Train

Best dollar I ever spent, on this tiny toy train set. Moby fascinated.

Bamboo

Today the sun shone, and everyone had a good room, and finished in a timely manner. I read my assignment, and couldn't help smiling with relief, and so it played out. Good surgeon, good cases, good scrub, even our surgical and anesthesia residents were good folks, and everything flowed well, with pauses to take breath and drink tea. A mild day in every particular, even left off my jacket on the way home, all car windows open. We sit here now with the balcony window open, and all is easy.

So, I plan to get some herbs, and a cheapass bamboo screen to shield us from summer sun, maybe get my hands in the dirt this weekend. Some good grasses for the cat, of course. See if the chili plant has survived the winter. I should wait a few more weeks, I know, but I can bring them in overnight easily enough. Spring is always in a hurry.

Alright, now, enough.
Let me leave my coat at home,
Dry out, and warm up.

Suckage

Yesterday, only three rooms, but each one a bugger in it's own way. All long days, large cases, difficult docs.

P had Dr. Acid, loud, pushy - asks ... um, orders every damn set open, then doesn't use any of it. Poor sterile technique, often lets his resident struggle for a long time before stepping in, insists on the music being loud. Gets right up my nose, although P doesn't mind him too much, sees the humor. That would have been the worst room for me, but it ended earliest.

A had Dr. Tigger, also loud, thinks himself hilarious, wants what he wants, but often asks for the wrong thing - particularly for the larger, less usual repairs. S, our charge nurse, spent a lot of time trying to keep him from a complete meltdown, all day long. We heard about this indirectly. I get along with him pretty well, as I think he's funny most of the time. This room was still going when I left.

Dr. Bug was all mine, with each case requiring a different bed configuration, and he expected me to have all particulars memorized even though I work with him infrequently. He also has a black tech cloud around him, stuff just fails around him, cameras, lights, shavers - and when it does, it's always someone (else's) fault. Lots of 3 liter fluid bags to hang, and little to no help for our turnover, because we are also short staffed. We finished up second.

So, end of my day, A and S are trying to find something for Dr. Tigger, I'm putting my extra supplies away, S apologizes for not helping my room. I assure her I understand, the competition for attention was stiff. A complains of Dr. Tigger sucking up all the energy. I note that all three docs today are chaos generating, energy vampires. In the juciest, most emphatic way I can muster, I exclaimed,

"Today SUCKED!"


Which made both of them laugh, not the worst way to end an exhausting day. At least the misery was pretty evenly shared.


Reading over on Cracked about the irritations of life, and why they bother us so much. All good, then for one, a solution. Traffic waves.

Emblematic

What roses? Gimme that grass.



Nom, nom, nom de nom. Most of the grass is well chewed this morning. From long, elegant strands to stumpy leavings. Well, that was the point, really.



Emblematic of the cleaning. One of my candle holders with the old candle nearly gone, the other already cleaned with new beeswax.


The gradual deep clean continues. 1. Bathroom, 2. corner with bookcase, 3. bookcase and rolled up (no room for) futon done, today, the 3. bed to the wall. Going clockwise, section by section. Trying not to overstress my back. D joined in, necessarily and willingly, bless him, today. We lifted the mattress and futon frame, pulled out the guitar cases and underbed storage, de-dusted everything, including D's bedside table, vacuuuumed the hell out of the area, thinned out stuff and replaced the rest. So much dust. Forced air heating, even with humidity control, means lots of dustage. How the hell did I move, and do this in far less time, all those years? The years and injuries have crept up on me, certainly.

Moby very chasey yesterday, and last evening. We wandered out because I was craving pie* and got him the decorative grass that came with roses. He mrrked and mrrow'd at me persistently (very unusual for him) as I got them trimmed and in a vase, racing me to the table, making it difficult to put it on the table because he was in the way. VERY EXCITED CAT! D reports a consistently freaked out cat most of the night. At about 0430, I could hear him horking just inside the bedroom door, so I got up and cleaned up the catvomit. (Didn't want D to open the door and spread the happiness.) Yeah, he needed that. This week, I'll get grass growing, even though it's a bit too soon. Hell, it's still fucking snowing. But the light tells him it's spring, and he will not be told.

