Last (Photo)

Not done yet.

Well, this time the movers showed up. AND ten minutes early, professional and friendly. Rather impressive. Our stuff is on it's way. All we have to do is clean, and pack for the flight. And try not to worry about what we forgot. Because, we always forget something. Plenty of time to clean tomorrow, since I am feeling a bit icky today. Nothing serious, no doubt largely stress. And the jackhammer across the street, that's been fun. Moby is napping beside me. Resilient creature, didn't like being locked in the bedroom while the movers had all the doors open. D off running last errand.

Weather is supposed to be raining on our end when we leave, as if those predictions would be in any way accurate. We'll see. We've decided it's lucky to rain on moving day. Don't have many moves when it didn't rain.

Connectivity gone at unspecified time tomorrow. The last bit of wait. Ha! And you thought I was gone. Fooled you. Or done posting until moved. Feh. Got to do something while I sit here with my head spinning. Looking at all the stuff I have to pack tightly, clean, or toss...

Boxes (Photos)

Movers tomorrow.

Ride

First, a PSA, Lorainne at Hoarded Ordinaries has been forced to move her blog. Go leave her a blogwarming (o).


I rode the Wild Mouse at Boblo Island when I was small. One of the first "grown-up" rides I was tall enough for, right after the Ferris Wheel. This Wild Mouse had a family story.

Granny was in her 70s when she decided to go on, along on a family trip. The operator, no doubt a local high school kid hired for the summer, after trying to talk her out of it, told her she should hold on to her glasses. On the first jerking turn, this proved to be bad advice, her wire frames were flung off her face by her jolted hand. To the operator's credit, he let all, (or was it one of?) the Kavanaughs present search beneath the ride. Spectacles found, twisted, glass intact, repairable, and a good story to pass down. Granny enjoyed herself, so I was told.

I'd compared my current state of mind to being on the chugging trip up the first hill of a roller coaster. Wild Mouse is a much better analogy. Small gut dropping dips, sudden shuddering turns, a lot of rattling and noise, a moment to admire the scenery, then another shake and screeching hard left, another bruise where the handle hits my knee, a good, long trip, then it's over.

My work here is done, now all is packing. Final good-byes hugged, cafeteria card shredded, shoes brought home. The heat of a 90F Boston for the trip back yesterday a kick in the butt. The let-down, the anxiety, aches and hesitations plague me. All will be done, but I have had to wait. No sense packing the better litter boxes three days earlier than necessary, when it will be another 6-10 days before we will have them back. Plans scream in my ears, squeals of fear, excitement, dread.

We go for a few souvenirs today. Tokens of appreciation intended for our cheering section back in SLC. A delaying tactic to stop me boxing and taping Everything by midnight.

Nets

Too sensitive. The accusation, the pity, etch my soul. I felt all the pain and betrayal, all the neglect and abuse, every silently suffering stupidity around me. My involuntary tears painted a bullseye on my forehead, turning on the waterworks, or taking it all too seriously. I came to hate my own senses, unable to turn any of it off, tune any of it out. Muting my responses dug into the heart of my privacy, dignity, but I had far less control than I needed.

I felt crazy. Weak and deformed. Cracked, leaking, and sparking. One year, the worst of all, I managed comfortably numb, Pink Floyd vibrating through my bones. It was like my whole self had gone to sleep, like a crossed leg, a slept upon hand, a horrible sensation of disconnection and loss.

Only during the last sixteen years with D, who loves me entire, who sees my twists and scars as proof of character, raw and compelling as Red Rock country, have I embraced my yawning gaps and wells of tears. I have come to believe when I feel broken and isolated, that I am, yes, flawed, amputated, wobbly. And that damage is why I can see into others' hearts, why I can understand. My ability to keep my reactions covered has improved, a quilt of cheerfulness, a merry laugh of genuine distraction.

Unlike the obviously good gifts of the fairies, that often turn out to be curses, the curse of the "bad" fairy is the hard gift, and the one that opens up the world. No easy, painless, lazy distraction, but the wretched path to real peace. Feeling deeply leads me to understand what, exactly, I am experiencing.

The easy, quiet roads all lead to vague dissatisfactions and despair. Comfort that hides truth, silence that precludes necessary, harsh, words, are traps. The drugged denial of feeling leads away from humanity, and insight.

My sensitivity is a blessing entire. I know what I have endured, so I can know how to love, and give. Pain won't kill me, a broken heart will heal (albeit with the doors knocked off.) Loss will fill with new understanding, tears will dry in the presence of laughter, love grows more the more who share in it, open, open open, withhold nothing.

