Old

Cold gray dead skin shed.
Changes skree through bare tree limbs.
Booms break up the year.

Nestle (Photo)

Moby loves to have a lumpy surface to lie on, in, or around. Ankles will do, in a pinch. Best is a roll of cloth. Wool or Polartec make it oh so wonderful.

Miracles

Our christmases together have always had a strange kind of joy. Not exactly festive, but deeply, oddly happy.

My last one before was the last one with the ex, a fraught and strained season of fear and trepidation. We exchanged t-shirts with humorous mottos. Wasted, pointless and disposable.

Christmas of 1990 D and I were at Fort Carson, waiting to be sent to Gulf War I. We'd taken leave together the week before, to allow slots for those with children, and close family, to return to Salt Lake for the actual holiday.

The regular Army was not best pleased to be hosting a National Guard unit, and had been making access to their chow halls less easy. That day, they had not offered any meals. We found out there had been a brunch, but only after the hours were finished.

No cabs ran on base that day, none of the usual pizza or chinese food places that delivered were working on Christmas. The perhaps-fifty of us there were eating through the care boxes sent by families, who assumed we were not getting enough sugar or booze. By evening, the hunger, and sugar buzz, was becoming miserable. I knew better than to drink on a sugar coated empty stomach, and D didn't drink at all. Oranges appeared, as though a Christmas miracle, and D and I grabbed several, and ran off to eat them together. We kept each other's spirits up, that day. I still felt this was the best Christmas I'd had in many years, and much better than the one preceding.

Our only unbreakable tradition after was to always have food on Christmas.

One year, we soaked at Lava Hot Springs. Snow falling as we simmered outside in the steaming pools. That night at the hotel, even the staff went home. We know there was one other set of guests, but we never saw them. We stared out at the dark night, cozy and quiet. He played his guitar, and I sang a bit. We ate tunachicken (that chicken spread that comes in a can) and oranges, crackers and nuts, enough food brought in case nothing was open.

The next morning, we woke early, as we do often when we visit there, and decided to head home, to visit his parents for early Christmas afternoon. The light was grey, and the fog thick as we left the tiny town tucked into the volcanic mountains. On the freeway, the light glowed gold, and as we looked through the clouds on the horizon, the sun showed - half bitten through. Oh, yes, we'd read there would be a solar eclipse, partial. And had forgotten. But got to watch it through the scrim of cloud, that peculiar light of rolling, snow covered, southern Idaho.

Miracles all over the place, and ephemeral gifts to carry in our hearts all our lives.

Illuminati (Photo)

Snowman (Video link)

The Snowman and Irn Bru.



On Early Modern, another site with endless delights.

Joy.

O

O Is For...


Orgasm. Obviously. From chocolate or beer, or Obviously, great sex. Or onanism.

Oranges. Take off the peels, then squish or twist into a candle flame. The volatile oils flame beautifully. A great word without rhyme in English. Are there rhymes for orange in other languages, I wonder.

Otters. Sinuous and playful, my favorite wild critter. Smart, too, I understand.

Oscar. Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot, Golf, Hotel, India, Juliet, Kilo, Lima, Mike, November, Oscar, Papa, Quebec, Romeo, Sierra, Tango, Uniform, Victor, Whiskey, X-ray, Yankee, Zulu. See? O is for Oscar.

Ostriches, who really don't hide their heads in the sand, but old time naturalists often did.

Opus, in his time the best comic character, who gave me the expression "Anxious pimple" - a worry wart.

Orlando. A movie I had to see a second time, years later, to finally decide if I liked it. I do. I don't often recommend it, though.

Offensive. Much of my edited humor. Mostly joking about death, or subjects considered sacred.

Orthopedic Oncology. My new favorite surgical specialty. Amazing what they can do, huge surgeries wherein I must run my ass off. Patients who are remarkably resilient, and so far, very funny. From one - "Measure once, cut twice. Damn! It's still too short!"

Onomatopoeia. A word that should be a sound, and does nicely as a description of train rattle, or finger drumming.

Oxymoron. Nurse/writer. The vast majority of the nurses I know can't spell for toffee, barely make it though charting or incidence reports, and have very shoddy taste in books. I'd still let the vast majority take care of me if I were ill or injured. There may be writers who could fluff a pillow or give a pill. Not as pointed an oxymoron as Military Intelligence.

Oast. 'A kiln; (in later use) spec. one used to dry hops or malt; a building housing this. ' One of those words used in crossword puzzles that I never remember, because it's not really in my vocabulary, but perhaps should be. (Thank you OED.)

OK. The universal word. Really, try it sometime.

Thanks to Pilgrim/heretic for the O.

Shovel

One snowy year, I was maybe four or five, I wanted a snow shovel my size. My brothers shoveled, my parents shoveled, I was stuck standing around feeling useless. I wanted to help in a fun job. I had gotten the hang of asking for gifts, and had utter faith in Santa Claus. Ok, maybe I was testing that faith, not entirely sure at this remove. So, I refused to ask for anything, and only told Santa, or rather every Santa I was taken to, that all I wanted was a snow shovel. May have had to do with me getting a "toy" ironing board, with iron that got warm, the previous year. And given the job of ironing my father's white handkerchiefs.

I'm not sure about how mom found out, she has told the story since of the year I only wanted one thing, and only told Santa. And finding a child size shovel was not easy, apparently. But sure enough, on Christmas morning, there it was. With Jack-be-nimble jumping over a candlestick on a shovel I could use. I loved it, I shoveled with it, I made snow architecture with it. I lost it.

It showed up in the spring, after the snow melted in the back yard. It had been a very snowy year. I used it for many years, and jumped imaginary candles for Jack, while admiring the gift Santa brought.

The very best part of Santa gifts were that I did not have to thank anyone for them. By being good, I'd sort of earned them. Having a coal furnace growing up, I could easily picture a stocking with a lump of coal. Unlike pretending joy at a hard plastic doll, too small flannel pjs, or Aunt Betty's homemade toys, (one - an undisguised egg carton with numbers, and some ping pong balls.) Which, I suppose, if she'd actually liked me, might have been fine. I had to thank her as effusively as for Aunt Evelyn's Bell-hop toy, which I played with until it came apart, repeatedly.

Most of the gifts I was given as a child were because it was expected, not by me. I was nearly the only child in the whole extended family at the time, I had an impressive number of packages to open. Which I am grateful for, but they all imposed an overwhelming obligation. I remember few of them. To this day, I detest obligatory gifts, given or received.

I want no gifts. Not "for Christmas." A spontaneous gift of the heart, I can accept gladly. I love to give such. I got D a Cube amp, red, last month, called it a Christmas present, but it was really just to encourage him to play guitar more. He got me Imogen, the Macbook, for practical reasons, and in a burst of generosity. For Christmas, but not really. I unwrap sterile supplies all day long, unwrapping a gift has lost it's cachet.


These days, a helping hand, food ordered in, a small grace, relief arriving a little early, a cat on my ankles at night, health obtained, a small journey, the lost found, a song remembered and shared, another breath, all seem more glorious gifts than any tangible item could be.

Yule

Yesterday, every time those around me wished me a Merry Christmas, I responded warmly, joyfully in kind. A genuine opportunity for compassion. It can be a fraught holiday, a not uncommon experience. And it lost it's magic for me when I was rather small.

I was about nine, when my father, for his own peculiar reasons, castigated me for "pretending" to believe in Santa Claus, who I "knew" didn't exist, any more that the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny. He'd been unemployed that year after the copper tubing factory closed down, and had not yet gotten work at the River Rouge Plant. (He would be laid off again, then find work at Woodmere Cemetery as a groundskeeper, from which he would retire.) I was rebellious, if only in my heart. I knew there was a Santa, and I'd seen the Tooth Fairy, though I knew the gifts and money came from them. I'd have been content had Santa only put an orange and nuts in my stocking, I was not greedy, I had not bought into the entirety of the commercialized Santa. I knew we were not rich, and there was not money to spare that year.

I put up my stocking, in my room, knowing there would be some token there, simple proof that I was remembered, and part of the mystery. Of course, there was not. My ability to believe without proof died that morning. A cruel blessing. I spent that Christmas, the last one when both my brothers made it home, angry at the world and everyone in it. What was the point? I would nurture hatred for many years, largely against my father who had judged me grasping, convicted me without my voice, and damned me.

But I needed a festival of light in the dark of northern winters. By the next year, I threw myself into putting together and decorating the tree, as I had done with my brother when he lived at home. I sang in the church choir, I became a lector, to the delight of the little old ladies who made a point of telling me how clearly I spoke, and slowly. It was, in no small part, so that I would not have to sit with my father. I sat with the choir, or in the front row, alone. I began to really listen to the scripture.