More wild fluctuations in our weather forecast, snow and rain and wind, but also warm days by the end of the week. I'm just joyful that my broken cap repair process starts Wednesday. At least I have access to bone wax to fill in the sharp edged gap until then.

*Found some really quite good strawberry rhubarb for cheap at the grocery store.

Warmer

Did not snow this morning. Probably will tonight.

Moby very social with D's parents today. He knows they are good people. As we all get older, they treat both of us more as adults, which is helpful. I've really warmed to them over the years.

Saint

Snowing madly this morning. We were going to have early lunch with D's parents, but both got a bad feeling about them driving here in that, and offered to make it lunch tomorrow instead. They agreed, to our relief, although we kept on cleaning the place. I checked, and there actually was a crash along their route. The problem with prevention, though, is never knowing if it worked. We only know when we ignored the feeling, and something happens.

Really loved the xkcd today. Oh, well, here.

(click to make readable, alt text at site)

Yeah. This is my issue with religion, regimented spiritual belief institutionalized as a mechanism of rule. The world divided into beautiful and ugly, good and evil, virtuous and sinful, as stated by a god who only speaks through the guys who write down what they think god said. A real scientist sees everything as interesting, beautiful in it's own way, all full of wonder. And the "faithful" look down on science as unimaginative and rigid. Well, we all find our own faults in others most irksome. Even when they don't actually appear in the other.

In defining myself, I would not use the word atheist, but agnostic. I suspect the mind of the universe is incomprehensible, and any attempt to define it is futile. Not that there isn't one. No way to prove that.

To assert one knows, and furthermore bases a system of government upon it - even a voluntary one, is downright psychotic, or abusively deceptive. Speculating on it may be a legitimate intellectual exercise, imagining angels doing the samba on pinheads, writing alternate history or other fantasy is part of what humans do after all. But to regulate thought and belief is a vicious enterprise. I've often thought that St. Paul's flash of insight on the road to Damascus was that, instead of persecuting early christians, he should become a powerful cult leader - with all the sex, money and status attending. It's all myth, after all is written.

I've always been rather suspicious of saints. Something inhuman about all the Catholic ones, at least. Each had a touch of the con artist, swindler, user, about them. Covered in platitudes. Holy Joe's, every damn one of 'em.

Photos

Off Friday, due to medical conferences, surgeons all there. Next week shall be hellacious busy. It all evens out, unevenly.

Dealing with a young, dramatic, woman at work with a three month old, who is spouting all the cliches about parenthood. "It's different when it's your own." And yet, there are plenty of abused children with their "own" parents. My mother told this to me, often, often. And it always made me feel... odd. Strangely disregarded. That the genetic connection was more important than who I actually was. Cow-orker claims she's a great mom, and all I can think is, after three months? And then, well, only your daughter has the right to decide that, about two decades on. Her judgement the only one that means anything, in the end.

Same person wants to take photos of everyone for some display for our manager on her 3 year anniversary as our manager. And I prefer not.

I generally don't like photos taken of me. Part of me does believe that excessive photos of oneself does steal part of the soul, thinning it out, flattening it to two dimensions. I prefer to take my own, as I can chose and adjust them, and I control how they are displayed. What I told her was, "I prefer not." She tried to tell me, "Oh, you know you do! You're beeeyoootiful!" Well, that's not the point, and I won't argue that, but I do not have good personal feelings for a manager who tried to fire me, no matter that she took care of me when I split my lip. The dark cynical part of me only saw that as a precaution against lawsuit. Manager gave me a pink birthday card, with shoes and purses on it. Gack.

I did not refuse permission for my photo, I simply did not give it, and expressed my preference. So when she added "Everyone else is!" I told her that didn't work on me when I was 13, it certainly isn't going to work now. I've always been pretty resistant to peer pressure, even when at an age when I was most susceptible. I walked away from the large family of children down the street when they got overbearing, even when they were the only children to play with on the block. I was taught to walk away, and I always have. I've learned to do it more gently, more politely, but no less certainly.

Eventually walked away from my toxic family. Trying to push me really doesn't work.

