Parking

Parental supervision is not always what it's cracked up to be.

5-year-old child towed away in mother's unattended car
August 6th, 2011 @ 5:27pm
By ksl.com
SOUTH JORDAN -- A 5-year-old boy was fast asleep as a tow truck removed the car he was in.

According to the South Jordan Police Department, the boy was sleeping in the family's SUV while his mother was away for several minutes. Before the mother returned, the SUV was towed away around 1 a.m.

When she came out, her car and child were gone because her vehicle was parked illegally in a handicap parking stall.

"I've never seen this in the 10 years I've been in law enforcement," said Sgt. Eric Anderson of the South Jordan Police Department. "A child is pretty precious and for someone to leave their child in the back of a vehicle unattended, regardless if it is five minutes or more."

Authorities said the tow truck driver never saw the child.

Officers will continue to investigate the events of the night. Possible charges may be raised against the mother for leaving her child unattended.

Even when they don't cop to it, meth users are pretty obvious. The teeth, the blotched, discolored skin, the reaction to anesthetic. Not that there are any drug users reading here, but if there are, be honest if you go in for surgery. Really. We'll figure it out eventually, don't care about informing law enforcement, and you'll get better anesthetic if you are scrupulously honest. Seriously.

Young woman yesterday, meth mouth, blotchy meth legs, asthmatic, smoker, went down grasping at us, emerged coughing up a lung, nauseated, crying, wailing. Her spouse most likely involved in a gang, or had been, based on tattoos, clothes, but the clincher - simple behaviour in terms of posture and keeping his hat in the way of eye contact from the nurses taking care of his wife. All rather strange, but indicative. Maybe I was wrong, I'm always willing to be taught different cultural norms. But, from what I know, this is how it read.

No one can be stopped from self destruction. Or Darwinism.

Weirdness

Worked the last three days, although not long days. Still, disinclined to write when I got home. It's been a weird and stressful couple of weeks. Surgeon conferences this week meant we only had one surgeon today. With six cases, we nearly got in a full day, would have but for a pt who admits he used meth yesterday, maybe the day before... either way, a recipe for death. At least he does admit it, so we cancelled his surgery, and he does seem to get that meth+anesthesia is a suicide attempt. Hopefully, he gets shifted to the Main, where they can better deal with potential consequences.

Visitors up from Moab this week, as well. A nurse and scrub tech in need of experience. We weren't best set up to supply this this particular week. But we did our best for them, and that's not nothing. They felt welcomed, and well cared for, so that's alright.

Wound up working my usual day off, and off my usual day on. Mentioned the Monday Broken OR issue, and our new manager assured us she would back us up if we felt it appropriate to pull the fire alarm. The Fire Marshall asked why no one did, and the real, actual answer is... we aren't used to knowing we have back-up, but now we are and will next time. New manager is... competent, and believes us, and ohgods, how wonderful that is. And she is funny. Real OR sense of humor. We aren't used to that, but are just starting to trust, again.

Working with a very good bunch of folks. There is, there always is, at least one piker, but that's to keep everyone sharp. Which is important. When everyone is good, does their job, it's too easy to assume, and that's not helpful long term. Better to know that anyone can screw up, keeping a slacker among us means we stay wary and alert.

Chatted with my anesthesiologist as well, he steered me toward a TED talk called My Stroke of Insight, which is as good as he says. But more amazing, but not surprizing from him, he mentioned it was a presentation by a neurologist, not a woman neurologist. I do love him, most dearly.


Got home to two cats who wanted food ASAP. Dylan off at work all day, me gone until after 1600, who was gonna feed 'em? Ahhhhhhhhhhh...!

I fed them first thing. Of course.

Chi

Went to my tai chi class. It's been twenty years since the last time, and my body remembers, though all the details have been long lost to time. My back eased and enjoyed the movements.

Twenty years ago. A lifetime ago, when living a different life. I didn't feel young, then. I could not see a way out of my own bad decisions and misjudgments. I don't know how much tai chi helped me escape under the fence and out, but those lessons played a part. Time to learn a new set, heal myself sustainably. As I am sure many of you will think, I am still young. Ish, at least.

