Rumble

Broken small toe left, as suspected. Plantar fasciitis, adding to point heel pain related to damaged heel fat pad, right. Stiff achilles tendon. No apparent arthritis, which is the best news, nothing degenerative. No stress fractures. Specific insoles, a night foot support for a while, massage, ice, exercises. Slow recovery, but all treatable, and no mention of anything as intrusive as surgery.

So, yeah. My feet are sore, but in good shape for how much time I stand on them. And I can do some refurbishment. Very glad I've always had good shoes, and never wore high heels for more than a few hours at a time. Such a relief. Couple of months, I should be back to some kind of normal.


Watching Rumble The Indians who Rocked the World which I highly recommend. It's the sad horror of a terrible history, and the enduring hope of music.

The power of Silence.


early humans discover crying: "we must be carryimg the ocean inside of us" one whispres. "then we must be gentle with it" whispers another

-Jonny Sun

Examined

Going to get my feet examined this morning.

My head could maybe use a top up as well, but I think I'll do that on my own. Several dreams about the ex, specifically the "I want a divorce" event, wrapped up in finding an apartment. I still get those nightmares, although they usually circle my father and getting out of their house. Anxious angry dreams, remembered perhaps because my sleep is interrupted by foot spasms.

And our friends just moved to a new apartment, and are having a wedding in the fall. They are lovely people, but it does stir up the pond for me.

Weddings unsettle me profoundly. I prefer funerals, lower expectations of cheer. Forced celebrations and awards worry me, I avoid them whenever possible, they give me no joy. The odd party I can manage, even relish. I like being with good people.

The ex doesn't much appear in these nightmares, it's largely fear and anticipation, packing boxes and finding the words. When going through EMDR, the ex was a side note. I dealt with ex, stood up and changed my life. That lingers as an annoyance, a scar after the surgery, not the real problem. My helplessness in the sweaty red face of my father's rage created the lasting anxiety. I think of the ex rarely, when provoked, irrelevant being.

So, what is really bothering me? The charge nurse at work and her snide anger in part, but she is not the manager, and only has so much power.

The state of the world as a constant undercurrent. My own already acknowledged strain that needs a vacation to heal. And I'm not in bad shape, only curious and confused by this unusual tic. I want to figure out what it's telling me, so I can deal with it properly before it becomes a real problem.

Off to shower and scrub my feet. Unwashed feet is a legitimate complaint from orthopedic residents about patients. I will not be that patient. I will have the cleanest damn feet.

Peel

Went to the World Cup for Women's Sabre on Sunday. Surrounded by a range of languages we hadn't heard since Boston. Something about that sets me at ease. Like nature, I hate a monoculture. Dylan really enjoyed it, finds it exciting and a little frightening.

I didn't get any action shots, but I got a few good images. And one truly dangerous one.

Living In The Future
Dawes


I know all of my exits
I'm always plannin' my escape
It's the most aggressive symptom
Of this collective phantom pain
And the more that you ignore it
The more it makes you go insane
Just look around


It's the battle of the passwords
It's the trumpets on the hill
It's that constant paranoia
It's the final fire drill
And if you won't sing the anthem
They'll go find someone else who will
They're crackin' down


We're livin' in the future, so shine a little light
It may not make it any better
I'm just hopin' that it might
I'm not talkin' 'bout forever
How 'bout just gettin' through the night?
We're livin' in the future, so shine a little light

I'm always lookin' over shoulders
Not knowin' what I'm lookin' for
Now that the feelin' someone's watchin'
Isn't just a feelin' anymore
Now that both sides of the aisle
Are this good at keepin' score
We've crossed a line

There's a madness to the method
There's a market for the fear
It's that dance out on the razor's edge
The wolf held by the ears
It's the man behind the curtain
It's the way of our frontiers
Since the dawn of time

We're livin' in the future, so shine a little light
It may not make it any better,
I'm just hopin' that it might
I'm not talkin' 'bout forever,
How 'bout just gettin' through the night?
We're livin' in the future, so shine a little light

Killing†

UPDATE:



Any job worth doing, is worth doing badly.

I remember that from some Reader's Digest story* at Aunt Betty & Uncle Norman's. Since bringing a book was unforgivable.

I took from that, if it's worth doing, it's fine to just get it done, without finishing touches or perfection. I am an Anti-Perfectionist by faith. Doing it Well can stop one from getting it done At All. So, do it, and make do. Even if I run out of paint. I'll touch up a bit, later, in time. So much nicer in there, warmer, brighter. And I cleaned the floor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A night of pain and restlessness, frustration and circling thoughts.