I cast my senses out, fearing no torn holes. I know how to mend them. A net in a box rots uselessly, better shredded and lost to the storm in the attempt. Insensitivity is no virtue. Responsiveness engages, grows, changes.

I stretch out my arms, my heart aches, tears burn my eyes, laughter burbles.

Jaywalking (Photo)

Jaywalking here is not a misdemeanor, it's a civil right, and a survival skill. I have seen groups of people spontaneously vote that it was the pedestrians turn, by moving en mass across a street, stopping cars as necessary. Most, though certainly not all, are alert and nimble - probably thanks to natural selection. I will miss that when I go to SLC, and will have to remind myself not to cross safely at my own discretion.

I will also, occasionally miss the rainfogmist.

Mug

My head is sore. I wound up working yesterday, which was fine really. I can't do much more packing without leaving us unnecessarily impoverished of our small comforts. Nor have I much patience. Every bump and scrape excoriates. Better occupied yesterday, all in all. The Occ Health nurse was probably right, better there than home watching bad TV. And I certainly was needed.

Tia got my purse from my locker, as I waited in the wheelchair with my supervisor for the elevator. Needed my ID card for the ER. The wheelchair because I know, bleeding and surrounded by nurses, just do as they say. As Ida says, I'm lucky they didn't make me go on a gurney. Anyway, Tia tells me that as she was at my locker, she heard work being done on the wall of the conference room behind, hammering and thumping. Which she figures is why the mug fell on my head. Makes me feel less crazy, a reason for the thing to attack me. I loved her best Thursday morning, as I sat there bleeding, she made me laugh.

"I know you didn't want to work, but I didn't realize how much! Dude, what did you do?"

Nothing like being taken too seriously to make it all worse. Bless the smart asses for easing the grim. Yesterday she sympathized that I had to chat with said supervisor while hurt.

Tiny damn cut, getting no sympathy from that at all, not even a stitch to show. Feh. And had to show off my bad dye job, which I dare not correct until the wee lac heals. My whole skull feels jarred, still having occasional crying jags. A minor incident, straw on a camel.

Must pack. A little. It's become a functional obsession.

Mugged

By a mug on the shelf of my locker while putting on my shoe. "I'm fine, I'm fine" doesn't convince when the response is "No, you're not, you are bleeding down your neck." Only a fairly superficial laceration, but scalps do bleed profusely. My head aches. I am home for 48 hours mandatory, since I work in such a "Sterile" environment, with no chance of coming into contact with anything infectious in a hospital OR. Nope, no blood or sick people there, ever.

Vicious mug. Thermal stainless steel, empty, but it got in a lucky shot, probably the plastic lip hit.

The headache is no migraine, but I'm not thinking perfectly straight.

Missing

I am well hugged these day, a gratifying experience, as I take leave of the many wonderful people I have known under stressful and amusing circumstances over the last couple of years. Help a nurse or scrub tech through a multi trauma, receive a hand for a huge oncology disarticulation, a bond forms. I am assured I will be missed, emails exchanged, commiserations exchanged. More than the obvious memories were pricking the backs of my knees.

Then I began looking up Army expressions. Trying to remember pertinent "I'm so short..."s.

FIIGMO. FUBIS. I'm so short, if I pulled my socks up, I'd be blind. Soon, don't bother opening the door, I'll just walk under it, then I'll sit on a dime and my feet'll dangle, ultimately, I'll parachute off said dime. Army friendships, forged fast and deep in the misery of the military, then abandoned with transfers. Love of conversation, and companionship, warring with frustration at the organization that forces the closeness. People who take care of each other, in the context of a stupid institution. Knowing I will lose contact with friends who know me very well, probably forever. Desperate to leave an increasingly toxic post.


Chewing the fat, never being more lonely than I wanted, bullshitting with tough warm people without brakes, I still miss that. The OR fills it in a slightly healthier, and substantially more lucrative and sustainable form. This particular hospital management reminds me rather forcefully of my National Guard experience. Yes, I am down to counting hours left to work (52). Details in a few weeks. Or I'll forgive and forget, see how I feel then.

I never really socialized with the nurses and techs here, not being used to bar-gatherings, nor formal parties. I demurred. Especially after knowing my time was growing short. One exception, I let the techs I often work with know at a bowling event, low key and a lot of fun, right before handing in my notice. Mostly much younger, another hurdle. My fellow nurses provided references for me months ago. Two have already told me they would be stopping by to visit us in SLC within the year.

