aside from my head (which is probably from dehydration, as I couldn't eat/drink for about 12 hours there pre-procedure). But I'm tired. And pretty out of it. And angry at my body. And angry at the commenters. And angry with myself for inciting a riot against myself.

Oh, and I got a phone call about two hours ago asking if I can work tomorrow as a photo double, which I would LOVE to do, but then they asked if my hair was the same, and I had to tell them that no, it's now shoulder-length (because I cut it right before starting to film my little short), and they said they couldn't hire me because of it. Which is fine, but guys, I could've used some good news today.

I'm supposed to go into work (I work retail part-time now) for a "mandatory employee meeting" from 7-9. My bosses all gave me permission to skip it (in light of my procedure, and also the fact that I'm leaving that job in a couple of weeks). There's still part of me that is considering going, just because I'm so fretful over the thought that the other employees might resent me for not attending (even though I'll see them twice at most before I move). And because I want to be thought of as a trooper. And because the store is a chain, and it would be really great if I could get a job at said chain out in LA...

But my light-sensitivity is turning into a headache now. Although strangely not a migraine. It's kind of in my forehead, but goes down to the bridge of my nose. Or maybe that has to do with that stupid oxygen thing they put in my nose earlier that made me think of Walt from Modern Family.

Sorry for how disjointed and extemporaneous this turned out to be. But this is what happens when I attempt to blog all in one sitting. (Seriously, I just wrote this entire post without getting up from the couch I'm reclining on. At one point my dad came in to ask what I wanted for dinner, and then I checked my email when he left. But aside from that, I wrote this all in one go. Endurance with anesthesia side effects.

I hope no one actually read this whole thing. I feel like I should apologize to you if you did. Or buy you candy?

If you leave a comment, I will send you candy.


May you not find out that people hate you at a time when you haven't eaten for 17 hours.

Love,

~Angela~