Evil Gal Productions

Mere Smith
is a recovering Southerner,
longtime TV writer,
author and blogger.
February 29th, 2016 by Mere Smith

The Year of Blogging: 2-29-16


(Recent mortal thoughts got me wondering where I’ll be in four more years. Given Bergson‘s theory of duration, it could be a millennium or a minute from now. Kinda hooked on the Bergson thing. The last couple weeks, the intensity of time…)

That was Sacheen Littlefeather yesterday.

I had to leap over #OscarsSoWhite. Leapt over the show, too, sat in bed playing Plants Vs. Zombies. I know some people thought a boycott was ridiculous, and I confess, there were times I felt ridiculous. Drawing my fingers across my iPad, planting lima beans that shoot laser beams from their eyes, my sad little solo protest felt… well, “naive” would be a nice way of putting it. But I can’t deny it also felt like an act. Like intent. And okay, the road to hell… But somewhere, at the heart of things, I have to believe there is space for honest hope. And if you can turn honest hope into enough acts, maybe eventually that matters.

Also I watched Lady Gaga’s performance for Best Song and it was amazing so what I’m saying is I’m a complete fraud with no integrity.

Now back to the story where my dad is in the hospital waking up out of the medically-induced coma we were afraid he was never going to wake up out of without brain damage because he went so long without oxygen. Because I think I come off much better in this one.



(Yes? No? ‘Bout the same?)

That’s how my mom told me my dad had woken up.

Over text, because we’d left the damn hospital because they said we could leave the damn hospital.

They said he wasn’t going to wake up. At least not yet.

They said once they started the warming process (his body had been chilled down to a cozy 33 degrees Celsius, which is… I don’t know, Higher Number But Still Pretty Low in Fahrenheit), it would be at least 12 hours before we’d know if Dad was still in there. They were slowly weaning him off the Propofol at the same time. Nine tomorrow morning at the earliest, they said.

(“They” were a big part of the experience. A lot of people – you wouldn’t believe how many people – go into They, but in the end, all of those individual people come down to They.)

Mom stayed at the hospital. He woke up three hours after we left. Hence the text.

The day after, they moved him to a private room. He had his birthday in the hospital – we brought him cards and flowers and grocery-store balloons tied with ribbons (remember those?), and I told him it was his ReBirthday. He said it was better than an Afterbirthday, then asked me if I thought the cardiologist looked like a young Harold Ramis.


I feel like I should write,

And here is the lesson I learned from this life-or-death ordeal… 

Except I’m not sure I’ve shaken one out yet.

It’s not for lack of material – rather, there’s so much to unpack, I’m kinda afraid to open the suitcase. Call it Reverse Pandora Syndrome: I know there’s a bunch of scary shit in there, and I have very little interest in exposing it right now.

Except that means hope lives in the suitcase, too, thus in the end the fucking thing must be unpacked.

(What bizarre ramblings I subject you to, Poor Nonexistent Reader.)



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