We were once invited by some of Dylan's old friends, to go shoot paint balls. I was not that far out of Army rifle training. Wherein, one does not aim a weapon at anything one does not want to kill. That for me included paintball guns, since even with blanks, shit happens. I refused, knowing, I couldn't aim at friends. And I would hate being shot at, I did not trust my own reactions. I would, by training and inclination, likely have taken it all way too seriously in the moment.

I've wondered, not for the first time, if I could kill. At least with a rifle, surely not bare handed or with a knife. I suspect, given the right circumstances, I could, and I'd make sure I did it properly. To protect, to defend. Could I take out a tyrant? Maybe... but then the question of making him a martyr comes into the question. A dead bastard can become a saint. See Thomas Becket.

Violence becomes self perpetuating.

Got an appointment to see a PA about my increasing foot pain. I knew her from when she used to come down to the OR to assist with some of the foot surgeries. And Dylan got his persistent foot pain properly assessed and addressed by her. This is more than a quick, "hey doc, is my toe broken?" question I would bother my surgeons about casually, in between cases while the mini-c-arm was already in the room. So I made a formal appointment, and will see her Wednesday. She's a gem, practical and very knowledgeable, funny and kind. Until then, I will tape up and soak. I think, although it was done in the back, that a slot was created for me. Not that I intended special treatment, I was just already in my scrubs when the clinic opened and I had a chance to run up there.

Going to get some cleaning done, and paint a bit in the mud room. I've had sufficient tea for now.



*I read cover to cover their Reader's Digests. Something to do. Probably better than just watching TV.

†Out on Highway 61.

Annoy

One room. ONE fucking room. Four cases. And I expected to be called off.

Nope.

Had to go in and... clean. Admittedly the staff cleaning, around sterile supplies and delicate equipment, not safe to even consider assigning to the untrained housekeeping staff, which had not been done the previous quarter due to the relentless schedule, staff leaving, quitting, getting sick and injured, needed doing.

It's been a rough few months.

We all leaned toward this slack week like flowers toward the sun.

Some were offered a shift from Friday over to Wednesday, and some stayed very late Wednesday.

I just wanted to be called off Friday.


We cleaned like demons this morning, I gave the one person actually circulating a proper break and lunch, and we all swarmed in to turn over. And we did all the cleaning assignments. All.

One of the scrubs was ok with staying til the end, I really wanted to leave, no one excited about it.

The charge nurse couldn't believe we'd done all the cleaning, as in she questioned our work. Then when I expressed the preference to leave, she got snippy about how SHE gave up HER time off to cover, and SHE was there doing work. Well, fine, but I don't play martyr, I did not say out loud. I repeated that I merely expressed a preference. When the scrub agreed to be the one to stay, and I told Charge, she again ragged at me "Well, I expect you to stay at least until the last patient is in the room!"

I was speechless. Finally, "Of course I was going to stay until I'm done with what I'm doing."

Christallfuckingmighty.

I stayed to help the other nurse with her project. I made sure the last room was fine.

Fuck her sideways.

I don't slack at work. I could have called in sick, and fuck them all, but I haven't called in sick in about a year.


This sort of cleaning annoys me, makes me grumpy, it's too much like Army busy work. I hate it. So I do it fast to get it over with.

Wobble

The leaky, corroded, wobbly kitchen faucet has been looked at. We went to look at replacements. This will be a gradual process, and in the end, a sink that is more functional and easier to keep clean. Unlike what is there now. The old faucet has been identified as "apartment grade." This explains a lot.

Cold leaks through corners
pressed through weft and seam
drains sparks, corrodes will.

Aretha

It's MLK day, but we could make it ALF-MLK Day.

Aretha deserves it.


Snow coming down, with lake effect adding to the inches. I'm savoring my day, not only not at work, but not having to drive in this. Knowing it was coming, we skipped taking out the bins, we never have so much we can't skip a week. Not since our first week in House, when we didn't know which day was the pick up, and whomever was living here before left us with full bins. And no TP in the bathroom.

Seven years ago.

The storm rushed through. We shoveled and salted, the wet slush is melted from our walks. We may get more, the streets should be well plowed by the time I have to drive to work in the morning.



Spotted, and then stood and watched, a tree full of Cedar Waxwings today.

Beautifulishnesses

Touched up a little, leaving the soft edges and ceiling smears and the spot in the top corner I can't reach at all. I like it like that. Colour matters. Light matters. Beauty is vital to mood and thought.

Not ideal physical prettiness, although it's not exclusive. Beauty as a way that our brains tells us, yes, this is apt, this is right. And ignoring a bitter taste, an ugly look, a wrong colour, grates against this sense of beauty. Not straightforward or unambiguous, a subtle sense of attractiveness, what draws us.

