Why don’t they ever listen to us?
And Krispy Krunchy Krab...
Thank you to all of the recipe developers who responded quickly and are keeping to the schedule and are now starting to send in their testing and photos! Y’all are amazing. Look at this beautiful photo Geza Darrah took of his finished dish. It needs some tweaking, but that’s my own fault.
We ate Dungeness on the Krispy Krunchy Chicken’s secret menu at Irving Street Seafood Market
Crab head fat omelette.
The Maisonets are LIVE
Passerbys are watching us while we stand on the sidewalk outside of The Residence. Shawn is shaking his head and holding his hands up in the air as an act of defiance, whilst I’m shouting at him to “TOUCH IT!”
I have been listening to the 1990s alternative rock of my teenagehood non-stop since we arrived at The Residence. It’s something about Chris Cornell’s angst and Mark Kozelek’s whining that seems to coalesce with the ocean breeze that falls through the windows that I find absolutely restorative.
The smell of San Francisco will always remind me of: the Community Bookstore on Valencia, the sound of shuffling feet on wooden floor boards, ephemera strewn about like autumn leaves and tales from the Barbary Coast. There were still dashes of 1990s punk magic left behind when I moved to the city in 2004. Touches that were eventually washed out with the tides. I can’t believe it’s been almost twenty years since these streets first saw my creativity and Craigslist ratchery.
Last Friday was the first day in months where my stomach wasn’t in pain. It had been four days straight where I hadn’t eaten: dairy, fast food, heavily processed foods, or been stressed. That’s been making up my diet for the better of…a while. I’m finally admitting this to the world. I’m ashamed. And as I lied on the floor and used my uncontrollable crying as a means to foster up another ten leg crunches... I just thought of how much bullshit all of it is. All of it.
From the constant bombardment of fast food images taking my eyeballs hostage to feeling like doctors are trying to teach me a lesson for having gotten fat. My PCP is a white woman in residence and her attending is also a white woman. They don’t listen to me. I went in about my abdomen pains in June of 2020. I had been mentioning the PCOS thing for a year and it wasn’t until I used the “let’s rule out some shit before I agree to bariatric surgery” last month (!!!) as leverage before they even offered me an ultrasound. I’m not getting the surgery. I got on a scale yesterday and realized I had lost 15 pounds since the last time I was weighed. But, they wouldn’t know that because they haven’t done an in-clinic visit in nine months.
I’m sorry that I’ve gotten to this place where doctors view me as someone who just sat on their ass eating Cheetos and now I’ve gotten “myself into this mess, she can get herself out of it too.” I wish they’d offer things like a stress test (which they haven’t) or a look at my heart or digestive system (which they haven’t) as fast as they offered me invasive fucking bariatric surgery. And I’m sorry they’re in the position where lobbyists are pushing them to force that shit on people.
I’m sorry that I’m brown in a county that loves our food and our culture and not us.
And I’m sorry that all of that has made me angry when I was a perfectly happy child brought up in a family, with a full cast of angry and violent and exhausted characters, that never got a chancel to heal. “Anything that’s covered up, don’t get healed.”
I’m sorry that when I say “I’m tired,” the doctors (and a former therapist) are conditioned to reply “it must be hard being carrying around all of that physical weight.” Not as hard as it is carrying around all this emotional weight that you are continuing to contribute to! That’s not why I’m fucking tired. I’m fucking tired because of all of y’all’s bullshit.
Every fucking obstacle I’ve (we’ve) had to overcome: education, avoiding being a statistic, avoiding stray bullets from drive bys, avoiding bullets from mass shootings, avoiding bullets by police officers, employment and now healthcare. All of the things every fucking human has a fucking right to. And I have GOOD INSURANCE!!!
And they have the audacity to narrow it all down to the BMI. Are they seriously gonna tell a Tongan or Samoan that they’re forced to fit in the bullshit mold of what America’s Whites deem to be “height/weight proportionate?” I remember seeing that on so many dating sites, “HWP.” You’re gonna tell a 6’4’’ Tongan that they (and their bones) are supposed to be 164-205 pounds? Can…you…imagine?
It’s crippling to think that I’m better off than some others. But, with this anxiety…there are some days I’m so overwhelmed that I can’t even focus.
I spent my 40th birthday sitting on the sidewalk outside The Residence with Shawn and Tina; two of my very good friends and advisors. We commiserated on aches, pains and the healthcare system while eating tiny cupcakes. We ate dim sum while Tina felt around under my shirt, touching my panza to feel for anything irregular. Passerbys are watching us while we stand on the sidewalk outside of The Residence. Shawn is shaking his head and holding his hands up in the air as an act of defiance, whilst I’m shouting at him to “TOUCH IT!”
What could it be?! Here are some things I’m thinking of bringing up:
Dairy sensitivity test
X-ray of abdomen
Stool analysis
Gallbladder infection?
Hernia?
Ulcers? This one seems to be like a no-brainer. I’m surprised I haven’t given myself one of these already.
Gastritis?
Refer me to a gastrointestinal
If anyone of Mami’s Maniacs would like to send trinkets, Starbucks gift cards or nail polish:
Mami Maisonet
5960 S Land Park #222
Sacramento, CA 95822
If you want to contribute to this artist in residence, mami’s f’ing expensive ass burgers or Dollar Tree visits:
It took me about 4 years to finally figure out what was going on with my guts. I had a number of doctors that didn't listen to, believe me, or thought I was imagining it. I finally demanded a new doctor and went to a black woman. She was the first doctor that sat and listened and believed me. She did a bunch of tests on me ruling out all the possible things it could be and finally figured out it was a gluten sensitivity. Even though I test negative for celiac, my system can't handle gluten, so I've had to go gluten-free and I take anti-inflamation drugs and finally I am pain free.
All humans deserve to be seen and heard by empathetic and understanding healthcare professionals. I see you. And I think we’d have some fun eating tiny cupcakes (or whatever) on a stoop and laughing at the world, for what it’s worth. From one human who experiences chronic pain to another - I hear this and you aren’t alone.