Rent

Every once in a while, when I talk about my sojourn in Boston, it seems like I should have loved it there so much I could never leave. Today, provoked to poke around in iPhoto, I remember a huge part of the reason that living there long term felt so burdensome. These are photos of apartments I saw, D couldn't be there, so I recorded the more likely possibilities. These are not the worst, mind you. Not the ones with the ceiling missing, or the floor half torn up. Not the ones with the view of the dumpsters from the first floor. No, these were the cramped, worn, creaky options available to us to live in the city at a rent we could about manage.


The Pepto Bismol bathroom, could we live with that?


Or the laundry and garbage down that stairway, could we cope?





All for only $13-1500 a month.

E

Evelyn studied Elizabethan embroidery, and wrote eloquent essays about elephants. She kohled her elegant eyes to appear more Egyptian than a single grandfather could endow. Her excursion to England with dear Edward, to deliver an eulogy for an elderly Epigramist of her acquaintance, entailed eleven days in Essex to discover if eels could be caught using an erector set. Evidently, they could.

Electrocuted in an elemental storm on the eve of Epiphany in Eureka, she expired with equanimity, and an excess of energy.

Exquisitely to
eroticize wit
do I vainly endeavor.


Silver.
Colors byPilgrim Heretic.

D

Dewayne delighted in devil's food donuts, dug Dali and de Kooning, adored Dvorjak. Divorced from Dorothy, he developed a deep despairing devotion to a whirling dervish. Once, turning his dark puppy dog eyes on an desultory and destitute Deitrich, he found himself drowned in her dashing smile.

His daughter denounced the despicable Dominicans from whom they descended, though Dewayne dismissed their dalliances as misdemeanors. He died of dengue dancing in Delhi.

Doggone it, he thought,
dig a hole and dream solid
the deeper I go.


Darker-Red
Colors byPilgrim Heretic.

Corners

C

Claire shucked clams, and would circumspectly carry a clutch home in her car, but only when cousin Chuck came calling. When they caught her, she claimed creative differences, which confused the Cannery so much, they let her stay.

Her mother rustled cattle in Cheyenne, and passed on to her child only her calluses and a China cruet. Claire succumbed to catarrh exactly in the center of the century.

Colorful curtains
covered her windows
cocoa and milk in her cup.

Off-White
Colors byPilgrim Heretic.

B

Bill belies his humble origins by his elegant bearing, and his bolognian nose. Bolstered by booze, he broke into the Barbican to boggle at brickwork. He is distantly related to several Saint Barbaras, as evidenced by his bushy beard. Betrayed in Belgrade, he was bludgeoned and bled to death.

Blameless he bothered
to breeze into town
On a blithe, bonny pony.

Blue
Colors byPilgrim Heretic.

A

Afred is an artist who paints aardvarks on adventure. He is an antsy fellow who once toured Alaska in his anorak. Coming from a long line of aristocratic Armenians, he owns an anchovy factory. He died of apoplexy, when that was still an appropriate diagnosis, who knows what actually killed him?

Here lies a man of action
Who loved animals
but died penniless.

Yellow-Orange

Colors byPilgrim Heretic.

Hedgehog

Vacuum

Not like a day off is a day off. State holiday or not, the Stuffaroundtheapartment still needs to be done. Moby would be just as happy if the Sucking Thing were never to appear again, but there is lint and dust, crumbs and kibble to be vacuumed. Moby seems to feel that Food Tastes Better Eaten off Carpet. Who are we to disagree? I've never tried it, and would prefer not to investigate via empirical evidence. It may just be a Cat Thing. Like finding new places to perch. And needing a little reassurance during periods of his people moving stuff around.

Moby abhors a vacuum. (Actually, he's just a bit wary.)

For us, not having a kitchen table, nonetheless a dining room of any sort, we tend to eat at the counter, at a desk, on the sofa, on the bed, as we happen to find ourselves. The habits to appall our mothers and grandmothers, but life is different. I don't drink a glass of milk with each meal, either. Or ever, come to that.

The laundry is washing & drying, the dishes are being swooshed, bathroom floor is clear of litter, and there is much tidiness.

As for the "day off", it's my usual day off, since I work ten hour shifts. Not a short week, just a local holiday. I'm socking away the hours to take a real vacation, probably in February. And perhaps a long weekend at the end of September. We are in sore need of time away, time to ourselves. Less so because I no longer am soul-worn by the company I work for, but needful still.


Oh, and a plug. If you are interested in Yiddishisms, there is a survey, linked through Languagehat, one of my favorite bloggers that I rarely comment on. Much goes over my head, but I still go to read and learn. I have always thought that to be smart meant listening to smarter people with a hungry, open, mind.

Navy

Now, that's a recruitment poster.