My social ineptitude, back pain, preference for D's company, yearly moves, terrible inflexible schedule, all hampered extra-cirricular meetings. As well as the inherent problem of Boston, few who work here live in this polarized city, students and transients, or the very wealthy. Most middle income, permanent Bostonians live out, bedroom communities, as far as New Hampshire and Rhode Island, or out on Cape Cod. My former pattern of hanging out in friends homes could not work here.

I will miss all the people I work with, I will miss so many people getting most of my little jokes and references. I will have to clean up my language, again. (Not as bad as when I spent time among those who considered fuck to be an all purpose word; adjective/adverb/noun/verb/ and phrase connector, like black, goes with everything.) Good, funny, smart, caring people.

They also give good hugs, and tell me I will be missed. I will miss them.

Beam (Photo)

High window, with grass, and sunbeam.

Up (Photo)

Cat heaven. Up on boxes, a box to climb into.

Card

I gladly send my mother-in-law a card, since that matters to her. Just wish she wouldn't insist on returning the gesture. It's meant kindly, her idea that I mother my patients and her son. Except that it's like being wished a Happy Birthday back on her birthday, and given a present. Awkward and imposing, no demur on my part sufficient. "Mother" conjures wringing discomfort for me, not a word I will ever fit.

I don't mother. I nurse the sick. Not the same at all. I'm the trained, professional stand-in for the family member, not always mother. For the necessary time, my patient has my genuine, if time constricted, one-way, love. I'm there to be capable, when mom might panic, wife might cry, husband might pass out. I'm the one my patient can cry in front of, they don't have to stay brave for me. I'm the one that will not be manipulated, either. Owed nothing but cooperation, and my pay.

Nor am I mother to D. He's an adult. I don't know him as a child. I don't tell him what to do, we are partners, no one is boss. When he is ill or exhausted, I help, with my training and knowledge as our resource.

The Post Secret today proof enough that motherhood is not a magical relationship. Not automatic sainthood. Rather - a position fraught with snares and trapdoors, and opportunity.

My cousin Liz is a wonderful mother to all her children and theirs, they come back to her freely, enjoy her company. Gratefully, I have sheltered under her wing, felt the brush of what mother's love can be. Just the same as any other real love, not conferred with childbirth, needing instead to be conscientiously grown out of it, attentively tended, allowed to change. A good mum will love her baby differently than she loves her high schooler, and will become a good friend to her daughter when she has her own life, her son when he is a father himself.


No miracles, all love takes attentiveness, kind respect, flexibility, humor. Those blessed with good mums see only the magic, those with bad see only the hypocrisy, the ones inbetween are torn with frustrated guilt. In the last camp myself, I had to let go completely.

D's mom will wish me Happy Mother's Day. I will dig down deep for enough grace to swallow that prickly gift.

Adventures (Photos)

Adventures (Photos)

Continuing adventures in Moby's world.

Sun (Photos)

Moby enjoys the sun, and has finally found his way to the upper window, where I'd put the grass for one more day's growth before putting it down. I guess he thought I was a little too slow. My dear cousins took us out to Plum Island on D's birthday. Turned out to be a perfectly wonderful day, with real Mexican food that made D so happy, and a bit red in the face. He's been so heads down in the bitter end of the semester, he had not registered my plans, so it turned out to be a surprize.

What breed of dog are those? (Photos of Dogs, and Me, by D.) Apparently Giant Schnauzers. Thanks for the pointers, Lucy and herhimbryn.

Life (Moby)

One of my people writes about me a lot. Makes photos of me, sometimes annoying, if understandable. The one who feeds me first thing in the morning, although she's very slow about it at times. Still, as a household animus, I value ritual. I complain a bit, but nothing too much. I believe in being a polite person. The Other Dude talks to me most. I am his familiar, after all. Nice sweaters, he smells right.

I have now faded memories of my time in that loud, bad-smelly place, with those barking aliens, and no place to chase. Good solid hands, though. Limbo, I would say, not hell. And before, a time when I ran out of food, back in my kittenhood or a bit after. Can't stand not having any food in my dish, even if it's just the dry crunchy stuff. Even that... well, I've come to trust my people, I understand that they brought me home, now. Nice enough, respectful, if a bit slow. Good massages, and the food has gotten better, as did the toilets. Oh, wow, I do love going in for a good scratch, satisfies some primal urge. Oh, and the grass. Dude, I love the grass.

Not that they haven't done some nasty moves on me, messing with my paws, not letting me run out on the wooly carpet outside the door when I want, moving me off the swiveling chair just when I've gotten really comfortable. Putting me in that bag, once with that excruciating blare of light and clamor, and walked around with me in the cold. Don't know what that was all about.

