For the record, the title of this blog
is not a typo, it is a reference to Aqua Teen Hunger Force. ATHF is a
surreal late night cartoon that appeals to me and some of my friends
for some reason. I've been trying to think of a better way to explain
it, but it all comes out like this:
So the giant floating box of french
fries says, ”So you're local, right?” And the 8 ft tall
witchdoctor in basketball shoes says...
I'll try not to have too many more
inside jokes. Still, the title will remain what it is.
As we begin this new chapter of our
lives, I will begin this blog with the epilogue of the previous, unwritten
chapter of our lives. We had been having an excellent time killing time as we waited for our Peace Corps assignment. It was
great hanging out with so many like-minded people, however I feel
like I grow more as a person when I'm around a more heterogeneous mix
of people. That being said, I made incredible friendships that I will
always treasure, and I hope will endure for the rest of my life.
Also, I was conducting an experiment on the viability of living on
minimum wage without social programs to assist you. Conclusions?
Totally do-able, as long as you don't do anything fun that requires
money, don't have dependents, don't care about savings, and work at a
job that lets you eat reasonably healthy food for cheap. And don't
get sick after you turn 26. Thanks to Obamacare, we were able to make
dozens of trips to our doctors to make sure every i was dotted and
every t crossed in triplicate as we filled out our thorough Peace
Corps medical evaluation. Let me emphasize, thorough.
We got comprehensive dental check-ups and learned valuable lessons
about advocating for our health. After the applications were turned
in, we both felt incredibly comfortable talking to doctors and
knowing what questions to ask. Unfortunately, these were skills that
were about to be put to use again. I'm sure most of you know about
the wayward hatchet and my poorly placed Achilles tendon. It still
hurts when I talk about it, so I won't other than to say its back to
normal. Beyond the emotional scars, that is. Oh yeah, and a really
big physical scar. So our nomination for May-June of 2012 was not to
be. We were heartbroken at the time, but as time would tell,
everything happens for a reason.
Now, we had been researching every
country in which the Peace Corps serves to prepare for an eventual
invitation. Every country except Kenya, that is. Kenya was too
perfect. We refused to look at it. Any country would have been an
incredible adventure and we would have been honored to serve, but a
little part of us would have regretted that we weren't being
stationed in Kenya. And then, while Julia was home for her cousins
wedding in early June, a rather large blue envelope arrived. By
large, I mean over 3 pounds. And by this point my co-workers were
regularly joking that we were never going to actually leave, and I
should start a retirement plan at Cheba Hut. We were starting to lose
it a little as well, having now been in the application process for
over a year and a half. We were grasping at straws; maybe teaching
English in Asia, maybe just driving south until the road ran out. So
you can imagine the overwhelming flood of emotions when I opened the
Official Blue Envelope of Destiny sealing our fate to Kenya. Maybe I
screamed and danced with joy. Maybe I hyperventilated and lost
consciousness altogether. I honestly don't remember. I do remember
texting Julia a single word. Kenya!
We had just under 3 months to sell all
of our possessions, get out of our lease, quit our jobs, move across
country, visit with multiple groups of friends and two sets of
family. After nearly two years of sitting around in perpetual
uncertainty it was time to hit the ground running.
And because this wasn't enough of a
challenge, let's throw in a kidney stone. Kidney stones hurt. A lot.
Finding out you have another one that must be removed before we can
leave? That's bad. Not even knowing if you will be eligible to serve
if you do get it removed? Maddening. So we were now blindly jumping
through hoops without knowing if there was a light at the end of the
tunnel or not. Without insurance, (of course this happens in the 4
month lapse of coverage) I willingly put myself under the knife
without promise of still being able to serve at the end of it all.
Now I said kidney stones hurt. Kidney stone surgery hurts more.
Failed kidney stone surgery blows that pain out of the water and
lasts much longer. And, no, it wasn't that new-fangled ultrasound type 'surgery'. It was the old-fashioned invasive kind, because I could get it scheduled quicker and we were on a tight schedule. After ten days of excruciating pain and a host of
other side effects, the details of which I spare you, since the mere
mention has caused brave men's stomachs to turn and extremities to
withdraw in horror, I went under the knife again. The stone was
removed, but it still sucked. So after 2 weeks of being bed ridden
(couch ridden, technically. I didn't have the abdominal ability to
get into bed) and 2 weeks of Julia frantically taking care of stuff
(I say stuff because I have no idea what she was doing. I was on a
lot of percocet) we were as packed and prepped as we were going to
be. So we were off to New York, still not knowing if we were even
going anywhere. It wasn't until September 21st that we
actually got the go-ahead from the Office of Medical Services. It
wasn't until today (9/27) that I found out that most of these medical
expenses would actually be covered through a variety programs in a
variety of states. So here's to blind faith. We get to go to Kenya.
We won't go bankrupt in the process. (literally bankrupt, if not for
charity programs and medicaid (or medicare, I can't keep them
straight)). So here we are, three days from departure, having been
through a hell of an adventure already. Let no one doubt my
commitment to this endeavor.