Wiki featured this image today. Along with this text:

A 1917 recruitment poster for women to join the United States Navy. In March 1917, Secretary of the Navy Josephus Daniels realized that the Naval Reserve Act of 1916 used the word "yeoman" instead of "man" or "male", and allowed for the induction of "all persons who may be capable of performing special useful service for coastal defense." He began enlisting females as Yeoman (F), and in less than a month the Navy officially swore in Loretta Perfectus Walsh, the first female sailor in U.S. history. At the time they were popularly referred to as "yeomanettes" or even "yeowomen".
Artist: Howard Chandler Christy

To this day, women in the Navy struggle with getting decent postings and equitable treatment. Early adopters oft get so wrapped up in being first, they forget to finish the job.

Place

I'm getting to scrub in again. This makes me very happy. I'm rusty and slow, not smooth and assured again, yet. Getting better, though. Making progress, pushing myself as fast as I can, so that I feel strong and capable very soon. I have found the love for my work again. It was gone this last year, more. Had been eroding longer, with occasional days of bright joy that could no longer illuminate my whole job. These past four weeks have been so hopeful, with all the frustrations and exhaustions. I have been tired, putting all my energy into this without stint, doing the prep, paying up front. I will find my sustainable pace in time.

Writing has suffered, but bloggers are all on vacation anyway.

Tomorrow is Pioneer Day here in god's country. There is a parade, but it's always searing hot, and it's not as fun as the year all the pioneers on the floats were in gold lamé, with unintentional rocket symbolism. They've gone slick and trite, and lost the kitsch, sadly. In 1847, they came through a long canyon through mountains, spotted a flat valley that used to be part of the bottom of Lake Bonneville. I am always awestruck seeing the paths taken across huge harsh country by people on foot. The Rocky Mountains are not to be trifled with.

Am thinking of some sort of alphabetical series of essays, or memes. Just to get back in the habit of daily writing.

Tags

I've been going through and tagging my site.


Took a lot more spray paint than I expected.


Less embarrassing and painful than expected, just tedious.


Going to have to go through and categorize the Photos tag, since with over 400 such, it hardly works to sort. Feh.

Wrong

I have finally gotten all the damn posts tagged. Click away.

Guitars

I'm no good writing about music. I know what I love, it's what moves me, to feel, to dance, to sing along. Music that I have not heard so many times I fear it worming into my three am brain willy nilly. I love what I love, outside of genre, outside of categorization. Most of my life, I rarely heard music I could love, a snatch here or there, a living moment, a stray song. I settled for pop, for the rare haunting hymn, and called it good, listened as opposed to not having music at all, leaving a turgid library of sappy lyrics stored in my hoarding memory, ready to fill my consciousness with inanity after exposure to store muzak.

Today, the pain anesthesiologist I scrubbed for brought in his own iPod.

Let me share Rodrigo y Gabriela. Ahhh.

Tum

Ah, Moby, a mystery inside a puzzle wrapped in an enigma, covered in soft, black fur.

Indecision (Comic)

(Click for legibility.)

Value

An experiment a month or so ago. Guy stood in a London thoroughfare, offering £5 for the asking, wore a big sandwich board. Got very few takers. The researchers were surprized, and attributed this to British reserve, cynicism and distrust. I think the explanation is much simpler. If a guy stood in a Boston street, offering $10, when I was making about that much in my job (gross) in 15 minutes, it wouldn't be worth the perhaps five minutes to attempt the transaction, and miss my train. I was not particularly well paid in that city. Most Londoners would be looking at much less than five minutes wage/time - really not worth it. Plus, any large city has some Naturally Selected bright con artists - that would make a good lead in for a scam anywhere. Especially for a man expecting a woman to approach him on the street to ask for money. Pride would play a part, as well as safety considerations.

The other side of this, we value what we work for and pay for. Which is why so many forgeries of art or rare documents go unnoticed for decades. The higher the price paid, the less likely the owner is to suspect a fake. We care most for what we possess.

And not just things. Nothing quite like a friend who grows on you. Better yet, that you grow on them, despite their initial hesitations. We say we want free stuff, to be instantly liked, to fall in love at first sight, but we don't really trust those. We trust the truths we struggle to understand, the lessons that hurt, the life we earn.

Because cheap gifts are too easily lost. Light friends drift away from funerals and hospitals. Easy love wears off like temporary tattoos. Treasure is buried deep. The holy requires everything of us.

Guts

My gut tried to turn itself inside out this morning, resulting in my going no further than the bed and bathroom. Could not make myself make any calls nor run any errands. By the time of Moby's late afternoon vet visit, I was ambulatory, if not much else.

A stress reaction, which for me often hits as the pressure eases. I can get through crisis, and as soon as life improves, I fall ill, one way or another. Annoying, but better thus than crashing during an emergency. At least for me.