I didn't expect to feel old yet. Growing up with elderly neighbors and family, then working with a geriatric population, I always saw old as starting in the seventh decade. And even that is readily adjustable according to health and habits. Smoking causes much faster aging, as does illness and injury, obesity and alcohol use. A meth addict is ancient at twenty five.

So, I must find my flexibility and wisdom, regain my health and strength. Begin anew.

Invisibility

Making progress on the spare room, at the expense of the back porch. Got a lock for it, since it's rather open to an easy break in. So, before I lock it, I check for cats, who love the space.



Moby, are you out here?

"(you can't see me.)"


"Quit lookin' at me, you CAN'T see me!"



okayyy...

Further work on the former meth house. Stripping it to the bricks. We could tell the roof was terrible, but it's even worse than it looked. Like they'll have to rebuild it, maybe all of it. By the end of the day, it was down to the (rotted) bare rafters. We just hope that whoever bought it has the money to complete the job. Wondering if it will still be a duplex at the end of the process.

Raccoons

We heard some noises, as the motion sensor light on the side step came on at 0400. Figured it for our neighbor cat Sebastian. But then we heard thumping about that seemed too loud, followed by a low growling hissing. I got up, opened the door quickly, and two raccoons were tussling on that bit of porch. I shut the door very fast, took a moment to catch my thoughts, got the vinegar in the spray bottle, and opened it again, to leave an unpleasant memory on the one bumbling over the fence. Each looked about twice as big as our cats, so I'm guessing a good 20lbs.

Didn't sleep much after that.

Didn't want to get up this morning. Half hour after I got to work, I wanted to leave. Very busy day, lots of running about with waiting about, and lots of cases all over the place. Feet hurt, eyes tired, enough.


Raccoons. Guy at work tells me they tend to live in a small territory of just a few blocks, not crossing busy roads. Seldom seen by people, very good at hiding, as well as being nocturnal. Maybe these two jerks had been drinking.




Addendum: Perhaps they have taken up residence in the abandoned meth house, which also might explain their aggressive behaviour. Also, the peanuts have been out there more than a month, and the non-bird-like state of the remains I've only noticed over the last couple of weeks, worst the past two days. So I think they may be shifting their territory. Possibly disturbed by the activity around the derelict duplex.

Aging

So relieved to know I have tomorrow off work, unlike the last month, as I worked at least part of every one of my usual days off. That I had the holidays just doesn't count. It's the number of days in a row at this sort of work. Thirty hours in three days just hurts.

A friend kept talking about an "older woman" he'd spent time with recently, who referred to herself as an "old woman." Repeatedly. I had to ask him to stop, since she is my age, and I am not old. Oh, my body feels old because of the damned pain issue, but I'm not old. Middle aged, sure, fine, not something I fixate on, but reasonable. And I've used the phrase when the young residents drop stuff on the floor that I have to pick up... actually, I then tell them I have an old back, and ask them to pick it up. Which is different. I may even say I feel old on particular days. Even "old lady" I've ironically used, clearly in jest. Gettin' there, but good gods, not there. Over 60, well, that probably begins the qualification. When I worked mostly with the elderly, that was still pretty young. Now, 80, 90, that's really getting up there.

As for not staying up late and partying, I never did. Midnight has been very, very late to me all my life. Strongly diurnal, me. Do better getting up early most days, can't keep late hours. Never pulled an allnighter, even in my 20s. Worked periods of night shifts, and about killed myself doing it, since I can't sleep more than a nap during the day. Never been a high energy person, short bursts only, get a job done then collapse. Nothing new, not a matter of age.

I know what old looks like. The oldest looking people smoke, do meth, don't walk. I know my experiences of the past six years or so have etched the time on my face. I look my age, and fair enough. Most days, I don't quite remember the number, and have to really think about it, am I 48, or going to be 48 shortly? Not that it matters. If my back didn't give me so much crap, I'd feel no different than when I was 30.