And as I listened, I grew angrier. This was holy? This was how God wished me to live? It was so contradictory, spiteful at times, irrational and tedious. By the time I left home, to live on my own, I could not believe, and was bereft. What was Christmas without faith? Where was hope without God? I struggled, and resented those who had faith, who could believe. I was pushed by my older brother, first not to believe, then as he went back to Catholicism, to believe. By their fruits shall you know them, was my mantra. I tired of being an apologist.

This year, frustrated by work, tried, worried, I felt again the resentment, the disconnect. I put up the tree to cheer myself, a bit. But then a veterinary cardiologist gave me the gift of my dear friend back. And a nurse at work generously took my nasty night shift next week. When she won the huge gift basket raffle, I was overjoyed. Had I won, I would have given it to her in easy gratitude, but life did it for me. The happiness bubbled up, a river of appreciation, a freshet of love.

I strive not for holiness, but for the integrity of wholeness, which half believed faith erodes. I live to earn the love I am given. Others made me earn "unconditional" love that was grudgingly half given. I do not hope for miracles, but am attentive to the multitude of subtle miracles happening all the time, all around. I could never have imagined the gifts I have, I would have hoped for smaller, inadequate ones. I do not wish to limit the mystery by putting it into a little box, with a bow, inside a stocking.


Merry Christmas, Good Yule, Bon Hiver, Joyous Solstice. Whatever you believe, be sure it makes you whole.

Closed (Photo)

Fur

He slept all day, and all last night on D's feet.

After we left the vet, I burst into tears of relief. That I would not lose such warm love. Oh, I know it is love by feline definition. No less love for that. We are not his parents, he is not our child. We are friends, regardless of species. There is a certain dependence on us, which we have to live up to.

I can hear my mother, who was raised during the depression, with a very different attitude toward pets. With dripping contempt, "All that, for an animal!" She liked and cared for a succession of three cats when I was a child living at home. She was not unkind, would not hurt any animal, had a large dog she loved as a kid. But she believed that people were people and animals were animals, and it was important to remember the difference. Fair enough, but we are not taking food out of a child's mouth. We don't see Moby as human, merely as a individual, with personality, deserving of respect and appropriate care.

He is a living feeling creature who we took into our home, to be responsible for his wellbeing. And he keeps us company, entertains us, comforts us, distracts us, shows us affection. He loves us because he trusts us, because we respect his catness, and feed him, and are kind to him. Is our love for each other really much different? I love D for much the same reasons. I trust him, he feeds me and is kind to me, and respects my eccentricity. I suspect he loves me for many of the same reasons.

Not to mention that both of my guys are beautiful. Body and soul.

Trivial (Photo)

Moby has a "Trivial" tricuspid valve regurgitation, a heart murmur. Nothing that we need worry about, not associated with subsequent heart disease. He got his front armpits shaved, his chest covered with Aquagel goo, a funny lampshade hat, and was held down much longer than he wanted to be still. But he got through it without needing sedation, and with the admiration of the cardiologist and tech. He really is a very even tempered cat. Five point three kilograms of furry blessing on our lives.

Scrub

I enjoyed work yesterday more than I have for a long, long time. Because most of the day, I got to scrub in, because I felt that wonderful flow of doing the work well. Because I loved the cases I got to see. It's that horrible flipside, the worse the problem, the more interesting for those of us working on it. And, you WANT that. Later, I will feel bad for the sufferer. But in that moment, that worst case is a knotty problem to be solved. I'm fascinated, not repelled or nauseated, all my attention is in that moment. Very zen, that.

And I got to smart off to a surgeon. R was scrubbed on a spine case with Dr.P. He complained about her stray hairs, so she walked over to me, so I could tuck. A normal part of a circulator's job, goes along with adjusting glasses, headlights, masks, for those whose hands are in sterile gloves. Nose scratching is usually done by the sterile itchee, hands free, on the edge of a door or shelf, or with a sterile intrument, then passed off the field.

So, I am tucking R's hair back in, and, it being very blonde, as soon as she turns, I see a bit more that has escaped. Dr. P askes for a curette. I order him, "Get it yourself, I'm tucking her hair." R looks at me with wide eyes, expecting the unpredictable Dr. P to react.

What he says is, "Never get between two women fussing with their hair."

"That's right." I confirm, and let her return to scrubbing. R giggles. Levity maintained.

I also got to be a comfort this week. A man not much younger than myself with an embarrassing emergency. The charge nurse felt she had to talk me into doing the case, since here I am 'ortho', not urology. "It's kinda like a bone." But I have spent my time as a penis princess, and didn't mind at all. I do know my work. It felt good to feel so competent, and then, to have the right words, the right touch. On his shoulder. Jeeze people.

"At least this happened because you were doing something normal. Not like you stuck a bottle up your bum, or a ball bearing into your bladder."

"Oh. No. Nothing like that." And although he was still embarrassed, he laughed, and trusted us to treat him with respect. We did giggle, later, but that is just one of the rare perks of the job. The stories and the jokes, far removed from the individual involved. We have to laugh, hoping we never do anything to deserve it ourselves.

It's the stories that make the agony all worthwhile.

Blur (Photo)

Am

Nurse, writer. Somehow, that combination would not have entered my mind when I was most often being asked that unanswerable question "what do you want to be?" I wanted to be an actress, with my own show, like That Girl. or the Brady Bunch, or the Waltons, or Nanny and the Professor. I was going to be very funny. I watched way too much TV, as many of my generation did. I took my examples of what I could be from there. And the people in my life that I liked.

Uncle Walt was a private pilot, or he had his license I should say. He was building a small plane in a garage in his back yard. I was young, and prone to carsickness, so I was promised a flight "later." Later never came, so I wanted to be a pilot. I'd have been awful, for a very short time. Not good with distances and three dimensional space, nor did I develop an eye for detail or thoroughness until I was in my 30s. I might be a decent pilot now, but I've lost the urgency for that. And a lovely man I dated at a short but critical moment of my life who took me up in his small plane, redeemed the promise.

I wanted to be a ballet dancer, of course. Those inexpensive classes at Patton Park were more my mother's dream, but I am glad of them. Even if my hip is a bit screwy for it. My feet were already twisted, makes no difference. Never good with choreography, not quite flexible enough, nor anywhere near determined enough. I enjoyed the rhythmic movement, the sense of ease and accomplishment, the exactitude of ballet. We even had an elderly gentleman who came in to play piano for our 20 or so eight-year-old little girls plie-ing. ("Colored Gentleman" my mother would say, intended as respectful and polite. And it was, then.) Those huge mirrors in the dance room are probably why I still love gazing into a mirror. And now so enjoy these "photobooth" images.

I loved art history, and a high school art teacher put me in for a scholarship for that major. I shied away from college, a 3.8GPA, Merit Scholarship, and I didn't feel smart enough for it. I did a radio broacast course, and got a job in Northwest Lower Michigan, hated the work, isolated and wretched. I was no good at all at patter. I had no small talk, then. Still a skill I have to put a lot of energy into, and I tend to get very offensive with anyone trite, if I drop my reticence. (Chatting to comfort a patient is another set of skills, entirely. Which also took me practice. )

No, when I went to college, it was for acting. I didn't quite realize that acting and Theater are distinct. Theater programs are for plays and memorizing dialogue, and musical theater. Acting, for me, was about TV and movies, telling stories, voice acting, characters. There is certainly overlap, but not for me. It was good therapy, I needed it. But as an actor, auditioning and singin' and dancin'... I was going to starve. Not to mention I am not photogenic. Not pretty by Hollywood standards. Not interested in NY nor LA. I'd never quite realized it was a business.

I wanted to be a massage therapist. Everyone told me I should, I have a talent, what I call pain magnets on my fingers. I was most of the way through an apprenticeship (Massage colleges were just starting to be available.) Finishing my clinical hours, I was propositioned. I backpedaled furiously, and really looked at it for the business that it is. I have no talent at all for business. I was too far from the only places that would have hired me, and I was not about to go alone and start up a storefront shop.

About that time, I joined the National Guard, and decided to quit mucking about, buckle down, and do whatever was necessary to have a marketable skill, that still allowed me to touch people. I set my sights on a BSN. Army style, until I came to my senses.

Nursing seemed the perfect choice for a generalist like myself. A pragmatic decision, nothing romantic at all. I'd done a lot of the jobs that my patients would have. I could talk about anything. I could learn the rest. I'd enjoyed hearing stories, and random people always told me intimate stories. I explained concepts well, and I had good touch, I was calm in the midst of crisis. I found I liked the hard sciences I'd feared before, or was too lazy to apply my mind to after high school.

And surgery? One patient at a time, protocols so I didn't have to not only do my work, but also figure out what my work was. No ironing uniforms, work in PJs. At least two doctors responsible in the room, cool stuff to watch, toys and tech galore, very little math. No patient or family lying to me, no pile of pills to give out three times a day, no underlings who I have to supervise, I'm no more a supervisor than an entrepreneur. And when I went home at the end of the day, there was nothing left hanging over my head for the next day. When I passed off my room, I would not see that case again, and usually not see that patient again. Very freeing.