Moby more tense than usual with the vet, presumably because the last time he was there, they took out two of his teeth. He stayed pleasant, but also hunched in his bag. Had to be taken out, and did not relax during the exam - which he hitherto has. Not anything the vet was doing, she stayed calm and sure and gentle. Just a shot, which will be good for three years, and general check up. We need to be better about cleaning his teeth.

This last year, we have let a lot slide. Including our own dental health. I don't think we were letting ourselves realize how muddied we had become, how low we'd run our reserves. We are slowing filling up now, faint sloshing at the bottom, not enough yet, but not cruising on fumes anymore. Always takes so long to heal.

Moby's fine, if not exactly perky. Mewed the whole way there (less than ten minute's drive), but not at all coming back. Carried him back in through the building without the bag, but when I let him get purchase, he tried to get AWAY. Wound up holding him in a very undignified under-front-armpit dangle through the halls. Being a tad aloof now, we understand.

Almost

I'm not quite there. It takes experience, speed born of knowledge, and I am not quite there yet. I keep falling into the gaps. Which is hard for the nurses charged to train me. Hard to shut off the muscle memory and NOT do. I know how hard a thing I ask of them, because I still need them in the room for a little while more. Where is this, how do you do that? Less and less, but not quite at nothing. And I have to stumble, cope and get up again, but for a little while, I still need one who knows to be around to answer questions.

Today, well, today. A large number of minor hand surgeries, soft tissue stuff between two rooms. But S, though struggling, stayed with me, we laughed and I grasped every mistake, every task, as the last bit of chocolate. She laughed, and restrained herself, let herself be bored and sidelined, as I made my mistakes. The difference from when I was new, I always caught my deficits this time, usually shortly after I skipped a step. Missed this, missed that, will do that next time, had eight chances to try again. Stayed cheerful all day. Tired, but ebullient.

There is a procedure called a Bier Block, a regional anesthetic, that this surgeon wants on his hand cases. All day long, talking about Bier Blocks, and I kept complaining, "Oh, quit with the bier, makes me want one!" This is the university, not the mormon hospital, the joke goes down better here than it would have at Old Hospital. Feeling much more at home.

Tomorrow off, to take care of calls, groceries, veterinarian visit for Moby.

Thrombi

I've never personally dealt with thrombi, although I have taken preventative measures every day to reduce my patient's chances of developing DVT (deep vein thrombosis.) It can be dangerous, the clotting spreading like crystals forming, then break loose and wind up in a large vessel - causing a limb to die, or stuck in the heart, lungs or brain, with far worse consequences. Surgery increases the risk, partly through the immobility during the procedure, after the vessel opening (vasal dilation) from the anesthetic drugs during induction. Most of the time, it's a highly treatable condition, if painful.

So, I make sure people have TED, or compression stockings on, or SCD (sequential compression device) boots on. Air filled pressure boots that mimic the accessory pumping of blood back from the extremities (legs) usually done by big ole leg muscles. The tubed sleeves puff up, then empty, repeatedly over the course of surgery, and are often left on and hooked up, until the patient is up and walking. Not unpleasant short term, I'm told they are very irritating over days. The machines that kept the cycles going used to be very touchy, they've gotten better. I've seen consumer models for sale in airline catalogues.

"I've got some squeezy boots to put on you, they are to help keep the circulation good in your legs." Part of my patter, along with "I have a seatbelt for you, because whenever you go on a trip..." and "Please keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times and enjoy your stay..." The last for the gurney journey through doorways and halls.

I've put those tough, tight stockings on unconscious people right after total knee replacements, which is work. Having a hole in the toe (for access to assess circulation) means that the little plastic bag they come in can slide over the toes (the hardest bit) and the stocking can bunch up there without sticking. An old nurse trick, taught to me by an old nurse.

Sometimes, when I am talking to ICU nurses, I think I've forgotten so much of what I learned in school, I can barely consider myself a real nurse. I don't know meds or lab results for crap, wouldn't have a clue how to deal with an arterial line, aside from assisting the anesthesiologist. Then I get their questions about a particular surgery that their patients have been through, and I know it clear, through and through, and I figure, well, ok, then.

I remember what I understand and do.

Happy to translate, anytime. It's what I do.

Rewards

Today did not feel like ten hours, and I think, I think I may be falling back in love with my work. The people working there are kind and funny and professional, and eager to get me up to speed. I feel like I've landed in rose petals. Well, sterile ones, but you get my drift. No nights, no call, no weekends or holidays, only occasional late evenings. This is where experienced nurses who have been very good go after they've been beaten down for long enough.

