Cold gray dead skin shed.
Changes skree through bare tree limbs.
Booms break up the year.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Friday, December 29, 2006
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.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Saturday, December 23, 2006
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Thursday, December 21, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, December 18, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
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.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
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.
Monday, December 11, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Friday, December 08, 2006
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 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.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
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.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Monday, December 04, 2006
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Friday, December 01, 2006
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