Slip

We went to see Guardians of the Galaxy this morning. First time I've wanted to see a film in a theater in a very long time. The whole experience no longer comfortable for me for many reasons. But this was fun.

And, I needed distracting.

As I got out of the shower, D came in from outside. There had been a neighborhood altercation of some sort. As I was still quickly drying off, the shouting returned, between the houses, then at the side/back door. So I threw on clothes as fast as possible, feeling shaken. Woman shouting at the back/side door shouting at a guy "You're a woman beater!" among other declarations. D opens the back door, and she yells at him to call the cops. Which he does.

This is at 0900 on Sunday morning. All people we've seen on the block, the guy someone who nearly ran D over with a bicycle on the sidewalk, then screamed childish abuse at him. The woman looks like a typical meth user, likely prostitute. Others of various descriptions involved. By the time the police arrive, the ruckus has shifted down the street a bit, like a childish game of tag such as the other kids in the neighborhood used to engage in. Involving a lot of mindless screaming and hiding. Not just the running within a range, but hiding and ambushing.

And I'm still running on adrenaline. Shaking, my stomach hurts, and I can't eat. We do still go to the movie, walking to the train, some of the actors in the morning drama ranting at the low-income apartment building in our path. We hurry by

So, sitting watching bad trailers and low-production-value ads in the dim, as we snark, is soothing. The movie in my taste, could do with less CGI and fewer battles, but the funny overwhelms and charms. And it has a big warm soppy heart, for which I forgive nearly all. Mostly by imagining it as the manifestation of a hurt boy's imagined fantasy.

When next I cannot find words, I will say "I am Groot."

Having beer, now. Soothing the coming down from adrenaline. Once that stuff really swamps me, takes me a long, long time to find a balance. Takes a lot to really rattle me, but once shaken, I do best not to stir.

Wired

Had a teacher, high school, who spent part of a class on swearing and obscene language. Without using any, I must add. Very rational, normalized the words for me. Just words, but powerful ones to be used at the right times and places.

Tonight, though, I am thinking of the time he told us, "Some nights will be sleepless. Happens to everyone, don't let it worry you." Because I think I've gotten about an hour in so far, although I'm hoping for a few later this morning. A bruise in an inconvenient place on my hip, my aching thumb, sore throat from the terrible air, and my multiple hamster-wheeling thoughts, all conspiring to keep me more or less awake. Mr. Novak, yes, that was the name.

Later:
Around 0430, feeling like I'd taken several caffeine pills, and tea tasted awful and a bit tinny, it occurred to me to look up Depo-medrol, the corticosteriod in my thumb. Some spark of memory proved right. I checked. One of the side effects is sleep interruption. Whooo boy, did my sleep get lost. I wrote to my boss that I would not make it in for the meeting, but as I stay so utterly alert and awake and a bit wired, I've decided to just show up. D has made me promise to be exceptionally careful driving, which I have done, and will do.

Still later:
Icy roads, in patches. Tried to avoid the worst of it, and made it home safe and sound. Did not even try to work on the schedule. I'd have made a hash of it. I assured everyone it was the steroids, not meth. I don't think anyone there has ever seen me that talkative.

D remembered this morning that today is our legal wedding anniversary, 18 years. We both often forget it, since we always count the November activation date 21 years ago, when our relationship really started. We have been together every day since, or at least spoken - for a few of those days when one or the other of us was out of town. Still, the legal marriage has been damn useful.

Thumb is feeling a bit better, though. Shot ache, not the same as before. Still wearing the brace, will continue to baby it for another week. Give it time.

And finally:
Having some alcohol to get my brain to slow down. Trying to edit this a bit, sorry if I miss letters. Tea tastes better, which I take as a good sign.

Claws

Sweetness, no claws at all, surely not.


The progress on the (former) meth house is impressive. They stripped it to bare rafters on Wednesday, by last evening the plywood and some of the insulation were on. Today (no photos) the shingles were largely on, and I expect they'll be done by evening. The interior is stripped, so that light is visible through the house. And the debris pile builds, clears, rebuilds. What a job.