Perfect? Hardly. But a pretty good match for my abilities and deficits. I've learned more than I could have imagined.

And writer? Well, actually I always assumed I would write a book someday, when I'd lived a bit, had some stories to tell, had some perspective. When I imagined myself in my sitcom, I thought about how it hung together, motivation, consistency, continuity, retelling it over and over in my head. Not bad practice. The problem I'm still wrestling with is the heart of writing, conflict. I like boring, means nothing is going wrong. Life is quite hard enough with out badguys. I don't want to write about the nasty people in my life. They are not funny. Not yet.

I have learned to organize, streamline, listen acutely, perservere, keep working. I'm not lazy anymore. Not about the hard stuff, anyway. I know if I get the tedious and difficult done, I can sit and dither. Enlightened laziness.

Oo. There's a self help book in that phrase alone.

Cheer (Photo)

Lileks and his Institute of Official Cheer.
This is why I am laughing, ruefully. Go, waste a few hours, days or months here.

Imogen (Photo and Essay)

At 0550 on Tuesday morning, my crushed index finger, from a swinging door (in the OR, which is stupid beyond all belief) and an oblivious surgeon who would not take one step to allow me in, failed me. That mug of tea in my hand, slipped in my grasp, indescribably, a lapse in memory and attention, and splashed all over the new macbook, named Imogen. The old computer donated to friends already gone, the new one a gift of generosity and practicality from D, astonishingly covered in tea.

I reacted, wiped, tipped, blasted canned air, raising a cloud of tannins. D, thankfully, was up, and being an old mac IT guy, was reassuring and took over from me, as I had to run off to work. He disassembled, researched, dried, and generally reassured me. I staggered off to work, and had an awful day of being snapped at by a hyper-tense surgeon that I generally don't work with, outside my specialty, in a room I've never worked in, with a new traveling tech who needed excessive support, after being set up by the charge folks way over there far from the ortho I love. With a sore, crushed index finger.

The most paranoid advice was to allow Imogen to dry for four days. D found less conservative suggestions, and hopeful signs - dry battery, dry motherboard. I worried. D set up his old iBook, Albion, for me. I waited, Imogen dried. I worried. Other worries gushed through the gap of a technical difficulty. Moby's heart murmur, Moira's need for fortitude, long tested, D's future plans. All the young women discussing their party dresses, asking me, "Going to the Xmas party?" (Answer, no, never even considered it.) My uneasy distancing from my mother - because my cousin here has an xmas card from her for me, has me chewing on that old bone of discontent.

So, although I could technically have posted, I did not. I paid my comments on your blogs, though my heart was not much in them. Sorry. The anxiety creeps up, as I hang in limbo. I snap at D, complain, cry, lie on the couch flipping channels, drink beer, drink tea, let my joints stiffen and ignore the pain until it forces attention.

This morning, D woke up Imogen, and I made waffles in an attempt at distraction. She has a rather pretty splash of light under the LCD layer of the monitor. Everything else works, apparently. D still wants her to have a check-up. He reminded me on Wednesday of the show A Piece of Cake. A pilot who misses his grip, falls and breaks his neck, dead. Little kid on a bike comes out of nowhere, and D is left with a mangled elbow, a year of PT and two surgeries to make it functional. I try to eat a steak tip at a party, wind up unconscious, with rescue efforts that leave me bruised and frightened, with disc herniations. Life changes in a moment. Life changes in every moment.

Six

Six weird things about me, while violating of this meme's strict rules.

1. I crack my toes. Not just with my fingers, idly, while sitting on the couch. Violently hitting my toes down on the floor, pushing against the blankets in bed, whenever I take off my shoes, before I put my shoes on. A very 'dancer' thing.

2. I also pick items on the floor up with my toes. Only when I am unshod. Well, if I am scrubbed in, I use my feet to move cords and tubes on the floor, or shift the kick-bucket, but among scrubs, this is normal behaviour.

3. I talk for animals and things. Expressing their opinions, feelings, and attitudes, as best I can interpret. I learned this talent from my Aunt Alma.

4. I am very exact about details whenever I dress in what I consider a uniform. Leftover from the Army, probably. I have my pens in my left breast pocket, tuck in the ties of my scrubs, that sort of thing.

5. I love puns, especially puns on familiar song lyrics, then singing them. This is a spur of the moment phenomenon. I'll try to remember to write down the next one I do. This always makes D laugh. Confuses cow-orkers.

6. I have imagined the deaths of everyone I know, both individually and collectively, and how I would feel and react. This causes me great grief in some cases, and immense relief in others.

Booboo (Photo)

It was a rough day at work.

Home (Photo)

Reading (Photo)

Morning

Every work morning, I put on the kettle while I take my shower. I only vaguely remember the shower, since I am not entirely awake right after 5AM, but my muscles remember to get me clean and deodorized, clean toothed, and dried generally.

I find my clothes laid out from the night before, and get them on without falling over. I get the hot water to boil again, spoon our the Taj Mahal loose tea from the red tin with the nifty latch- a Christmas gift that held - something. Hear the kettle click off and pour water into the white two cup pot, then into the bowl of cream of wheat fortified with wheat germ. Add a square of Trader Joe's dark chocolate to the cereal, strain the tea into my brown mug with red interior, stir cereal well to avoid lumpiness. Start the computer, and sit with nourishment and theophylline to read comics, weather on noaa.gov, Fortean Times "On this day..." and Engrish.com.

I sip, spoon, Moby may reach up to greet me, or want to play, or want me to sit by him while he eats, or may well just sleep on, ignoring me completely. At nearly six, I finish up, slide on my shoes, grab my bag with T pass, make sure I have keys, lunch if planned the night before, keys, watch, glasses, coat, and these days, hat, scarf, gloves. Then my backpack. I turn off the lights, and grope my way to the bedroom. I kiss D, with immense gratitude that I have him there. If he is anything but finally, fast asleep after a bad night of insomnia, he will murmur, "I love you." I go out, lock the door behind me, and walk the half mile or so to the train stop.

I (Photo)

Cassandras' Fish has been revamped. I have expanded and changed the not necessarily final ending. I have gone through and de-that-ed, and un-was-ified as much as I could. This is a work in progress. Comments are much appreciated.

You (Photo)

You make me laugh, you silly buggers.

Tea (Photo)

Thought (Photo)

New (Photo)

Photobooth image. In which I ponder a strangely familiar face.

Bleed

There are impressions, not entirely wrong, that the operating room is a hostile place, or that surgeons are mean and play practical jokes (a la M*A*S*H), that they are silent and serious, or that there is blood spattering everywhere. There is some truth in each. Each expresses personal anxiety more than experience.

Surgeons, especially those who have gone deeply into the realms of subspecialties, say hand surgery, have spent their entire adult lives, two to three times the number of hours most of us spend at work, in class or hospitals. That is their reality, their totality. They often were shuttled into pre med early in their lives, went through college with others like themselves, med school, internship, research, residency, fellowship(s) and further training the rest of their careers. Not always, of course, but enough. That is their peer group, the ones who socialize them, the ones they compare themselves to, the ones who define normal for them. Amazes me that any of them have any bedside manner at all. This is not all, not even most, but the tendency is prevalent. The ones with intact marriages and children they make time for, are more balanced, treat staff more as teammates.

Nurses, techs, for many of them, are at least partially invisible, unless we are sick or injured. The change then is electric. Suddenly, we become 'patient', and they know how to do that, too. I asked a general oncology surgeon to explain mangled, family-relayed information about my sick aunt. He pulled it apart for me, gave me process and prognosis, and hugged me, because she was certainly dying, and fast.

I was getting a migraine, will a rare but blinding aura. I informed the anesthesiologist, so if I dropped or something... he offered IV toredol, which I rolled up my sleeve for, and was able to finish my shift.

A new nurse passed out, knocked her head on the floor, the surgeon broke scrub to check on her, while the experienced resident stayed operating. I bashed my head on a metal shelf, cut my eyebrow, and got more advice and attention from the surgical staff than I ever wanted. The compassion is there, just a matter of knowing the way in.

The sense of humor is rough, no question. And they egg each other on. I still can hear Dr. Townsend, referring to me, "She's slow, but she does poor work." By the time he retired, I knew he was mostly joking.

I have seen the sudden jerk and pull back of pain from being punctured by a sharp trocar, scalpel or needle, while the wielder of the sharp gasps in horror. Only to be laughed at for falling for that old trick. No harm done, but the lesson, intended as a joke, is that it can happen. It happens often enough for real.

During a Laparoscopic Nissen fundoplication, where the stomach is wrapped around the esophagus to act as a functional sphincter for herniation or laxity, the surgeons I worked with had the anesthesiologist slide in a flexible dilator - a Bougee, down, to work as a template, to keep the wrap from being too tight. The repair is sutured down. The bougee is slid out by the anesthesiologist, who this time looked at it, and asked "Is there supposed to be suture in this?" A beat, held breath, then laughter. Not really possible, but for a moment we all had to consider, how the... ?