Still grieving for the lost friendship. I really cared, do care, for her, and I really don't understand. But she had every right to end the friendship, for every reason, for no reason. I suspect it had more to do with her having her family visiting her home over the holidays, and I'd picked that moment to complain that I had to ask her if something I'd sent had shown up. Or, maybe we'd just gotten tired of each other's bullshit, and it was just a matter of time until we called it basta. I don't know, and it makes no difference. But I am still sad, and at a loss. Part of me never wants another female friend, but I know that's unfair.

Plonk

True wisdom is shaded, hidden, deep and sensitive.
Far to the core of all meaning, like the floor of the ocean.
We can only see where the waves change.

Carefully, like walking across shifting ice.
Wary, like a hunting cat, or a hunted deer.
Full of patient, gentle kindness, as a grandparent to a beloved child.
Soft as water,
Empty as a blank page.
A pot to be filled.

A muddy pool that we must wait to settle.

So, we are wise when we let the forms appear,
Impassively ready for the moment when we need to act.
Not eager to pounce, not anxious for gain, no ulterior motives.
Doing the right step delicately but surely, letting wisdom dance with us.


Plonk. Also "Red Biddy" or "Pinkie". Cheap red wine fortified with methylated spirit. Much drunk in Australia.
Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963. p. 709.

So, is that last sentence an unrelated statement? And what exactly is methylated spirit? I always associate Plonk with Rumpole of the Bailey. Chateaux Thames Embankment.

Came across a band called Coyote Kolb, they have a groove.

Icon

A bit of oddness.

Via Maru.

Rugged

Proof

Not feeling great today, just hormonal ickiness, but enough to erode my resolve. I did general maintenance cleaning on the kitchen, took an idle stab at the intended corner, and said phooey. Instead, I made the kitchen sink gleam. And decided that, although I still need to tackle every corner with brisk, brusque energy and lots of wiping -and I will - on a bad day I just need to make something gleam or shine. Stuff got done, and there is a bit more reflected light in the place.

It snowed this morning as I drove to work. Flurries of huge flakes that melted swiftly, just to make a point that spring has snow, too.

Ting

My bathroom is immaculate.
No crud in the tile grout.
Litter all up off the floor,
Tangled hair in soap no more.

TaraRAH, Boomdeeay!
I cleaned the sink today!
Wiped every scum away!
All trace of poop at bay!


Conferences this week, scanty schedule at work, so I resolved to spend each day home early with a particular area of the apartment, and clean it as though we were moving - and really needed the the deposit back. Figured I will have the whole place impeccable in a week and a half. The bathroom was the most offensive, as usual, but mostly because Moby is an old guy cat, who tends to be a bit reckless about his peeing* habits. And he loves to make the bathroom floor a beach with his litter. It's good litter, in that it's wheat byproduct, flushable, but it does get a bit gummy when settled into the tile grout mixed with the water from the shower, then glues itself down. I took everything out, and nothing came back in until it gleamed. Ok, yes, my long hair was the second most guilty culprit. Damn strands get everywhere. Dust and soap, dampened into a impenetrable muck.

All comes of having to move every year for so long, and we've been here over three years now, and the dirt accumulates. We are not naturally tidy people. Oh, at work, I am, very much so. But not at home. So I have to get work mindset on, to tackle the mess at home, once in a while at least. I'm cleaner than D, which makes it even more of a slog to have to get both of us moving.

Our internet connection is very slow today, so I'm keeping this to text only. Gusty, threatening clouds, March as usual.



*We've had to get a boot mat and throw a throw rug on it, in the front hall. He seems to think the carpet there a fine place to take a piss, and nothing will dissuade him. But he especially loves soft throw rugs, and we try another tactic. Good anti-odorant keeps us from wanting to rip up the carpet, but it's a constant battle to keep ahead of him†. We're hoping this will help. The Pee-mat was no match for his claws, and he only preferred it occasionally. It's not every day, but a few times a week, always in the early morning‡.



†One of the most common reasons given in the decision to put an elderly relative in a facility, is incontinence. People seem to be able to take a lot of crazy and cranky, but when grampa makes the sofa smell of urine, folks tend to get evictive. Less so elderly pets, oddly.

‡ Until I said that, and caught in mid crouch at 11 AM∏.
"Cat?!"
"What?"