We wonder how this will be used, as a rental duplex? Someone got substantial capitol for this project. Hard to tell how they are going to recoup. The whole neighborhood is getting revamped, in fits and starts, which I suspect has happened many times over the last century or so. Never all down, never entirely posh, always working on it, patching and primping and disintegrating and re-sprouting.

Another from S's cat gifts. Moby-ish, perhaps as a kitten, if he'd been polydactyl and with a longer tail. Still, the attitude is there. And the painting is stunning.

Detective

Watched A Very British Murder with Lucy Worsley over the past month. Which lead to getting the Dorothy L. Sayers series. And means I may be getting a touch of amateur-detectivitis.

However. With the fire last week, I thought it had to be arson, and probably a thrill arson - or at least to no personal gain. Brief news item last evening, someone had admitted to intentionally starting the fire, and I thought - someone who worked there. Sure enough, they identified him as an electrician working on the site. Some minor drug violations and warrants outstanding.

Today, chatting with two neighbors with their dogs*, found out the meth (everyone knew it was) house in the middle of the block got raided and shut down on Friday. I immediately wonder if the two events are related. With the alleged arsonist's drug history and a drug operation abutting the work site, mix in an ATF task force, likely all are related. Maybe not a direct cause, but all tied into the same sweep. I expect he wasn't the only drug customer among the construction workers, either.

Gotta wonder. I do, anyway. But the neighborhood began to feel unsafe when half the duplex had those sketchy people move in, and now it's back to feeling more like the middling to shabby home ground it was before. The duplex will no doubt stay abandoned, with occasional squatters, again.


We've been noticing much more than the usual number of people, wandering around here, in groups, starting yesterday. I wonder if we have a small local tourist attraction. Everyone saw the big building go up, it's been in the news every day this week, so they probably thought, "Where exactly was that? Let's go take a look. Go downtown, do some shopping, stop by the charred ruins."

It's a fairly guiltless gawp, really. No one injured. Just a lot of money incinerated, ultimately.


*Spike and Mocha didn't know anything.

Neighborhood

We've lived within this four to five block area for all our lives* together. The oddballs are part of the world. I have to assume they think much the same of us.


Long ago, a young man with wonky eyes, heavy glasses, and limp. He used to pull a wagon with yard tools. Over the years, there were more tools, with a cart. Now, he's got a motorized cart and a small trailer, with a mower and full landscaping kit, apparently making a living among the small gardens here.

Recently, we've also seen a guy, cleaner and in apparently better shape, than when we first encountered him two decades ago. Asian guy with long, matted dreadlocks. Used to stand on a particular corner, keening and rocking, in a hell of his own. He now seems more purposeful, if still slightly shambling, his clothes are clean and in good shape.


This week, one of our stranger neighbors, had a set-to with the sunflowers, again. Sometimes, he seems pretty harmless. Actually took me a while to look out, as I figured him as a guy arguing with a voice at the other end of the phone. No, no phone, just inside his head. This happened right after the sunflowers started really blooming. Around the same time as the first encounters, I walked past him at the grocery store, he was outside, shirtless and ranting madly.

Another local inhabitant is a heavyset guy, shorts, flip-flops, long dark hair and massive beard. Asked me once if the blowflowers grew out of the dandelions. After a moment of internal translation I agreed they were. He stomps around, back and forth, or lounges on the grass verges around.

One guy, heavy glasses, backpack, cap, bad limp of some sort, carries around what initially looked like a baby. Really just a rather realistic baby-doll, full size. Never says anything in my hearing. I figure there's a story there, and I'd rather never know what it is.

This is our neighborhood, in part. I'll take all the nuts over meth dealers/makers. The nice, if not quite stable, young families. The strugglers, the dog walkers, the middling and workers. We fit in perfectly.



*Except the three years in Boston, and one year in a different area of the valley. Our four previous apartments and the house are all within walking distance.

Inversion

One of those weeks. Denise had a 16 hour car drive back through snow after holiday. B at work has a damaged floor from a neighbor's flood. So many have illness, debilitation. Dylan's parents off to visit grandson, got back to a house robbery. A season of death and loss. Thefts and babies and accidents and hope.