Few surgeons prefer not to have music, and the techs hate having to work in a quiet room. I've come to appreciate not having to deal with other's tastes in music. Some will not start until the music starts. Shouting is rare, and disruptive, and no one shouts "Stat!" Ok, unless they are joking. "Nurse! Music, stat!" When there is unexpected bleeding, or a resident error, all get very quiet, the anger is tight and focused, insistently calm. No jokes, all attention on the problem to be corrected. Extreme impatience with any distraction, if noticed at all. When the crisis is past, the mood lightens as though nothing had gone wrong.

Yes, they are control freaks. So are OR nurses, and scrub techs. We rely on our habits, and protocols to keep us from the inevitable human laziness. The surgeons do much the same. They are all kinds of personalities, jerks and nasty bastards - annoying when they are also skilled. The kind, sweet ones, more infuriating when they are inattentive or incompetent. The geeks and the jocks, eccentrics and dullards, comedians and frustrated artists, all work long hard hours, and finish each surgery until all is as well as they can make it, before going on to the next. The best ones love what they do, and care about their patients. Not an angel or a demon among them. Always the elephant in the room, though.

Oh, the blood. It was the most surprizing part. Vast majority of surgeries have only small amounts of blood loss. Enough to be cleaned up in a small towel. This is the point of modern surgery, to tightly control the bleeding, and with great success. With a few notable exceptions, C-sections - visually worse because of all the other fluid that is stained and appears to be just blood. And amputations, usually due to cancer or trauma, large wounds that take a while to get mopped up. Even so, not as much as I imagined when I began this work.


And hostile? Not most of the time. It's a strange place, with different rules, not easily penetrated. Those hours of silent intent and fast responses bleed off a part of me that would otherwise turn toxic. Putting my anxieties to work for the good of others.

Hall (Photo)

Moby gets to play in the hall, significantly expanding his scented territory. He prefers chasing mice out there.

Us (Photo)

I can't believe we've been together so long, I can't remember a time when we were apart.

Done

I hit 50,002 words at 1020 this morning. The story is done, althought there may yet be epilogue or filling in later. LATER. Nanowrimo, two years in a row, and both done early.

Ten Things I am amazingly happy about.

1 Sixteen years ago, D and I found each other.
2 This morning, he went to Google Earth, and found satellite photos for where we were stationed during Gulf War I. He'd looked before, but the resolution was too poor. Today, we found both sites.
3 This is his idea of romantic. Mine too.
4 The story flowed, and let me tell it. Enough for now.
5 We are going to a museum today
6 Then lunch at Wok 'n Roll.
7 Moby is the most wonderful cat ever.
8 Moira is the most wonderful friend ever.
9 We are going to see Moira and C in January, as well as babe Plum.
10 You read this, and encourage me, and share your own tales in return.

Thanks

I am grateful beyond words for all of your kind words. Especially after I realized I'd been counting a 600+word segment twice. I have a soft spot for limericks. Thank you, thank you so much.

So, my question. What are the hardest reasons to give thanks? I had a fellow student that I had been slighting of, tell me that she might not be smart, but it hurt her feelings when I cut her off and ignored her, rolled my eyes and sighed when she talked. I was in ninth grade, but I got it. I will always be grateful to her for calling me on my meanness. I still feel badly about how I treated her, but I did listen. I did learn.

Another fellow student called me on always feeling ill, having a bad day, always excusing myself for not being prepared or for leaving early. He prodded me to begin a long, long, hard journey into my own misery and out the other side. Eventually. The other students thought he was being mean. Hurt as I was, I defended him. He was right, after all.

I'm grateful that my parents put me through catholic school. Not easily, not really affordable for a factory worker laid off, then hired as a groundskeeper for a cemetery. I was offered a great education, and was cured of Catholicism at the same time. I will always be thankful, education is never wasted.

Woe

Moby anxiously kneading as the vacuum 'bot runs.

Writing myself into a corner, or at least new territory, where there are endings, but no clear path to any of them. I fear the trite.

tsdi

only 5K to go

I am so tired tonight. My imagination is spinning it's wheels, though. It would be wrong to stop with only 4.5K to go, right?

Mndi (Photo)

45,023

Sun.

43,122

Leonids and Leica

S-day

At six in the morning yesterday, the NOAA had, for the current weather in Boston "N/A VOID." So when I walked out the door, I had to return for an umbrella. Turns out it was about 60F, with 25mph winds, gusting to 40, and 0.7" of rain in that hour. I ran, and was shoved and dampened the whole way to the train. As it was pulling away, me on the wrong side of the platform, a Miracle, the driver stopped, opened his window, and gestured me around the track. Clambered on, damp and grateful and out of breath.

At the notorious Park station, the Red Line was delayed for a disabled train, I stood awhile looking at the uncharacteristically shiny rails, and decided that wet was better than late, so I ran up and grabbed a Green line to the nearer station, and walked the rest of the way. My legs were soaked to the thigh, and I was never so glad that I had dry scrubs awaiting me. I like rain, but when it drives sidewards, less so.

Had a room that was fast and full, but predictable and doable. As long as I get there early enough to be ready, so, right choice.

Quitting time, my jeans were still soaked and clammy, so I snag clean scrub pants for the trip home (I never do this), planning to catch a cab. No cabs. The T, again, but a seat, which is almost as good.

Nothing funny at work but for Hari and Shahzad making fun of me for not understanding a word of what they were saying about cricket. I simply replied that I know nothing of football or basketball, either.

38,217
40,318 ending.

Furday

And glad I am of it. Did not write last night. Read the December Fortean Times which miraculously appeared in the mail.

So, ten things I read about in the Fortean Times.

1. UFO abductees and lightening strike targets have a lot of common symptoms.
2. There is an elephant who speaks a few words in Korean. Apparently.
3. Charles Fort was going for some kind of unified theory, long before the physicists focused there.
4. The Olmec may have had writing.
5. The Romans had a toothpaste named after Messalina.
6. A researcher looking into woodpecker's lack of headaches won an Ignoble prize.
7. There is a lake of sulfuric mud in Java, swamping villages. Triggered, perhaps, by oil drilling.
8. Nichola Tesla could have been both a mad scientist AND a misunderstood genius.
9. Bruce Lee ate hash. Maybe.
10.Three minnows were found in a duck egg.

Th'sdi

How could I resist a One Word meme? I apologize for forgetting where I got this, please leave a note if it was you.

*Via Pilgrim/heretic.

You can only answer one word. No explanations.
1. Yourself
awake
2. Your spouse
amazing
3. Your hair
mess
4. Your mother
neglect
5. Your Father
bastard
6. Your Favorite Item
soft
7. Your dream last night:
blank
8. Your Favorite drink
beer
9. Your Dream Car
electric
10. The room you are in
cozy
11. Your Ex
invisible
12. Your fear
disaster
13. What you want to be in 10 years
home
14. Who you hung out with last night
fictional
15. What You're Not
rested
16. Muffins
eh
17: One of Your Wish List Items
ease
18: Time
dark
19. The Last Thing You Did
words
20. What You Are Wearing
jeans
21. Your Favorite Weather
rain
22. Your Favorite Book
subtle
23. The Last Thing You Ate
breakfast
24. Your Life
full
25. Your Mood
sleepy
26. Your best friend
distant
27. What you're thinking about right now
tea
28. Your car
absent
29. What you are doing at the moment
dithering
30. Your summer
humid
31. Your relationship status
happy
32. What is on your tv
nothing
33. What is the weather like
checking
34. When is the last time you laughed
recently

Weensday

Ok, last week, no woe. This week, I was handed a post on a platter.

I am going down to the Park Street Red Line station, and as I start down the stairs, I hear loud, lounge music. Now remember, this is 0620. I'm thinking, I can't take this, not this early in the morning. And it gets worse, because atop the obnoxious synth pseudo jazz volume, there is a man in full Sammy Davis Jr. get-up, singing a mangeled, not entirely on key version of "Mr. Bojangles." I fished out my shuffle, stuffed the pods in my ears, and cranked whatever song was there as loud as I could stand, until the roaring train washed it all out anyway.

I always tip the T musicians, I didn't think he qualified.

33,001
It's herein one huge, horrible post.

Trouserday

I am grateful that I got today off, since I was feeling distinctly icky yesterday.

And what is it about Moby that friends who have only seen a picture of him, ask after him? Is is just his telegraphic natural charm, or is it that we found just the right name for him?

30,793, and ahead of schedule. I just hope I can turn the corner of this sock, so that it winds up with a complete plot, and not just a series of episodes and stories. But, finishing nanowrimo early is enough blessing all in all.

I have to stop fantasizing about it actually getting published, one day.


32,024 at 1900.

Monnndeeee (Photo)

Moby found a new "under."

28,354, and holding, for tonight.

Oh, and Fellow Novelists, take a little time to listen to NPR being supportive of National Novel Writing Month.