∏And then, this afternoon, as I wrote this. At least the throw on the mat, but still. Damn, damn, damn.

Jishin

As far as I can tell, jishin is the English approximation of the Japanese for Earthquake. Please correct this if you know better. I am bothered by the use of the word temblor instead of tremor or earthquake in the news recently. Seems like we have two very good words for this phenomena, without resorting to a word in Spanish for an event in Japan. If they needed variety, being writers, then why didn't they go for the Japanese word? They've exclusively used tsunami, the somewhat inaccurate Japanese word for the completely wrong English term 'tidal wave.'

I love that English snags words from everywhere, but this one just seems overly capricious. It sounds wrong in my ears. Tremor, earthquake, jishin,all good. But temblor - grates. Like it's being mispronounced, slurred, half swallowed. If it were an earthquake in Mexico, I could deal.

Odd, how such a little thing can set one's ears on fire.


What's the difference between and etymologist and an entomologist? Only the etymologist knows for sure.

Springing

Spring light.

Tripping

Slept, but woke tired and aching. We ran our errands with great effort, but successfully, which helps. One of those days when eyes burn, the cold flurries seem worse than when it was a colder part of the winter. Every movement a struggle to get through, every task going uphill, every bag heavier than the last. But now we are home, and not about to venture out again today, lest we tempt fate to really trip us up.

Moby stretched between us on the couch, on the sheepskin, serene with both our hands on him.

Coffee

Twelve hour long shift. Didn't even want to go in, wanted to ask to get off early. No such. Much running about, much standing and scrubbing, a stint holding a leg in a very unnatural position - for me, not the person who's leg it was. Well, not especially for them, and they got to be under anesthetic. Last case with a surgeon with less than ideal taste in music. And now I have classic hair metal in my head, where it clearly is not welcome, and does not belong.

Although, it does remind me of an evening walking home from the train in Boston, through the Common, over Beacon Hill, and down towards Charles Street. Less populated after dark, a stretch that got my street instincts tingling after dark, and a couple of guys at the corner, another joining them, the rough and homeless type. I strode with cautious bravado, false too-much-in-a-hurry-to-be-bothered, until one started singing, and the other two joined in, harmonizing, "Same old story, same old song and dance, my friend...." They sounded really good, especially so to me in my reflexive defensiveness, and I smiled in relief. I doubt they even saw me as they sauntered away.

D has since wondered if I had in fact spotted Aerosmith. I don't think they are quite that down on their luck, although Steven Tyler was spotted at the MGH coffee shop regularly. Possibly because they had really good coffee* (not that I know, but so I was told.) On the other hand, really good musicians are dime a dozen in Boston.

Reminded me also of walking around Detroit, and seeing young men on the corners. White guys in such groups were trouble, to be avoided by going the other way around the block, or across the street. But groups of young black guys were generally not a threat, although more vocal. They'd comment on me as I walked past, and I would smile, murmur a greeting, and that would be all. I'd been tipped off by an older woman who'd lived in that part of the city for many years, and her advice proved sound. I don't know if it is the same today.

D fed me, rubbed my back with Tiger Balm, and I sit in stunned stupor.




*I really can't stand coffee. Even the smell is repulsive to me. I attribute this to my father's habit of pouring hot coffee on shredded wheat, which smells like wet dog. I tried to drink it in the army, as the only available caffeine, and never could get more than a sip down.

Should

Today I should've.
Slept in, or run my errands.
Gusty, grey, grim March.

Dusk

We took the opportunity of evening light and mild air enticed us out to walk. A new market nearby, a little different variety, we wandered there a while, and back home. We've wondered for a very long time about this pink, long abandoned house. This is not a derelict area of town, this property has to be valuable. We speculate that it's designated "historical" making the cost of renovation prohibitive. Or there's a disputed title because of a family fighting over a will. No way to know, nothing in the public record.



The other side of neon.

Pride

Watch, it doesn't reflect light back to your eyes.
Listen, it makes no sound waves for your ears to hear.
Grab, and it slips away.
The way still exists on the edge of light, a quiet voice, a breath of wind.

Don't expect it to flash brightly,
Nor to be written in bold black ink,
Follow the delicate filament
Describing the shapes of life,
The paths of the heart,
The truth beyond understanding
The reality that won't be described.