We find we have reason to be glad of our small, warm joys.



And celebrations about House the Home. Four years, and it seems like it can't be that long, and that we've always been here. Same for Dylan and me, always and can't be that long. Ditto Eleanor and Moby.

Met a man outside the grocery store, asking for directions, which I gave him. Heavy accent from (and it took me a couple of tries to realize) Elko, Nevada. His wife in hospital, truck broken down, needs to find insurance office. Gladly, I directed him, less gladly - but willingly - let him talk and feel listened to. He wasn't begging, just in need of an impartial ear. I know the feeling. I've done it to others.

Large truck with a huge suction attachment slowly worked by, sucking the leaves and debris out of the gutters. More trucks at the meth duplex three houses down, cleaning up, HVAC and others. Very cold out, hard to keep warm. Inversion in the valley, so the cold air stays still at the bottom, along with lots of particulate matter. Dry and foggy, not good to breathe.

GROJ

We've gotten rather good at this yard sailing business. Well, what else is there to do when both of us are awake before 6 on Saturday mornings? We check the listings the night before, or D does the morning of, print out a list of addresses, and about 8, we head out. Scan for signs, stop at any we find. Or not, if there are too many clothes laid out on blankets on the ground, an overwhelming preponderance of children's things, or it just looks sad and shabby. Some neighborhoods are much more prone to this.

We talk theory. The best ones are in older, upper-middle to very much upper, neighborhoods. Some excellent ones appear in arty enclaves, nice but uneven areas. Often estate, moving sales, or when it's clearly the next generation clearing out a parent or grandparent's home, are the best of all. Lots of items of all descriptions, good quality, and motivated hosts.

The worst are among low quality homes, on high volume streets. Often these are what we call perma-yard-sales, and they look suspiciously like fronts for drugs &/or stolen goods, and they look grey. Grey items, grey houses, grey people, and it's all dismal. Saw a few at the meth house as was last summer.

Some people overprice their detritus. Best example, a young woman with a number of well used handbags/purses, priced around $30, at a yard sale. I questioned this, and she defended it by saying they were $50 bags! I did not go on to recommend she go through an online bidding site instead, if she expected to get that much. Garage sales are all about getting rid of stuff to people who will take it away for you, and give you a nominal amount of money for the favor. Then donate or toss the rest even they won't take.

Clothes piled up just seems odd, to me. How often is a stranger driving by going to have similar taste in clothing, preferring it used, who is the same size as well? Makes a bit more sense for kids clothes, even then, better to gregslist*, isn't it?

Worse are the ones who don't get that yardsailing is an early morning pursuit, not meant for the heat of the day. Oh, they get a few stragglers, but the serious ones are home by 10. So if they are not set up by 8, which their listing says (ahem) the people who are going to buy are not coming back around.

We went for different areas than usual this morning, got out a bit further. Did not have as much luck, although we enjoyed the journey. Stumbled across a couple of good ones, with nothing for us. Still, I enjoy the allowed nosing into other's lives. Did find a little trash can, still had garbage in it, but it was a good brand and very cheap. When I got it home and cleaned it, not only was it a bit of tissue, but broken glass in the bag. Weirdness, all part of the deal.

We are slightly alarmed by the encroaching forest of sunflowers, debated pulling a few before we are engulfed. Curiosity overcame our alarm, we want to see how this is going to look. Last year, that side was so dead and drab, we stay our hands, and the weed digger.

Swept the garage, finally going through all of the leavings from Previous Occupants out there. Another trip to Waste Management, I'm afeared. Cleared the leaves and elm seeds, the cardboard from the bed frame, some of which is composting, not all, no room for all. And what I got out of the car yesterday, when I cleaned and vacuumed beloved vehicle. Some of the bottles, most, and I will recycle any more I get. I think I have enough for the bottle wall, but that will be a project for another year, after the raised beds. Hosed garage down, mostly to settle the dust. Quite satisfying, to see it clean and spacious.