Stolen (Photo)

This is a friend's rescued cat. I did not take this photo. I couldn't resist.


24004

27360

Satyrday (With Photo)

The last two days at work have demanded I pull out every secret from my bag of tricks, often all at once. Uncommunicative surgeons, two attending surgeons in one room, a pediatric patient, flipping patient position, and bed type- mid case. All the fun stuff. And I love feeling I'm the competent juggler in the middle, but after two days of it, I'm tired.

At one point yesterday, I was asked to page the child patient's parents, before I could, scrub asked me to page for a different set of fixation plates, surgeon asked me to page the next surgeon, anesthesia is standing over my shoulder wanting me to order albumin (which takes a different form that has to be filled out perfectly), resident is telling me repeatedly that the suction is not working, the phone is ringing with the stat gram stain results for the allograft, and the med student has contaminated her gown, and needs a new one. I'd have laughed if I'd had time.

I had to put a diaper on the baby on Friday, and mentioned I didn't do this often. Surgeon says, "Well, you should be, you take care of surgeons all day."

That D sent me this photo of Moby "helping" him put down the chicken made it all ok. And he took the train in to escort me home. I babbled at him the whole way (all the while making sure I did not reveal any identifying information).


22033

Friedday.

Ten Things I will say, in response, today.

How are you?
Absolutely.
Yup, sure is Friday.
I am off this weekend.
Are you off this weekend?

Sure, no problem.
Can I go home yet?
No one has shown up.
Now, that would be logical and reasonable, and we can't have that.
Oh, sorry, let me just...

Thorsday

When should we really celebrate the beginning of the year? There is the numerical turning of New Year in the middle of winter (summer for the 'other' hemisphere.) There are either Solstice, Summer or Winter, there is the old argument for Spring as life begins, businesses have various and sundry random fiscal years. I would like to just go with my birthday, but that could get confusing for the other 364ths of the population. I also think that now that we have computers that would make it possible, we could have varying fractions of daylight and dark, so that the hour would be 1/12th of the day, and night. Work in the summer would be longer, but we could nearly hibernate all winter, turned around for night people.

How, in short, would you change the calendar?


18,033

Wodensday

No woe. I like rain, India Quality does a searing and delicious lunch with charming service, errands got run, MST3K DVD came, and I hit the 16K mark.

With some difficulty, admittedly. There it is. Want to complain, and life just doesn't cooperate.

16,187

Tuesday

Sunrise, darkly golden red through a suffusion of yellow leaves, reflected in watered silk glass stream, honking geese in flyover.


13,515

MoanDay

11,871




I am so proud, this took some courage.

Sunday

Saturday

First week, and I already screwed it up. Yesterday should have been 10 Things, and today the work joke. Eh, I'll just switch. Make up for it next week. And offer you this quote from the ever amazing Whiskey River.

"One of the few things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now. The impulse to save something good for a better place later is the signal to spend it now. Something more will arise for later, something better. These things fill from behind, from beneath, like well water. Similarly, the impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful, it is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe and find ashes."
- Annie Dillard
Nanowrimo word count :7070

Ten Things I am looking at right now.

Brown mug
candle in holder I threw, trimmed and glazed myself
liquid hand soap dispenser
paper towel
copy of Tao Te Ching
black watch Timex type
blue watch, free for Nurse Appreciation Day
logitech microphone, with guilt over not adding to One Word Aloud
paper lamp, pseudo Japanese style
stainless steel kettle. The one Moby loves to lap out of when I am pouring his water.

Friday

On Halloween, many nurses and techs showed up with themed scrubs or hats - which is about what you can do in the OR. One nurse wore a jester hat, stuffed points with bells on, which cheered us all. One of our ortho surgeons was in the hall, showing off his "New instruments," two foot long knife and cleaver (in plastic.) Ok, maybe you had to be there.

Thursday

If you could live for a day in an altered loop of time and space, where and when, and what would you do?

I would be 13 and in school with D who would also be 13 and in the same school. We would, I believe, like each other, and reassure each other that we were not alone in our eccentricity.

Wednesday

November and Nanowrimo begin, and it's Wednesday for Woe. I have cramps and misery. Women talking about their periodic discomforts used to embarrass me so badly when I was younger. So my male readers, you are not alone in this. But endure for a moment. I have to, until menopause brings me a big welcome prezzie.

Consider orientation. And what happens when a horizontal canal is stood up, as if on two feet. Add that 'always sexually receptive' cycle of hormones, and the viscosity of blood. Yeah, well, Intelligent Design my fanny. (In the British sense of the word.)

I'm swollen, acne ridden, unbalanced, and in pain. Not moody for moody sake, but as a reaction to interstitial fluids and nausea. Imagine ovaries or testicals, depending on which analagous structure is applicable, being wrenched to the point of pain, but not damage. For three to five days. Every 3-6 weeks.

I rest my winge. And go to write.

Stewart (Photo)

Labrador + Basset Hound = this charmer with a Charlie Chaplain air. D took this of his workfriend's dog, a rescued critter. I know nothing more, but this little guy deserved his own post.

Order

Not being a naturally organized person, I have had to learn. This is probably a skill best learned, because the naturally organized are, from what I have seen, less flexible in their ability to change order. I work with nurses who have to do everything just their way, and no other, who cannot give a rational reason for their requirement. Their job is how they do their job, not why.

Basic was my first real exposure to extreme order. Before, an approximation was adequate, even exemplary. Then the earth tipped, and perfect became an exact science. Uniformity. All buttons (and there were many of the damned things) had to always be buttoned. The locker held uniforms neatly on hangers, all buttoned (again) and all facing the same way, hangers 2" apart. The class folder was held in the left hand, the right was empty, while marching. Hat came off as soon as coming in a door. A few examples among a worldfull.

Nursing required a more systematic approach to life than I had ever tried before, and the OR even more. Scrubbing necessitates a high level, done safely. Without that clarity of set-up on a sterile field, sharps get lost and dangerous, sterility is compromised, other scrubs come to hate you with a dark, passive-aggressive fury. At least I know I came to hate scrubs who hid items, when I had to relieve them for lunch. It always takes a minute to adjust to another's set-up, and the surgery continues unabated, and instruments need to be passed without too much interruption. Giving breaks becomes a specific kind of skill. When the scrub has a muddled table, murderous thoughts multiply. Worse, to have set-up beautifully, then have my lunch relief re-make it into a mess. How THEY work that way is beyond me, and they often have pissed off surgeons. (It's a bad sign when my surgeon not only acknowledges my return, but is overtly grateful.)

It's less immediately obvious with the circulating nurse role. Easier to pick up in the middle, more fixable issues, though it may involve having to run more, perhaps down the long hall to roll the microscope (a large, heavy, many elbowed object, with wonky wheels and a devil-may-care attitude) into a tiny room. That said, there is reasoning behind my paranoid checking that we have everything.

I am lazy.

It is enlightened laziness. I care deeply about the results of my organization. I would much rather have everything ready, do everything quickly, then sit. Partly because I like being able to rest, or watch the surgery, if there is a view to be had. Partly, because if something goes wrong, I want a head start. This spills over into our many moves. It's not because I have to have everything in order, I just don't want to lose too much. And I want to sit on the couch, sleep on the bed, without having to move boxes for too long. A week after the last one, a friend came by, and commented that we looked very settled in. D says,

"Once everything was out of boxes, they seemed to just put themselves away." I stared at him in amused incredulity, and with the clear expectation of a rethinking of his statement. He caught it, looked at me, rather abashed, and recanted,

"I meant... I didn't mean... ~You~ know."

I still laugh about that one.

So, how do I keep doing it? Without losing my mind along with my pens? I go by principles, like putting the tea supplies where I can most easily reach them when I am barely awake at five AM. Not hiding anything. Prioritizing the most irreplaceable. Being willing to always just buy a new pen.

Been thinking of trying to channel my Aunt Evelyn who was a natural organizer. She may be wringing her spectral hands right now, wanting to clean my kitchen. I figure, my work surface is clean. That'll do for now.

Plan

As a nurse, a veteran, and a generally disorganized person, I really appreciate a good protocol. Patry Francis has suggested a grand one. During Nanowrimo last year, I posted the day's writing, to general confusion, and a dramatic drop in readership (understandably.) This year I am using her idea of a template for the week, short but pointed, daily posts. Starting 1 November.

The plan goes something like this. Because that poem, Monday's Child, is engraved into my psyche. Like the Be A Rainbow one.

Monday: Cat Photo (very fair of face, our Moby.)

Tuesday: A Grace. A gratitude or a blessing.

Wednesday: Complaint. (Full of woe.)

Thursday: A question. (Far to go.)

Friday: 10 Things Day. (You get the idea.)

Saturday: Work anecdote or joke.

Sunday: Art or music or pretty, or a small photo of something homely.