The way is eternally present,
Outside of time,
Unconcerned with beginnings and endings.

Put your feet on that path, and let life and death surge around you.

The proud Duke. Charles Seymour, 6th Duke of Somerset (1662-1748). He would never suffer his children to sit in his presence, and would never speak to his servants except by signs.

In engineering and mechanics proud is a term denoting any screw of piece of metal which protrudes farther than it should.

Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963, p.728.

Fragility

Ball of sleepy fur beside me.

Time changed, days now a tiny bit shorter due to the power of the earthquake. That they are still getting multiple aftershocks stronger than most places will ever experience is boggling.

Moby is wandering in and out the window, warm and sunny, a day of complete mildness, eternal transience.

Gears

Moby melted.

"Again with the camera."

"Well, you are cute."

"Oh, yeah."



I've wondered about the whole surprize proposal thing here, and according to the article at Mental Floss, we can blame DeBeers for more than sentimentalizing diamonds.

I would prefer this gear ring over any gem. If I wanted to wear a ring other than the silver band I wear now, which I don't.

Bad dreams about living in Natick MA, in a tiny, rickety apartment, with no job, no car, no access to public transportation. Cold and rainy, but mostly worried sick that our savings were not going to last long enough. Why Natick? No idea, as far as I know, it's a perfectly nice place, can't ever remember being there. Perhaps because it's near Boston, but not quite easy access to it without driving. In the dream, there wasn't a train line. Feeling displaced, perhaps.

Yesterday busy, but nowhere near as bad as we were prepared for. Three surgeons were ahead of schedule all day, and the one running an hour, then two, behind, meant my room didn't get any of the fast room's last cases. Wound everything up by 1600, making for a a sweet end to a bitter week.

Tooth cap broke some more last night, repair appointment not until the end of the month. But there is probably nothing else he can do until then anyway.

Trap

Not just intelligent looking, but a cat with smarts. We've noticed.

Moby does love his tummy rubbed. He will put up a back leg to say when he's had enough, but gently, not intending to harm. After all these years together, we have only rarely had an inadvertent scratch, due to carelessness, insufficient claw clippage, or having to put him in a bag.

He does, however, unnerve D by actively stalking him while he is getting dressed in the morning. This is just a moment past intense "stalk" phase, but still watching with intensity.


During the day, the bed is his. When D coils the throw in a circle, it is the perfect cat-trap, and he is helpless to resist it's allure.

"My bed."


Do have another unpleasant little blog, meant for my complaints and irritations. I don't recommend it, but if you want to, well here it is. Remember, I warned you not to. Please don't bookmark it. D, just don't bother.

Inexorable

We've been watching all day, awed by the immensity of the damage, the sheer scale beyond normal comprehension. A tsunami inexorably advancing, pushing debris with it, that is itself on fire. Were it not all so horrible, it would be a ridiculous joke, a Gary Larson cartoon with the crisis center on fire going over the waterfall. We can't help but watch, no doubt an instinct, a compulsion, that serves us from our evolutionary past. Look, remember, if you are the survivor, you tell the next several generations such vivid stories that they will remember the rare events as well. Like some of the indigenous people in Thailand, who knew from such stories, that when the seabed is visible, run to the hills. When the sky turns green, go down to the basement. Some will ignore the stories, a few of those will survive, and tell the tales again. The grief will seep through the years, passed down, emphatic and important.

So, part of us stands apart from the suffering, and stares in rapt fascination.


Maru is ok.

Urging

Resource today, running around generally helping, breaks, lunches, doing whatever needs doing. Went into one room, and the circulator has specimens aplenty, but it looks like she has it all organized, if only in her head. And I've had many experiences with her of being brusquely shooed away for offering help, and never had an issue of her NOT telling me exactly what she wanted. IF she's ordered me to do something, I might have rankled for a moment, inside, but I'd have done it, cheerfully and immediately. I did get her the brace she needed, overhearing the surgeon ask, was in the room several minutes both times, and was not asked by the scrub for anything, nor asked by anyone to hang around. I left to help in another room, and swung around at least once more to help out.