All the bins, trash, recycle and yard waste (yes, we have three) out at the curb tomorrow. Poor D will have to bring them all in himself when he gets home Monday.

Attacked the hedge, not going to let that evil thing get out of control ever again. I would prefer it much shorter, but neighbor wants it tall, and I don't feel strongly enough to make it an issue. Just can't maintain it on my side at that height. Fought back the ivy as well, where the snails all thrive. But I think all the caffeine, diatomaceous earth, eggshells, & sand, have done the slug and snail population severe damage. Still see some tracks on the sidewalk in the early morning, much fewer.

Took a nap about 2PM. Elbows aching from the clippers, I ordered a small, cheap, electric hedge trimmer. This battle is not over. Well, it is today...


Old story, probably from Reader's Digest, about a listing for a GROJ sale. Customer comments on the clever spelling of Garage, seller says, no, it's an acronym, Get Rid Of Junk sale. Ha, ha, ha.


*Greg, Craig, what's the difference?

Glad

Nearly completed painting the front triangle. Not a lovely job, but a lovely color, and will protect the wood a bit.



Moby wanted to go out, since it is sunny and mild. The garden is autumnal, but lovely enough for all that. Begged leaves from the lawn service that my south neighbor hires, so her renter doesn't have to do maintenance. They were confused at first, but since I proved willing to empty their bags for them, they rolled with it.



Looking extra creepy for All Souls Day, Jack is apparently a meth addict.


Surprized I didn't catch any of the plethora of bees on the lobelia.


Glad he got me out in the sun.

Consequence

I have two nieces. Born when I was still in high school, to a brother and SIL in the military and not present. I was the first's godmother (by proxy), and proxy for the second one's godmother. I have had no real contact with either since I was 23 and moved away, met them once when I got back from GWI and visited my brother in Texas for a few days.

The older niece has just died, I found her obituary, with a thanks to an oncology hospital. I left a note on the funeral home site, since I am not in contact with my brother.

I can only imagine. Wanting not to intrude where I would not be welcome, I hold my peace.

My family is fraught, as usual. Enmeshed and emotionally abusive, too hot or too cold. And I want to keep my own hard won sanity. Version of sanity, anyway.

That I was her godmother, as well as aunt, bothers me. I was not given a choice, just told and expected to feel honored, even though I secretly didn't believe. Much as I was assumed to accept my Confirmation, even though never really asked in a way I could refuse, as a dependent child of angry parents, going to Catholic school (an excellent education, which I valued, and still value to this day.)

Not going to call. Nope. They couldn't be arsed to lift more than a finger to even try to find me to let me know my (admittedly detested) father was dying, or dead. They, who make such a fuss about FAMILY, as though genes are magical creators of LOVE, couldn't find online whitepages and make a few phonecalls. I could, to find them when I found my father's obit. It's not rocketsurgery.

Sorry, sorry. I do feel badly for them. To lose a daughter. Even one with so many troubles. Including an arrest for dealing meth. And a string of last names, commemorating various husbands. But of course, they were wonderful parents. Of course they were. And people miraculously become loving wonderful parents as soon as a baby is born. No parent would hurt their own child. Family is everything.


Mostly, I feel sorry for her. Could have been me, given a few different twists. At least she's free now. And I can do nothing for my other niece, either. I don't know her. I last knew her when she was too small for school. There is no connection, only a vague genetic strand. None of my business. Unless she reaches out, and why the hell should she?


Dylan's parents are moving much further away, and I'm feeling done and done and done. Even where their house is was a trying and miserable distance. Driving sucks for me, and they are going further away. I love them, but I don't much like visiting with them, too many conversational pitfalls. To drive over an hour away on terrible roads to bite my tongue for an hour, then drive another hour back? Not that it's anything to do with me.

I know, nothing to do with me. Still, it hits all my own family of origin hot buttons, and it's all I can do not to react. They have chosen an extra bedroom over living closer. At least they will be closer to their son's in-laws, which will make time with their grandsons easier. Which is wonderful.