I went through the third and last session of a research study on back pain, apparently the ideal subject to support their theory on low back pain. I have exercises to do to prevent a recurrence, this has to be a daily ritual. And it all makes perfect sense, an atrophied muscle that normally would stabilize the spine with movement, that fires late or not at all. I can change this, I can strengthen this lazy muscle. Belly rolls and back arches, and an impossible to describe sequence of four movements, not unlike the yoga cobra position.

Oh, and I spent a great deal of idle time this weekend, adding tags to this blog. After over 800 posts neglecting this feature, a daunting task. But with so much here, it seems only fair to somehow organize this mess.

Squish

Still struggling to deal with awkward hair, this is the progress since March 15. Won't stay back, can't glue it down, gets in my eyes, hat hair of fright-wig quality. As with much in life, just have to laugh and wait.

Just picked up Michael Palin's Hemingway's Chair, have not started it yet. Also found James Lileks' Gastronanomalies, which I have skimmed through, will go back over when I am not drinking tea and therefore in danger of spitting it across the room.

The long weekend is over, I have rested.

Visitor

We went to see The Visitor, having loved The Station Agent. One of those films that gets harder and harder to explain the more I try. Like describing a dear, old friend without sounding trite and superficial.

The preview gives a good sense of the joy. What it misses is the unplumbable sadness that roots the joy. There is so much told with throwaway lines, a gesture, a look, subtly building up stories behind the choices. A sadness that overtakes all of them, without completely extinguishing hope.

I came out crying, unable to stop for the grief, for the love among these characters, and the loss they all know too well, and too often. I have to imagine that they all find a way back to each other, that they find a haven, one that isn't America anymore. That these four broken, but great hearted people who keep on loving, knowing the agony, but still reaching out, over and over, will find a home.

Generosity, compassion, trust, grief, inspiring all their lives, as they open their arms to each other.

It's about the injustice of the immigration policy in the US today. Or the injustice of governments who destroy innocent lives. Mostly, it's about those people, who strive to connect and survive and love.

It's also about music and friendship. It's funny and warm and smart, with a thin thread of hope.

Noseprint

Moby's view of his garden. Grass in pots. He loves lounging by the window, peering. The 100˚ (37C) heat on the balcony doesn't deter him from wanting out, although it does cause him to curtail his excursions. Note the marks on the window. Gee, wonder what that's from. All at cat height...

Mailman

Another one from the Smithsonian. A mail route.

Have I mentioned that while we were in Saudi during Gulf War I, D was the unit mail-man? One of a team of admin folks, but he certainly did most of the shifts sorting and handing out mail. I would, on my 24 off (after the hospital set-up was done), spend the day with him, helping sort, doing the crossword in the Army Times, getting to know each other, surreptitiously holding hands, or slyly hugging his shoulder with my chin from behind. One of those intimacies that can be quickly withdrawn from without being definitely PDA, on duty, in uniform. Not like we were trying to fool anyone, nor did we, just kept it all circumspect, and deniable.

For all that D had no polished people skills, and could be rather clixby*, he also knew everyones name in the unit of over 400, and would stay of his own volition to give people their mail, when the busses back from the site were late. With mild ill-grace, sure, but not because he was made to by his boss, the aforementioned, mild mannered, Mark. (That's Sergeant Mark to you.) Mark, in return, gave him a day off when D's dad sent him The Secret Pilgrim, so that he could spend the day reading. Everyone called D, the Mailman, and came to rely on him.

That was the year of the musical greeting card, christmas cards in particular. Those got to us, eventually, for months, still playing tinny carols, much to the annoyance of D and the whole admin section. Especially when the recipient delayed picking up their mail further.

Whenever we get mail, one of us will ask, "Did we win?" He started that. Sometimes we do. Like, when the Fortean Times arrives.


*Clixby, from The Meaning of Liff by Douglas Adams, Politely rude. Briskly vague.

Cell

A turgid cell is a happy cell. One of those wonderful Shirkeyisms, from my tenth grade science teacher who laid such a solid foundation for me. I never really enjoyed cellular biology, until I got deeply into the subject. The more I learned, the more interesting it became, as the simplicity of initial lessons gave way to an immensely complicated interaction of electro-chemical games of Red Rover.

Cells, like muscle cells, whose walls stretch out to form the the top layer of bones. Periosteum, literally, around the bone, integral to it. Bone cells - that have excellent blood flow. Blood cells lacking nuclei, part of being a mammal. A universe inside a membrane. That likes to be taut, neither flaccid nor about to burst, just happily turgid.

Anyone who claims to understand, just by belief alone, how and why life is as it is, is hiding in a fearsome simplicity. Arguing the words of the gods into illogical piles, instead of facing the dark unknowables - and the real essence of the transcendent that could be called god, for lack of a better word.

Peer into the brilliant night, and be awed.

Canada

Well, cats from Boston probably came via Canada, from ships that landed in Labrador and Nova Scotia, right?