Fascination (Photos)

There is a theory that animals are normally like ADHD folks. And Granny had a jewelry box that played "Fascination." I would dance to it.

Secret

Post Secret is one of those sites I visit with every update, every week. I am surprized at how many friends do the same. It's a disturbing peek into society's twisted darkness. I am amused, appalled and confused. So many chaotic, unnecessarily fucked-up lives. So much fear over misperceptions, anger turned to revenge and betrayal. How little gratitude and appreciation and communication.

A woman afraid she might have cancer. Worried if she looks "brave." I hope she is educating herself and enjoying her friends, but I fear she is more concerned with hiding.

A woman afraid to accept a marriage proposal, because of a freaky MIL prospect. Which is probably reasonable. Maybe. Depending.

Someone who misses being in the war. Adrenaline is addictive, and the close contact with friends is potent. The aftermath is lonely and flat. Even I, in my slight brush far behind any kind of line, can understand this. I have wondered if, some day, there might be a job for me working with returned vets.

Presumably a "Lolita" considering ruining a man's life, because she thinks she is in love. Love is not ruining anyone. And I both want to shake sense into her, and wonder how short she must be on experience with real relationships to even consider this illusion.

A confession that needs to happen, gratitude expressed, admission of a problem half-spoken, hope, hints, paradoxical instincts, curiosity. An understandable, though criminal, intent to kill dogs (call the ASPCA first, please) who bark too much. Financial worry, dissatisfactions despite apparent attainment of companionship, joys and desires and surprizes.

I have been sad and lethargic this week, wanting to blame and retreat, deflect and hibernate. But I went to work, did my job with all I had. I wrote that pean to D and Moby. I have chatted with Moira. I have made an effort to be more chummy with my cow-orkers. I didn't much feel like it, but I made the effort, with slight effect.

Reading Post Secret each week, I realize I don't have any secrets I have never told anybody. Confidences kept, yes, but kept with whomever told me. I have anxiety issues, loneliness, frustration, despairing days. But it's all current, and flowing through, however sludgily. It clots and clumps, stinks awhile, then poops out, and is largely gone. Which is how it's supposed to work.

Change is coloring the far horizon, the glow of pre dawn, the mirage of a distant island. I am getting rid of any summer clothes I did not wear this summer, or winter clothes not worn last winter*. Lists are being made. Plans discussed. It's a secret, temporarily. I'm not about to let any problem rot inside, not anymore.

Life is complicated. We weave in and out of each other's lives, and small details and tones, our own ability to accept help, or take responsibility, are all the difference between life lived, and life regretted. Shit happens. Best to let it.





*To be donated, not discarded.

Love

Moby spent all night sleeping between us, about knee level. Before leaving for work, D sat stroking him, and I sprawled around both, a hand on both. We never assume we know what is in our cat's mind, that being presumptuous. But the evidence is that Moby loves us, and knows he is loved.

I have written before about the misuse of the word love. From my mother telling me 'of course he loves you, he's your father' to the abused wives on COPS! insisting on staying in violent homes 'But I love him!' to children kidnapped by selfish criminals who want a baby to love them, to the neglectful or cruel dog owners on Animal Cops who are in love with the idea of owning an animal, with no understanding of them as living creatures. Love used to describe possession, or mal-dependence, or habit, or societal expectation. One way obsession, power, or lust, or pure emotion divorced from action.

Love is both harder, and easier than any of that. D met me when I had no ability to trust, and earned my confidence patiently, through acts of loving kindness. Hoping for, but not expecting, love in return. Small moments of trust, returned attention, increasing gratitude, gradual ease. I strove to be worthy of his esteem, and became a better person. He says he wanted never to take my care for granted, and likewise wanted to repay me.

And he did the same for our abandoned, neglected feline. Moby found that there was always food. That he could hide under, and we would come and pet him, but not pull him out. We would pick him up, and gently put him down when he squirmed, so that, in time, he would stand nearby to be lifted and cuddled and scritched behind the ears. He rolls on his back for us to rub his belly. When he has had enough, he puts out his claws and touches the hand, the hand stops, he releases or licks, and trust flows.

Yesterday D tells me he was in a bad, anxious place, and Moby hopped up on the stool next to him. "As if to say, 'You look like you could use a cat right now'. Made me feel much better."

Love has to be a complete circuit. Admiration, humor, kindness. Love is about always acting lovingly. Nothing to be taken for granted. No mind-reading allowed. Evidence required.

Attentiveness affectionately applied.

But, Moby does ~seem~ to love us.

Day

Yesterday was twelve hours of trying my patience. Well, actually only about ten active hours of challenge. I apologize for any lack of context or terminology right now, I will gladly take questions at the end. Right now, I have to rant.

First, I'm doing Ortho in Pedi, a long walk from useful supplies. With a high maintenance surgeon. A traveler scrub with a grudge, who harasses me and then instructs me to "Relax, I'm just playin' with you!" A resident with a thick accent, who I really try to give the benefit of the doubt to the language barrier, who proves to be so dumb I wonder how he got past third grade, never mind med school. And me, I am no pedi nurse.

First case, a pleasant enough two year old, mom holds back tears until her child is under. I keep dad from backing into the sterile field, since the scrub has gone off for a smoke break instead of being in the room like he's expected to be. Getting everything plugged in sorted out, so the mini-c-arm is usable. All turns out fine.

Turnover, and the orderly has come in to get the send sheet for the next patient. Who has not checked into the hospital yet. I have mentioned this to her. She keeps reaching for the paper. I have to explain several times that I can't send for the next case yet, because the patient IS NOT HERE. I don't yell. I don't raise my voice. I just articulate very, very, clearly. She is still dubious, and makes sure I know to overhead page when I am ready to send. Three times.

Next case involves getting a prone Jackson bed in the room, a sprawling bit of equipment that can be x-rayed through everywhere. Cell saver RN has brought her machine, blood is being sent for, EEG monitoring is present, with a student. There will be x-ray. All fine, all good folks, just a lot of them for a small room.

We get started. Scrubgrump asks for a special instrument in another surgeon's specials. I delay in baffled exasperation. Thankfully the implant rep (up to eleven people, plus patient, in the room) points him to analogous bits in the set he already has. I feel my first truly murderous thought, the previous being merely to maim.

I run. And run. The running, the searching for supplies continues. The lack of staffing that has dumped me out of my area means I get last lunch. Hard for me who could eat two breakfasts and be fine until dinner, but I saw it coming, and I endure. Phone call after phone call for the attending anesthesiologist, who is never in the room when they call (the resident anesthesiologist is, proper care being given.) I get a garbled call, guy asking for what sounds like 'clerk' but since that makes no sense, I ask for several repititions. He asks where he has called.

"Operating room 18, surgery."

"Not the county courthouse?"

I break a short thumbnail into the quick, and get tape on it so it won't tear further. I do this while scrubgrump stands so close to me I can't properly open the door without contaminating his gown, and I can't get him to backthefuckup. I consider him to blame. I do not have a loaded scalpel.

Residumb's pager goes off while I am getting suture and seeing why the suction isn't working. I ignore it, until I can get to it.

"Would you check my pager?"

"As soon as I am done, yes." A few minutes, I have picked up the pager. And he says.

"Would you please check my pager?"

"That is what I am doing right now." And before I have a chance to push the green button.

"Could you read it out to me?" I take a moment to breathe, and read out the numbers displayed.

"What else does it say?"

"Nothing. Just the numbers."

"But, what does it say?"

I'm royally annoyed, it's not like I've never read off pagers of surgeons and residents before, and there are only the damn digits on his damn pager. And I've been dealing with his misdirected instructions all day. So I'm feeling a bit sarcastic.

"I only read numbers." I give the attending surgeon credit for chuckling.

Worse thing about dumb people, who don't know it? They cannot conceive of anyone smarter than they really are.


No, it all could have been worse. At three, I am blessed with a new scrub, who considers me a blessing. No blood needs to be given. We finish long enough before seven so I can get the room sorted, supplies returned, and still take a long break before going home. I restrained myself from killing anyone. So, it was a good day, by the definition of 'Any day when we all get out alive, is a Good Day.' A friend announces in the lounge that she is getting a cab home because it is raining and she does not have an umbrella.

I decide this is a wonderful idea, and will get me to D sooner.

He feeds me.

Fit

There is a burden to never fitting in. And I do not. I read too much, but not best-sellers. I've seen thousands of movies, and have popular actors, or directors, who I will not watch, no matter how good the movie is supposed to be. I am married, but no children, no house, no complaining about my spouse. I drink, and but only like really good beer, and am not interested in staying out late, or clubbing, or ever getting drunk again. I am open minded, but do not smoke, or indulge in illegal pharmaceuticals. I have had very short hair, but have had to politely deflect female advances.