I know about the Vets, if they have good hands, I can just chill, an occasional pinch, but nothing I can't handle. It's the bouncing swinging movement to get me there I can't abide, noxious odors, flung about, on wheels, I think. Ugh. They talk to me, reassurance I assume, I just have to cry.

I know they won't harm me, no hitting or yelling, not even with each other. I don't bite them either, and keep my claws in mostly - can't stand the feel of their skin under my claws. More, they know not to threaten me, which I respect, and tell them by licking them.

Oh, the picking me up. I like it, a bit at a time. Usually, I can just twitch, and they set me down with regal decorum, part of why I rather like them. Lately, they SNUGGLE with me, After I wriggle. Just not done. Still, they've been making sure I have a warm sunspot to lie in the last few weeks, very restorative. Helps.

I do love them, you understand. It's just that a cat has a life to live on his own. Dreams to dream, furry things to chase, bugs to eat, territory to mark. Most of all, I do have to take care of them, lie on them when they are ill or hurt and purr them better. Welcome them home, not hard, since I will get a good scritching to follow. I keep track of them when they are not here, listen for them. Cheer them up, wake them up, whatever it takes. I need to have my time alone to have the spiritual power to do my job here.


I know there is a bad event in the works. My people are worried, they sneeze loudly, and hold me too much. There are those flat papery surfaces, again. And changes in where my stool is put. Gives me interesting new places to explore, true. They make a point to tell me... something. Don't quite get their accents. The gist is that I am beloved, which I know. Nice to be told, though.

Better doze and dream a while.

(o)

I remember an oft repeated lesson of nursing school.

Often the only possible or appropriate response is simple acknowledgment. Sometimes, that is entirely sufficient. "I see you, I know you are there, are hurting, need help, are grieving, have a right to cry, are fine."

Blank silence fills in with anxiety monsters, moats full of unknown terrors, no one to hear you scream, no hope, no possible help. Banishment that is worse than death, than pain.

Indifference that accuses, not worth the candle to lead me to hell.

Intentional anonymity is active. Being neglected a maw of aching.




(Have received acknowledgment of our lease, and my application for a possible promotion postion at the new/old job, and a "90%" surety of a date from the movers.)

Stretch

The one I want to write, will write, is delayed, deferred. Until. Not yet, not now, soon. A bit of distance, perspective, arm's length for focus. A month from now. Legal space. Unburnt bridges.

My heart and mind are there, in that range of mountains amidst desert and plain, a stretch, attenuated and tense, as my body and bed, work, breath are here, city and theoretical shore. I force my attention to behave, funneling energy into the tasks at hand. Easy when I have a patient in front of me, an open box awaiting eagerly, but all the other endless, mundane errands feel empty, displaced. Shopping and cooking rattle as temporary fixes, cleaning taunts with empty threats. I crave the ease of pizza, if not the weight in my worried belly.

The prickly irritations, always present, turn to thorns and biting teeth. The lock that sticks, the dark hallway, the squeaking drawer. Glory, glory, the new free daily paper has three sudoku and a crossword, a welcome engagement in this sea of impatience. A hook to hang my brain upon.


I've already packed the coat hooks.

Stretched (Photo)

Snooze (Photo)

Very unusually, Moby crawled up on my lap, twice, to curl and be petted. More normally, he likes to lean on, or sit near, or rub up against. Affectionate, in his own style, always, but not a sitting-on-people's laps sort of cat. Then he jumped to D's chair, a very normal perch. ("Who's chair?") We opened the blinds to let in a sunbeam, and he bunched up close as we talked about plans and schemes. He's going to like having more friends to adore him, and two windows on a corner to watch birds and trees. He's not going to like being in a bag in a plane, no other way through though.

See (Photo)

Haiku (#17)

D is my hero
A new apartment awaits
I'll pack the boxes.


And this is the last. A cycle of 17 haiku seems right.

D apologizes for not packing more. Or, indeed, at all. But he got the forms for my license, found us an apartment (!), arranges for utilities and internet. Feeds me after late shifts, keeps me sane and laughing. I just put stuff in boxes. From each according to their abilities.

The new place is closer to friends, closer to the canyon, a corner apartment with windows for Moby to watch birds. Home calls us away. 28 days. I will miss so many fine folks that I work with here. Good hearts, sharp minds, sarcastic and kind and dependable. I want to take slices of Boston along, with them on it. Every change of direction an acceleration, a death.