Physical beauty expresses genetic strength. Kind eyes and sense of humor strike beauty notes, too, though. And those make for better friends and spouses. Maybe this is why we get the Uncanny Valley effect, a beautiful face with dead eyes is a dire warning, what looks like beauty is a trap. Learning this sort of discernment is complicated, and important.

Like bees and insects pollenating flowers, we can be fooled. It must be worth it, despite the losses, to remain attracted to beauty.

So we are sucked into all the varieties of gorgeousness and pleasure, delighting the eye and gladdening the heart. Even if it occasionally devours us later.








Even backlit, no electric lights on, the walls are actually - visible. No more black hole walls. And I have a good half gallon of my tangerine cream left, which will be used on either the mud room, or workroom, both of which are also light-sucks.

Change

And this, without the overhead light on.


Before.





Pan hanging grid moved down to our height, also immensely helpful.


Not perfect, because... well, wabi sabi and it is me. So much brighter. A friend who recently retired, and then got sick, and has been sleeping a lot, made it over when I asked her to come keep me company and snark. She did this excellently.


Such a change, bright and clean and colorful.

I'm not as bad as two to three weeks ago. But I'm not exactly brimming with energy and cheer. Scraping bottom and making do, more like. Run of bad luck in my work assignments, last case blues. Best not to complain, or the streak will be prolonged. Accept the bad and the good fortune with equanimity.

Yes, this could be deemed superstition.

Tangerine

My garden knows it's loved, as I speak to my flowers.

Perfect doesn't look like you'd think, but it's awesome. The only perfect is perfect joy.



Got paint for the kitchen, a clear, pale tangerine. Put up a swatch and it brings out the color of the wood. So pleased, looking forward to a brighter kitchen.





It's hard to tell the muddy blue isn't black, as it disappears if back lit at all. The new color is named "social butterfly" which is so many kinds of inaccurate, but I will think of it as Tangerine Cream.

The upper back corner, above the cabinets over the fridge, is unreachable. But it's also nearly invisible, so if I don't get it done well, it really won't matter. Still have to clean the walls behind and around the fridge and oven, if I don't get all that completed, again, don't matter. As long as I cover the bits that are visible. Will paint on Saturday.

Muddy

It has begun. The muddy dark blue of the kitchen is on its way out. Well, it'll still be underneath, but it will in effect, vanish. Beneath a pale, clear tangerine. I've started cleaning the grease from the walls, removing some mirror panels stuck on the first year, and patching the holes from dragging them off. Cleaned the hanging rack, and with Dylan, figured out that we can just get more S hooks, and hang it lower down. Within reach. Only took us seven years to see this solution. Better late...

I take this as a good sign that I'm regaining my energy. Finally tackling a big project. Dismayed at how much grease and cat fluff is all over the top of the hanging rack.





Bowling went well, thoroughly enjoyed being around extended friends, strikes and spares and gutter balls. My head knows how to bowl, but my arm will not be consistent. Aching feet this morning, better as the day progresses Cleared the christmas trees of ornaments and lights. Get the trees away later this week, along with purchasing the paint. Painting is always a bigger job than I anticipate. Always. It keeps me willing to do the job, because I forget how much a bother it is until I'm trying to finish it.


Glad to be clearing away the dirt and grease.

Superstition

Bury Me Standing is one of those books that continues to haunt me, and likely always will. The bit about how the Roma view the world, their religious superstition came back to me. Mixed with how black people were kept in line by terror of the supernatural, as well as the very real KKK, in the years after emancipation, (as well as before, I suspect.) And my mind connected this belief system with the predominant religious faiths, as a way to deal with the unknown and uncontrollable, as a way to evade Learned Helplessness.

All triggered by Stevie Wonder version of Superstition on the radio one morning on the way to work. KRCL is amazing.

I think this is the real societal benefit of religion, to give us a sense of power, when we would otherwise sit in a corner and tremble, in the face of the overwhelming, punishing, chaos. If you have an omnipotent god beside you, then you are never really powerless. If you can ward off evil with amulets or ritual, you can get on with your life and love those around you. Even when the god terrifies you, ultimately, it's on your side, or at least vulnerable to your entreaties.

Taoism is the other side of that coin, that if we feel we have no power, then nothing else does either. We are part of all of the universe, and our sense of being blown about is only a matter of perspective. We are the wind and the leaf flicked away, both together.



The last two days were good, but solid, and I'm only intermittently refilled. Gathering trees leftover from christmas from around the neighborhood. The city will only take them in the green waste bins, cut up, but most people don't realize the change from previous years. My garden can use the rotted pine needles, and I have a vague plan for the trunks eventually. Mild weather, and the compost is doing very nicely. Always has been the most successful part of my garden.