Well, that circulator tore me a new one, so angry that I'd not just stayed and helped. She was "Drowning!" and too busy to say anything. Um, 'help' would have been sufficient. I apologized, assured her I'd completely misread the situation, that I would never intentionally leave someone in the lurch, apologized again. I did not, I would not, intentionally leave anyone without help in the OR, personal feelings don't enter into it at all. Sure, it's nice when someone just does the job in one's mind, but to get mad at someone for not reading one's mind, that's irrational and unfair. Not to mention pointless and counterproductive.

But in my head I kept thinking, but, you had time to get angry. You had time to get the aide to come in. Her anger implied that my actions, or lack thereof, were done out of malice, intentional neglect of her because I don't like her, professional misconduct. I know very well that sometimes help, isn't. So when a nurse seems to have everything under control, I don't intrude.

Eventually, I remember D's words about how a cat sees human anger. "The cat knows it's all about you." Indeed.

I continue my urging against anger. I think much less of this woman now. She had plenty of words for me later. On the other hand, I do give her credit for telling me. More lost than gained, though.

Did I fail her? Yes. I did. Not intentionally. But after my twelve hours on my feet scrubbed in yesterday, yes, I was off my game, and I should have asked, done more, paid more attention. I deserved rebuke, correction. I did not deserve anger.

Feather

Take on criticism with joy,
Accept disaster willingly.

"How can you say this?"
Because we are not important,
none of us, and we all have a lot to learn.

"But, disaster?"
In a century, we'll all be dead.
Huge destructive events have much to teach us.

When we know we are full of flaws and prone to pain and death,
We can begin to really love all the fragile life around us, instead of being offended and afraid all the time.


In high feather. In exuberant spirits, joyous.
Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963. p. 352.

Sloppy

So often March has a hefty snowfall, big, wet and sloppy, but ain't gonna last. This year's started yesterday afternoon, dumped for a dozen hours, then began melting away. The drive home last evening was hairy, one section had me sliding sideways off the road every time I had to brake - a long line of vehicles ahead of a large intersection. Kept regaining control, but I scraped a good 4" of slushy snow off the car before I headed out, and there was a half inch redeposited by the time I parked at home. It got more than a foot up there, about half that down here. Yes, there is that much elevation difference between where I live and work.

Walked to the dentist this morning, just as the overladen trees began dropping masses of small, slushy pellets off their branches, and the odd icy clump bomb. Mostly it pattered my cap and shoulders, two hit target on my cheek and neck. Not an enjoyable walk. Every intersection was a deep puddle of slush and icy runoff, necessitating long jumps, or foray into the traffic.

However, my broken cap proved not to be too bad. A sliver chipped off, but the tooth is still sealed, probably precipitated by the appliance to shove my front teeth back in place from that fall. He pulled out the chip, and made an appointment to get it properly repaired starting at the end of the month.

"That's a weird way for it to break." Says my dentist.

"I do try and be creative." Say I.

Moby loving the sun.

Headache

Scrubbed in with barely adequate bifocals, necessary for reading tiny markings on drill bits and screws, and still have eye protection. My near vision is fine, so far, but my far has been shot a long time. May have to simply get plain goggles. Temples felt pressed, headache began early.

Clocked out at 1740, to clean off about 4-6" snow off the car, pouring down snow, wet snow, and a lot of traffic. The first stretch, the steepest and highest in altitude, stop and go with a line of cars and a light onto a more traveled road, I kept sliding sideways whenever I gently stepped on the brakes. After that, mostly people left lots of following space, but the wipers were on full and barely keeping up with the dense precipitation. Less slick as I dropped down the hill. No plows, no salt, just the evening rush, night drawing down. Made it home, the adrenaline shakes coming on as I parked, with a half inch of new snow on the car.

I've lost my nerve for driving in snow. I think I may want to get real snow tires next winter. D made dinner, held me while I shook, beer helped as well.

Last Friday, I was asked to work Wednesday rather than Tuesday, and today I was asked to switch back - but there was a problem. I broke a tooth, or rather a cap, on Sunday. D made me an appointment with the dentist for tomorrow. And I could not reach him until much later to confirm that. So they had to let me keep my changed day off. I kept thinking about that driving home, that at least I would not have to drive that route again, going uphill, in the morning.