I don't mind not visiting them. But I know the pressure to get non-driving Dylan out to them is going to increase. Dylan won't expect this of me, not at all. But sending him out there by himself, via train then as a ride-share hostage, during our sparse time together...

Must step back. As others have made their choices, I must make mine. And as they take their consequences, I accept mine as well.


I need to send brothers an email. Out of compassion. Because it's the right thing to do. For my own peace of mind.

Paranoia (Guest Writer)

You may have heard about the hullabaloo here in Boston.

A friend, a real writer, in LA, wrote this response, which with his permission I want to share with you here.

Michael Shields

Boston VS LA

So I noticed today that the Boston authorities were getting a lot of flak for a Lite-Brite inspired bomb scare that had everyone freaked out for a while, and thought I'd share something that happened here as an illustration that no matter how bad things are, they could always be worse...

A subway was shut down all day in Los Angeles recently because some homeless guy spilled mercury on the platform. He found the mercury in an industrial dumpster, and kept it because he thought it was 'neat.' And who can blame him? It is neat. Sadly, mercury is toxic as well as shiny. I mean, it's not going to ooze together into a cyborg killer from the future and destroy us all, but you wouldn't want to lick it or anything.

But here's where LA demonstrates that it can be completely incompetent in two entirely opposite ways in one night! Mercury Guy calls MTA and reports that he spilled mercury on the platform at 11pm, and the dispatcher was all 'sure, thanks, we'll get right on that' but he didn't report it and it was there all night, with people steppin' in it with their bunny slippers and poking the puddle with sticks and stuff.

Finally during the morning commute someone thought that mercury was acting suspicious and called 911. The cops found two janitors trying to clean up the mercury puddle with a mop (I bet that looked funny) and it was time for a TERRAR ALERT! They shut down the whole subway, and there was a manhunt for the Mercury Guy that lasted several days, until he finally read about it in the newspaper and helpfully turned himself in. Wouldn't that be weird to be the subject of a huge manhunt and not have any idea they were looking for you? They could be looking for you RIGHT NOW.

But anyway, the point here is that absolutely no one (that we know of) was hurt, which frankly, kind of amazes me, but THEY COULDA BEEN! So, in the future if you happen to spill meth lab chemicals or bomb supplies or somethin' sticky in a public place, when you call it in (before or after running like hell) you should probably explain WHY this is a problem to whomever answers the phone, in case he's drunk or watching TV or something. And if there are any terrorists reading this, don't get any bright ideas! Sure, some homeless guy off his meds may have outsmarted the City of Los Angeles accidentally this time, but we won't be fooled so easily next time! Because...because I said so!

Derelict

"I'm the wind, baby."

"Ooooo... you are so cool!"



"Look! Look! It's Chris Pratt!"

"Ugh."




"I am. A TREE."


So, this duplex down the street was empty before we moved in. Owner fixed it just enough to have renters, who (predictably) cooked meth there and made the whole neighborhood unsafe. When the apartment building around the corner under construction burned down (started by a guy on drugs) this place got mopped up as well. (Coincidence?) I can only assume there was a little help for the local police from the FBI team who were here anyway.

Various problems continue, people squatting, despite the health department notices closing one side to occupancy, the other to entry.

This week, this sign went up. The owner apparently wants $175k for this poisoned, decrepit property. And can't even spend $20 on a proper sign, or indicate that it is for a house, that house specifically, assuming anyone would stop their car and try to read the number written in a dried up red marker.




Now, house prices around here are about that, for a place in decent repair. Anyone buying this place would have to spend a boatload on cleaning it, just to start. And then, pretty much gutting it, if not downright demolishing it. Cheaper to buy an empty lot to begin with. This is where eminent domain would be a great thing, owner has to come up with 200k in back taxes and mandatory clean-up, or abandon the property to the city.

My secret desire to toss in a Molotov cocktail is too impractical. Too many nice folks in old houses that would be at risk. Not to mention putting all that crap in the air to breathe. And I really don't want to be arrested for arson.

Scrunch

Moby found this corner, of sorts, and scrunched himself in there. Never seen him do that before, but I guess he likes exploring his options.


