Life imitating art, imitating life

Isn’t it strange how the lyrics of a song can suddenly make so much sense to you but in a way they were probably never intended?

I had a terrible migraine last night, and it got worse when I shut my eyes.  It burned itself out eventually and I ended up sleeping through the day and now sitting here wide awake at an ungodly hour.  Those hours when you think too much because there’s little else to do.

I was thinking about my now imminent surgery and the things I need to do to be prepared.  Things such as the antibacterial bathing for five days beforehand that will destroy my skin and hair in order to hopefully take out any presence of good old staph aureus in the blast.  By the way, I showered twice a day with allegedly antibacterial shower gel the last time I was in hospital, both before and after I was sliced open, and I still got a staph aureus infection in the wound.  Either the gels you buy from the pharmacy aren’t up to the job and aren’t worth the extra cost, or I was destined to get it regardless.  Sometimes you can’t beat nature even if you are human and accustomed to forcing it to your will.

This surgery will hopefully mean I can eat properly again; get some of that nutrition stuff this bag of genetic hiccups seems to want.  That should finally help me recover from the other problems that have been plaguing me for far longer than they should have.  Usually, I have a glitch for a while – a week, a month, a quarter – then bounce back and function (almost) normally.  That just isn’t happening despite the great help I’ve had and the experimental solutions I’ve agreed to report on to help others should they end up with the same bizarre configuration of happenings.

It might not have dragged on for this length of time were it not for the fact that I have The Biggy underlying the Dinky and everyone, in their professional capacity, wants to blame The Biggy.  Poor thing, it gets the blame for everything and I’m the only one that defends it.  After all this time, it’s like an old friend.  Not one I’d add to the Christmas card list – we’re on somewhat awkward terms – but I refuse to listen when I know it isn’t the culprit.  But because it has form it gets sent down without a trial.  I knew it wasn’t to blame and I kept shouting, but did they listen?  No.  Did they take off their spectacles and sit back as soon as I said I was an associate of The Biggy?  Yes.

The greatest tragedy in my life is what made them finally sit up and listen.  Because of what happened to my lovely Mum, they thought “oh” and sent me for a scan.  Lo and behold, an answer that absolves The Biggy, an alibi, the seond gunman emerged from behind the grassy knoll.  The long and the short of it is I’m being sliced and diced to resolve the Dinky so that The Biggy can be appeased and go back to sleep for as long as it cares to.

The thought took my unravelling mind down a path in perfect parallel to a song I’ve known for a lot of years now.  For the Ocean by Finger Eleven, from the Greyest of Blue Skies album (2000).  View the full lyrics here or even better, listen to the song here.   

I was reminded of “It’s like waiting for the ocean to save you from the waves” so strongly I could hear the track playing over the speakers of my brain, and when I listened to it again, I thought the whole track could describe my life (albeit in a somewhat abstract fashion).  So strange, I thought, that life sometimes does imitate art, and also the converse in even the most mundane ways.  Next Tuesday, the ocean will, fingers crossed (only ten fingers), save me from the waves.  Do you wonder how I stay so complacent…?