Food, beer and drugs are helping. That and curling up on the couch in my soft robe, next to D. Watching Top Gear.

Uprising

Just finished reading American Uprising with a much deeper and broader understanding of early 19th century politics on the mushrooming of both the US and it's dependence on slavery, specifically in Louisiana. The echoes are still audible, in the corrupt politics, the persistent poverty, in the clash of cultural values, ingrained bigotry* and violence. The only assumption that I have a small quibble with is that, had the slave rebellion succeeded, that it would have done anything better than the violent and exploitative government that formed in Haiti. Never clearly proposed, nor touched on, in this book.

No kind of slavery is anything less than atrocious.

The unrest among various factions in Africa, that provided slaves, were fueled by European imperial politics. Everyone in power was complicit in the atrocities committed for wealth from sugar, molasses, rum. We are left with the the stain of those sins, no one innocent.


So, is it terrible of me that I desperately want to see a sitcom, in the style of Hogan's Heroes, about slaves and their master? I have no idea how it could be done at all, save maybe by the Blackadder folks, or maybe Mel Brooks with the Wayans Brothers. It's a dire subject overdue for a completely ludicrous treatment.



*Racism is a bad term, we are all human, all the same species, supposing different races implies different species.

Stones

The massage school that was five blocks away is now right next door. If only I could vault over the balcony and the fence.. I can see their door from our window. They offered a hot stone massage at a discount, which sounded very good to my poor back, and I availed myself of the opportunity last evening. One of the intern students, finishing up his hours toward his license, struggling a bit with using the stones, otherwise very good. A very different touch, pace, than I've come across before, but it worked, felt right. The hot stones kept my tissues warmer for his hands to de-knot them. Today, of course, I'm much more sore everywhere, as I expected. Those knots keep my back in place, after all, and they are all lose and worked over. It's a strange balance, currently struggling for equilibrium.

I also chatted throughout. That happens sometimes, so I let it. Other times, I just want to zone out, not say a word. When I get chatty, I do go on and on. My body is a subject for work and talk, the aging process, my tattoos, skin quality, foot care, comfort, anatomy, bruises, how I became comfortable in my own skin, an examination of my physical presence, the path I've walked. Not a subject that gets much talked about without judgment or rancor, or outside of a medical treatment, or sexual relationship. Because although massage is therapeutic, it's really not specifically medical. There's an element of that, but more whole, less about illness, more about humanity. An appraisal by an interested expert. When original parts and undisturbed patina make me worth more.

Anyone else notice having shorter, thinner eyelashes over the years?

Candy

The day after my birthday† was the day for the Monthly Birthday Cake at work. M brought it in with a flourish, and I felt bad for her that I reflexively recoiled from the white heap of sugary frosting. Cake was white with some sort of pinkish filling, which did nothing to improve my revulsion. I really can't do pink or white sugary things. Decided recently that I never really liked cake, it was always only a frosting delivery system, and if it's not a good chocolate fudge frosting, then there is no point to cake at all. I remember as a kid eating all the cake first, leaving a triangular arch of chocolate frosting to savor as the last, best, taste in my mouth.

I did try one of the red roses from the "birthday" cake, or a bit of it. Buttercream disgust.

Don't mind the odd bit of carrot cake, if it's not too sweet.

But aside from chocolate, and good chocolate at that, I'm not much tempted by sweets these days. I'll scarf down ordinary chocolate candy, Hershey kisses or Snickers sort of thing, if I'm hungry and have only five minutes to stifle the pangs at work. But I don't buy it for home. Ok, the odd Hershey with almonds, but not often. And I do have the Trader Joe's chocolate with almond bars (due to trip to a state with TJs) that will last me months, having a piece every other day or so. I do love chocolate, but I can do without it.

Maple sugar candy, however, I do adore. Haven't had any of that for years. Still, I could always make a small leaf* last quite a while.

My sweet tooth is shrinking, over the years. Become more particular, more sensitive to what kind of sugar it wants. I can't remember the last time I actually had dessert after a meal. As a mid morning snack at work, surrounded by cow-orkers who bring in their baking, yes. Instead of anything else. When facility staff had a dessert-share gathering, I couldn't even go in the room, the stench of so much sugar put me right off the idea of anything in my mouth.