I look conventional, but my politics, attitudes toward religion, and experiences are not. I dress very modestly, but I have tattoos and have posed nekkid. I am a nurse, I was in the military, I don't like guns, but I am a good shot with an M16. I dance, write, throw pots, but can't give a rat's ass about stamping cards or crochet or other crafts. I have lived all over this country, but prefer to keep within a few miles of where I live. I get along best with those who are older or younger than I am, by about a decade. My age-mates tend to assume they know what I am about. And are usually wrong. The age gap obviates assumptions, which I prefer.

I talked about this* with Moira yesterday. I am not much like anyone I know. Neither is she. She still feels like a misfit. I have recently come to think that this is the consequence of an authentic life, unmotivated by tribalism. Misfits, I believe, are odd, but trying to fit in somewhere, as hard as they can, and failing that, reacting against - to become a stereotype of a different kind. Would we all be lovely eccentrics, if every choice were honest active responses of each of us becoming who we actually are?

It's a lonely road. No question. For, how many people are there to talk with where there is only the truth and the silence? The dear hard truth, and the kindly silence? No assumed commonality. To never say "Of course... " or "I have to... " save in jest? But I am also beginning to believe that it is the only way to have a real friend, or genuine intimacy. If I cannot bear to look at my bare soul, unique and warty and peculiar, and feel alright about that, how can I let anyone else in for a peek?

Most don't travel this way voluntarily. It hurts, and I have the scars to prove it. But to cram myself into any other life would have been a half death. This way is real, sometimes calm, not gentle, not easy. Very confusing, no answers, no one size to fit.


Still.

Anyone still reading HERE would understand.



*Some of this is verbatim from our chat.

Podcast

And more.

Second Podcasting Attempt.

Meteor

There is compensation for having to be up before dawn. Experiencing the beauty of the streaming end of night. The cool air, the quiet, the subtle colors. This morning, the air was crystalline, the moon and stars piercing. And then, the brightest meteor I have ever seen. It's been years since the last one, and this was dramatic, left a trail, covered a remarkable arc of sky, and felt close enough to scrape roofs.

I thought about it all day, and looked it up when I pulled my brain together after I got home.

The results surprized me, and leave me feeling touched by the universe itself.

Mark Twain thank you.

Power

There was a series of books by Lyn V. Andrews, a sort of female Carlos Castenadas,  who gets an Indian shaman woman as a mentor/guru. It's all pretty much fiction purporting to be fact, but there are some interesting lessons. The one I most remember was that  power is never given,  it has to be stolen, taken by force.  If you are good and sweet, you may be granted privilege, but that can be taken away, it is power loaned, and cannot be counted on if the person who loans it is inconvenienced.  Real power is like real liberty, it must be paid for in blood and taken by force of arms.  It is not ever simply given away. 

I am not sure I completely like the imagery, but I think the idea, as far as it goes, is sound.  Too many trade power for comfort,  responsibility for  safety, spirituality for religious assurance.  And then wonder why their lives fall apart and god abandons them.  If there is a god, then there must be an exchange, where we must live our lives with as much energy and attention as we expect god to give to us.  If there are divine gifts, and we expect to be given them - rather than creating them for ourselves, then we are left to our own empty soulscapes. 

But power is not taken away from another, or it's just bullying. I have had the misfortune of working with several manipulative, aggressive monsters. I consider them evil. They have a kind of power. The kind that has to be constantly buttressed by fury and shouting. The minute they weaken, they are lost, as no one will fight for them, when the fear is gone, the illusion collapses.

Real power has to come from within, grows, and often does not look like much. It is not gotten by whining, or martyrdom. It takes exactly what it needs to do what it needs to do. There is always enough left over to share.

Men

My father, when he was irritable, which is to say he was breathing, would accuse me of being a "women's libber." When he was mad, he would say I was "Independent!" My brothers bemoaned the passing of the fashion of the mini-skirt. My mother complained of men as slobs, who had to be coddled. My aunt said a wife was merely an unpaid whore. I found all of this troubling. I detested my father, loved my brothers, loved my mother and aunt and uncle.

When I began to study the women's movement, I listened carefully to the most intelligent speakers. I began to form an understanding that privilege, accepting doors being opened, and going first, meant losing rights - to have one's own credit. I listened to all the voices that said, this is not about women being in power, just not being deprived of power over their own lives. This resonated, as my father, an idiot, had power over my life, that he abused. I did not want to chose for others, I wanted only to have the right to chose for myself. I called myself a dyed-in-the-wool feminist.

I have had a number of friends over the years, women who dated women. "Dated." I heard about the relationships, the dysfunction, the anguish, the love. The lesson I took from those stories is that it is not about men, nor women, but people and relationships. Because the stories of girlfriends who were crap sounded just like the stories about boyfriends who were crap.

And I took statistics. Kept abreast of studies, since sex in any form interests me. And that bell curve is important, because if I were to take the average man and the average woman, they would have more in common than either ends of the spectrum of women with other women, or men with other men. And if I am careful to chose a man on the feminine slide of the curve, match him with a woman on the male side, they will have more in common than most anyone of the same sex with someone else in the same sex. Hormones influence, they do not determine.

I took it upon myself, in a group of guy friends, to patiently correct sexist assumptions. Self importantly, I admit. The method being, to turn it around. "I want a cute girl." Well, what if all the girls you might date only want cute guys? Is that fair? I insisted on being listened to, when I had something to say. I never indulged in slighting men, always turning it around for myself as well. "Never argue with a man, he'll never listen anyway." Not ok, because the obverse certainly is not. I scoured my own unconscious anti-male bias as I went. There was not much there, since I never went through an I hate boys phase. Prejudice is prejudice, and I take everyone as an individual, including children.

To say "I like men" is just as suspect as "I love women." I don't want to be lumped in with anyone. I do prefer male politics, generally, the company of men is easier for me. But tough minded women, educated and interested in the world, are just as good. Better, if only for rarity sake.

I mind the women who think it is good to jokingly abuse men. Or want to sponge off them. Or use them in a way they would not want to be used.

Not ok, really not ok.

Hamster

I used to say I went to the library from before I was born. True enough, my mother certainly went to the Campbell Branch while expecting me. I cannot remember a time when I did not go there in a week.

The imposing brick edifice, the concrete steps though heavy dark doors into a pamphlet filled entryway. The floors were brown, a smooth, undulating surface that seemed to absorb noise. I loved it all, the racks of paperbacks in alluring temptation, the oaken desks where the director sat alone, and the checkout desk with towering librarians and their rolling date stamps. To the right, the heavy tables and lumbering armchairs with the kind of waxy surface that would take a fingernail impression, all the adult books without pictures. To the left was paradise. Colorful wooden benches to slide across while choosing picture books. Joke books back in the corner, the first Dewey number I memorized. The tall, narrow windows of innumerable panes of wavy glass, open for a wet breeze on humid summer days.

For a while, there was a habbitrail, with gerbils, or hamsters. A plastic world of tunnels and rooms, wheels and stairs. The children's librarian must have been an animal lover, because there was also a library cat, a aloof ginger creature. The hamster was allowed out in a hamster ball, and the cat would take an interest in the rolling phenomenon. I sat on the floor, back resting against books, and watched.

I got a job there, the summer I was 17, with one more year of high school to go. I loved having access to the bathroom key, even though it was to a dank toilet next to the mop closet in the tiny basement. I loved the staff lunch room, windows high in the wall, more heavy wood, an inner sanctum. Three Barbara's worked there at the time, the Clerk, and both librarians, which amused me. I shelved books, filed catalogue cards, checked books out and in, and took overdues, 20 hours a week. I can't say I always loved the work, but I never stopped loving the idea of working in a library.

I kept hoping they would get more hamsters, or a cat, so I could help take care of them.

Letter

I learned to write, and enjoy writing, through letters. Not the examined, graded school reports, self conscious and pointless jumping-jacks of putting one word after the other. I had the joy of telling my tale to a grateful, distant, gentle reader. My oldest brother got my first drawn missive, in all the colors crayons came in, when I was in my first year of school. When Dave was off in the Air Force, in Thailand, Arizona, England, Texas - I wrote of my day and miseries. For Bill, off to college, then to the commune and all over Europe, epistles into the ether.

One cousin became a pen pal, as we vied to outwit each other, writing in folds and circles, codes and mirrors. From Kalkaska, I wrote to an acquaintance who would become my first dysfunctional boyfriend. The Army gave me more stories to tell, and I wrote to everyone with an address. Long rambling streams of consciousness and complaint, as well, I hope, of insight. I sent many more than ever were delivered to me.

Email solved my perpetual problem - if I were not away from home, of writing a letter, not finishing it before it seemed like old news, and never getting it into an envelope, nor sent. One step, no waiting, no voice mail messages awkwardly ended. And Moira and I, on such different schedules, grew to really know each other, not just like, not just work together, by dint of this new media.

And for this same reason, which is to say my dear friend, I began to write my essays. As a way to answer her questions about my fraught life with less of the tedium. Telling my story, without getting sick of the sound of my own voice. I started a little blog. She was my reader.