Dale reminds me, as he so often does, of an aspect of my work and training that I use, but don't think to mention usually. Added to this week's patients. Not the easy, generally healthy group, more like a gaggle of odd ducks. It's not hard to spot them. Even in a hospital gown, they look disheveled, with unwashed and/or uncombed hair, long left untrimmed, or badly cut. Or when their hands or feet need to be washed, and that's where the surgery is being done. Odd, to have to take a scrub brush to a dirty foot, when the individual knew they were having an operation on that bit. I've had to do that twice this week, one hand, one foot. Got to get it clean to get it closer to sterile.

This does not include those who have a fracture that has been splinted for a while, who cannot be blamed for not wanting to get the splint wet, or jostle a painful break. Or kids, who resist being clean, nor their parent who chooses not to insist when the little monkey is injured. Likewise those who have dirty jobs, mechanics and ranchers mostly, here. Their hands are tattooed with engine oil and soil, a permanent feature. I've had those guys apologize, and I reassure them - I know it's not dirt as such.

No, the nutty ones are different. There is a smell about them, sometimes literally. They don't think to keep themselves covered as much as reasonably possible, as most others do. The one today sat, with her gown bunched up around her thighs, crosslegged on the gurney in Pre-op, blanket tossed aside. When even the most overheated would normally keep the blanket over their lap at least. They talk too much, make too little eye contact, make off-color and off-subject jokes, move erratically. They may have an odd request, without a reasonable story. A grown woman with a teddy bear, who promised her daughter to keep it with her to look after her, is unusual, but normal. A grown woman with a teddy bear who doesn't explain, and with no known mental delays - evidence of oddity. They ask many, many more questions than anyone else - even medical folks (who tend to ask a lot.) And they are often irrelevant questions, uncommon ones, more to delay than an actual bid for information. Or, they ask nothing at all, don't answer, grunt or get angry.

And I in no way include patients with known problems, brain injuries or developmental anomalies. No, the Odd Ducks are more likely to have drug issues, though. Heavy smokers, meth teeth, extensive messy tattoos, equally odd SOs, and it's never just one thing, but an array. They take longer to get ready, emerge from anesthesia unpredictably, and often have brightly colored, but grungy underwear.

They are sometimes funny, often likable, good for stories - later, with those who were there. We don't judge, but we do diagnose. It's kind of a hobby, a side effect. Like every job dealing with people, we remember the weird ones.

Healing

There are a lot of good ways of healing well. Some are not in our control, like our innate immune systems, blind luck, and random chance.

But a lot is changeable. Like not fuckingsmoking. Keeping the vulnerable area clean. Taking all our antibiotics (if applicable) on schedule and in full. Following care instructions. Doing all the physical therapy. Ice, elevation, rest, compression. Not doing too much. Listening to the pain. Not using meth. Getting decent nutrition. Paying attention.

Lesson

Nine-year-old Christina Taylor Green was born Sept. 11, 2001. She died in an attack attributable to the violent rhetoric that is fashionably dividing the world, although the shooter was certainly just a looney responding to the resonances. Her organs have been donated to a young girl in Boston. Giving life as she leaves. This sticks in my mind, this generosity of spirit. This small saint. This occasion I really hope there are saints and heaven, just for her.

A boddhisatva.

Let go of the hate that feels as good as heroin and meth, and ruins us as surely.

A lesson in compassion.

Turn away from the anger. If every one of us, each chose kindness over hostility, every moment of every day, we could handle the occasional mental illness as the aberration it should be.

Take the time to consciously be kind, start here. Gentle ourselves. Eschew the easy pleasure of ranting and raging, even, especially, inside our own heads. Think well of others, especially those most difficult, most anger-trapped people. They need to learn, they need to discipline themselves. Calling them on it it one thing, allowing ourselves high dudgeon, judging their souls, quite another.


Understand, forgive, add peace to the world, one drop at a time. Breathe in calm. Breathe out serenity. Every breath.

The simple acts are the most difficult. The most worthwhile.