I do enjoy sweets, but in smaller and smaller amounts. And mostly chocolate.




*Maple sugar candy is properly shaped into little maple leaves.
†My age now has a whole number square root. And I'm not 25 or 36. Nor 64.

Chasing

Bright colors distract our eyes.
Loud noises deafen us.
Strong flavors dull the taste.
Chasing after them all confuses our sense of direction.
Having things leaves us empty and wanting.

Wisdom requires other ways of knowing,
Learning when to close down and hear the heartbeat within.




Plates of meat.
Rhyming slang for "feet"; often abbreviated to plates.

Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. 1963. P 708.

Blue

Helping out in a room, along with two other nurses, Anesthesiologist rolled patient in, burly, very black guy, and he tells us about his dream.

"I had this dream, surrounded by white folks with blue hair and blue eyes. And I said, 'I'm in the wrong dream!'"

We all looked at each other, and laughed with him. Yup, mostly blue hatted, all white, a few with blue eyes.

I told him that sounded more like a premonition. He agreed. Made us all laugh. A relief, sometimes, to have the unspoken assumptions punctured outright, brought out and giggled at.

I really can't imagine any nurse I've ever known to treat anyone differently because of the color of their skin, or the gender of their partner*. Smokers or the obese, the hopelessly stupid or hostile, are so much more of an issue. Not to mention the obstructively crazy.

I remember once, working PACU for a day surgery OR, a woman had her boyfriend as her support person, and she was having a complete come-apart. Had a nerve block done for the surgical pain in her arm, and was utterly freaking out that she could not feel her arm†. Nothing to be done at that point, there is no reversing local anesthetic injected around the nerve plexus, but she would not be reasoned with, crying and screaming. And the poor guy was holding himself there, being a decent human being, determined to see his commitment through. Obviously realizing how much crazy he'd been dating. We all figured he would take care of her through the first 24 hours, then make a graceful but permanent exit. That all those charming quirks of hers were being seen in a fresh light.

I've mentioned this before, that the idea that men are babies when they are sick is just not real. I've seen all kinds of variations in how people deal with pain, nausea, drugs, without ever noticing any correlation between whininess and gender. Smokers are worse, needing far more drugs, and getting far less relief. Women having gynecological procedures are apt to be nauseated, young men and Asians are more sensitive to anesthetics, but women are not more or less stoic, as a group, than are men. Bunk. D is very brave and considerate when ill or hurting.

Favorite OR joke, guy coming in for further amputation for cancerous bone. Chatting with me, tells me, "Measure once, cut twice. Damn! It's still too short!"

Burst the bubble, tell the truth, have a laugh.


*Odd for a moment the first time a woman referred to her "wife" in Boston, but then it seemed so easy, shorthand that explained all I needed to know without the coyness of "partner" or "friend."

†Admittedly a weird sensation, like having your whole arm completely asleep, but that persists for hours. Patient's lose their sense of where their arm is in space, feeling like it is floating up, when it's obviously not. A disembodying sensation, so I'm told. But pain free, which is the point.

Lazarus

Nothing like going from zero to frantic, vacation to work. Back alarmingly spasming Monday afternoon, night, next morning. Did all the stuff I could think of to help, and by last night, doing much better indeed.

After a serious injury, it's very easy to overreact to pain. Doesn't make one tougher, it makes one more sensitive. Is it going to be as bad, this time? Should I get treatment now, before it gets worse? The most frightened patients are the ones who have have a series of recent surgeries. Not that they less cooperative, just more skittish, tearful, worried. We can learn to cope with the extra dollops of apprehension, perhaps finding an accepting wisdom, but the fear stays. Visible often only in the face of further pain, a repulsion to the idea of more of the same.

Damage is not for making us stronger. A broken bone is weaker, ground up cartilage is gone, scar replaces torn muscle. We heal, but never to where we were. Nothing is ever as smooth, as well laid down as originally grown. We get better, we repair ourselves, regain strength, but marked and changed.

In return we may get rid of our arrogance, and learn compassion. We may have more patience, acceptance of our humanity and vulnerability. That does not come automatically, but has to be wrung out of the pain, extracted and distilled.