Writing a book was never more than a passing fantasy when I was small. My love for books lay in reading, as many as I could tuck under my arm or hide in my desk, the three book library limit a frustrating constraint. My respect for the knowledge and experience of a novelist, to create worlds in my mind, meant an ambition packed away. An adult sized dream I vaguely hoped I might grow into, someday.



Hamster ball in the Library.
"Nobody likes a blonde in a hamster ball." - Veronica Mars.

Tag

Somthing different, just 'cuz.
Via
Spacecat Rocketship.
The Rules of this tag game are:
1. Grab the book nearest to you...no cheating!
2. Open to page 123.
3. Scroll down to the fifth sentence.
4. Post text of next 3 sentences on to your blog.


Not the nearest book, because it didn't have 123 pages, but this.

Bill was no upstart with a chip on his shoulder and a pistol in his pocket. He was exactly who he had always sneeringly described himself to be: Church and Spy Establishment, with uncles who sat on Tory Party committees, and a rundown estate in Norfolk with tenant farmers who called him "Mr. William." He was a strand of the finely spun web of English influence of which we had perceived ourselves the centre.

-The Secret Pilgrim, John LeCarre.

If you review or recommend books on your blog, consider yourself tagged.

Lean (Photo)

Crowd

I got off the train at the wrong stop a while ago. At the wrong time. Living so close to a major league ball park, in a sports mad city, needs an alert mind, and a link to their home game schedule. That day, I had neither. I'd worked a Sunday 7-3 shift, got off hungry and wanting only to be home.

The trains were full, and I was annoyed by the crush, and the bulging woman leaning on me, her crotch rubbing against my knee, her incessant chatter about the movement of the train to anyone who would listen - in this case the accommodating young asian woman next to me - her florid body intruding, her grip on the handrail inadequate. So when she got off at the stop where I should have changed trains for the line that lead away from the ballpark, towards the lovely walk through the grassy park with a stream and little bridge to home, I simply sighed relief, and kept my seat.

My irritation and lack of compassion would manifest two stations on. Everybody on earth with a Red hat or shirt was either getting off the train or getting on. A long shuffle in the subterranian halls and stairs, leading to a chaotic mob of meandering fans. I scooted and stopped, desperate to get home past the clots of gob-smacked rubber-neckers, the strolling parents and strollered babies, the shouts of "Needtickets, needtickets, needtickets?" interspersed with "Igottickets, Igottickets, Igottickets!" by men standing like rocks in the turbulent stream. I ran in the gutter, along the curb, a dozen steps, then had to veer and stop, sidestep and stop. I cut down the nearer, hopefully less congested, asphalt on the near side of the Park, following the slow moving cars who cleared momentary paths for me to march behind. I skittered past skinny chicks in pink hats, obliviously stuck on cell phone leashes, the frustration heating my chest. I scanned for any potential space, exploiting any opening ruthlessly. Until the crowds thinned, further from the venue, and I simply ran the rest of the way home, a couple of blocks, to home and quiet and solitude.

I don't always mind crowds. I used to love going to Eastern Market on Christmas Eve morning. The Toblerone samples at Hirt's didn't hurt, but the surge of shoppers hunting treat foods to share was happy, energizing. I loved going to the Hudson's Christmas displays, not minding the other children, or the lines for Santa. It felt warm and inviting. The million people downtown for the International Freedom Festival fireworks were oceanic, powerful and inclusive.

Perhaps it is just a matter of being at cross purposes.

I loved slides and swings. Small, I was brought to a park where a large bunch of children were queueing for a slide, round and round, climb and slide. I tried to wait for them to leave so I could play. I was instructed that I was to join in. I climbed up, one child per rung (or so), was trampled slightly. Slid down, sticking a bit, and a big boy slid down behind me, overtaking me, leaving me crushed and ruffled. I declined to try again.


There is an anonymity in large masses of people, which is appealing to me. And abhorrent. A loneliness more profound, as well as a sense of belonging more powerful. I have marched in step with a thousand others, and have felt immense, and miniscule in the same breath.


I think I'd like to be alone right now.

Surgeons

He was never my buddy, nor would I consider him a friend, exactly. He never looked down on me, but we were not on the same level, just the same team. His responsibilities were more, his skill awesome, his demeanor unflappable. He liked my jokes, laughed, and had trouble remembering how to tell them again. He treated me with respect for my position, my duties, my training, my abilities. He visibly relaxed when he knew I would be his nurse on a long, complex day. This took a while to notice, through the reserve.

I trusted him to be on time for the first case. I knew what he liked, what he needed, and trusted him to give me a heads up for anything out of his reliable routine. He sometimes went missing to start subsequent cases when he got caught long doing procedures in endo, but even that was rare enough. I trusted his temperament, he only showed his irritation with others by eye rolling, not readily noticed by those not familiar with him. More likely, I would hear him mutter at himself, exasperated at his imperfections. He would warn himself, calling his own name threateningly. He was a patient and thorough teacher, to med students, surgical residents and new scrub techs alike.

He was incredibly self sufficient, and had worked out techniques for plugging in the camera and cords himself, often using his feet. He seemed bemused when I called him Twinkle Toes. I considered it a good day when I got to all the attachments before he had to slip his clog off.

He loves being a surgeon. He speaks well of his wife, and children. I would recommend him to anyone needing his services without hesitation.

His partner, and near equal, more personable and funnier, certainly with less hair, is perhaps better with talking with his patients. I enjoyed days with him more, but was also more wary of his crankiness. Both were calm in crisis, attentive wells of competence. The best days were when they worked together, supporting and enhancing each other's talents while teasing like brothers.

I miss them both, miss knowing them by heart, and dancing through a long day with them. I miss watching them work.



(Lest you think all surgeons are screaming prima dons. Most are intelligent, skilled professionals, with varying degrees of personality. They work closely with the same people for hours and days at a stretch. The dreadful ones are much the exception, though given the volume, it's hard to remember that.)

Yell

My parents fought. Or, rather, my father screamed and ranted, my mother spoke low and cried a lot. Whatever I see that as now, as a child, I saw an aggressor and a victim. I was terrified of people out of control. Hated yelling and belligerent behaviour.

The Army training, which is to say Drill Sergeants, was different. Such professional shouting, in iron control, impersonal. Got my adrenaline going, but did not hit that childhood sore spot. I learned to stand and take it calmly, quite easily. It was part of a voluntary deal. I chose to enlist, and knew Basic would be hard, and had agreed to the terms of the game. In effect, I had given my permission, so I was in control, even during those two months when I had no control over what I wore, ate, or how much sleep I lost. Like going on a roller coaster, I had a choice. I now emulate my Drill Sergeants, and raise my voice for volume only, tightly controlled, emotionless - in as much as possible in a given situation.

When I am truly frustrated and stressed, I get very quiet, or cannot speak at all. Then someone will invariably say,
"Are you ok?" softly and sympathetically. I crumble. Involuntarily, and shaming, my voice chokes and my face blotches red, the tears pour. I do my damnedest keep calm, to hide, I ask witnesses to ignore it. I walk away if I can, or get back to work, get busy. I find the tears dry up if I am allowed to simply keep going. I blame allergies for the red face and stuffy nose, to non-witnesses. I would never cry again, if I had any control over it.

I was weighed down by hostility, baffled by angry people, especially if they had any say in my life. I slid out, conceded, ran, quit. It was easier, and I had little idea how else to act, when chaos stared at me. I hated feeling like a victim.

I learned how to confront, how to, as the pamphlets say "Deal with difficult people" from a patient in a nursing home. She had a long history of schizophrenia, decades institutionalized, a selfish and brutal version of intelligence, angry manipulative, no doubt a very effective self defence mechanism. I had to take care of her. Warned about her, I stood my ground, tried to 'stay on her side' and appear to assume good intentions on her part, was consistently kind and insistent. While shivering in my sneakers. Over the course of a year, she came to trust me and depend on me, often only doing something (like not yelling at her roommate) because "Nurse says so." I never stopped being afraid of her. I never liked her. But I credit her challenges with my becoming steadfast, and firmly insisting.

I use all of these techniques at work, but only a few surgeons have ever lost control -at- me. Yelling in the room doesn't count. Getting in my face does. The first, and worst, I no longer deal with. I figured out that when he yelled "Shut Up!" - he knew I was right. I feel dragged down by those who elicit my contempt, a reaction, a judgement I avoid as mutually destructive. Childish bullying from professionals is deeply frightening.

I watch COPS! with a clinical eye, examining how police deal with angry, drunk, out of control folks. I've had a lot of my own experience reinforced by that show. (That is my justification for the voyeurism, and I'm sticking to it.)

There is a scene in one of the Sharpe's series, where Sharp asks his newest recruits, "I know you can fire three rounds a minute, but CAN YOU STAND?" Then fires cannon over their heads. It's a funny bit. When I must argue, I stay very calm. I fight fair. I listen. I will confront. I will stand. But that cannon still goes off inside my head.