Just read the Sally Field memoir, In Pieces, and her story resonates. Not a recommendation, mind you. It's not bad, and nothing wrong with it. Memoirs, though. Tricky at the best of times. Not the same, but the same echoes. I grew up watching The Flying Nun, and although she rightly sees it as trite, for me it was more. A way to live without depending on a father or husband, cheerful, energetic, and maybe I could fly! Well, I was just a girl then, it didn't seem so out of the realm of possible. I wanted a miracle. And I was uncritical of anything on tv.

Going bowling this evening, birthday celebration of one of our newer friends. Always liked bowling. First time ever, first ball, I threw a strike. Never better since, but I'm not bad, not embarrassing. Bowled a few times in the army, off base entertainment, beer helps. Like it helps with pool. Lowers the critical brain interference.

Last week, Eleanor snuck up and laid behind our friend C for a long time before he realized she was there. She is very good at sneaky.

Terra

I really really wish I hadn't swallowed my temporary cap. Getting the new one on was a difficult and distressing process, as my teeth shifted a bit, enough to cause trouble. Took much longer, and I'm just getting over the headache and no-food crash. I should have eaten this morning, but I slept late, with a burden of many realistic dreams. I was supposed to draw blood from several people, including one of my surgeons, who was in a tiny old apartment, taking a shower. In the dream I wondered why he'd be living there, and decided it was to live downtown, and he had other houses further out. Weird mix of unfamiliar domestic interiors and work that I don't do, or haven't done for decades. Wound up trying to figure out how to get the supplies I would need, and never getting there.

Pied-à-terre was the word, as I woke to Eleanor kneading my throat through the bunched up blankets. I wondered further if that was a term used in a chase/tag game of some sort. Olly Olly Oxinfree style. Foot on earth.

Came across this map of fictional England. Some of you may appreciate this more than others. For me, it's all vaguely familiar, me and names...

*And a little while later...


Dylan took me to his new favorite Mexican restaurant for lunch. Chili Tepin, and now it's my favorite as well. Not particularly hot dishes, although one of their salsas is, but flavorful and friendly. Waiter brought a mug of hot water† with a slice of lemon, when requested. Food to sooth the soul. My headache and distress are gone. New cap is odd and rough, but I'll get used to it.




†Tea in restaurants is never good, unless it's a Chinese place, and only oolong. I'm not fond of ice water, especially when it's cold outside. Amazing how often even hot water can be screwed up, one Indian place brought it in a tall glass, making it impossible to hold until the water cooled off.

Slight

Yesterday was about running, and although it drained me, I find that my feet were not hurting too badly, and I was not in as much emotional debt. Dylan works both days this weekend, and this may be good for my need to be alone a while. He is the guardian of my solitude, does not interfere with my aloneness, and I still sometimes need the house all to myself for hours. He understands.

Moby is on the sofa on the heating pad. After a bit of prestidigitation, I got the right food in the right cat this morning. Medicated for Moby, kibble for Eleanor with a smear of butter, because the catsoup ran out with the last portion to Moby. He got a few of her kibble, which won't hurt in small amounts. Making more now, but it won't be ready until noon. He jumped up on the sofa and mrrk'd at me, so I turned on the heating pad, swirled a blanket around it. He crept down, a few minutes later clambered back up. The ways of cats are mysterious.


I've not been ill this winter. This is unusual. I always get a head cold, flu, sinus infection, something. This is great. It's also why I'm feeling the emotional breakdown, which gets drowned by snot most years. The excuse to hide and pamper and stay home absent. I'd rather just deal with the anxiety without the physical symptoms. I do have to remember to deal.

As a kid, the only time mom really made much effective effort to shield me from my father was when I was sick. I never faked illness, but the stress manifested as sickness, and invited in more. A coping mechanism, not intentional, and a terrible habit to carry into adulthood. I've never had any serious physical illness, at least none that didn't have a strong emotional component. The only real injury was the herniated discs. I've cracked a few minor bones, torn or sprained a few ligaments, nothing requiring more than taping and time. Chronic and irritating, like the migraines. Everything else closely tied to my reactions to stress, planted in me as a child. Even knowing that, changing it is a bugger. This year seems to be the first, and I wonder if it's not related to menopause.

Two of our scrubs, carpooling, were in a crash of sorts. A large bent piece of metal kicked up into their windshield on the freeway. One has a gash on her cheek and broken facial bones, non-operative. The other a mild concussion and a shoulder bruise. The windshield completely crazed and caved in, with a hole through the center. They've been off since this happened on Wednesday as they were on their way home. One of our surgeons asked if he could reach out to them, getting permission from them for their phone numbers first. He's a gruff old bird, but he knows what it is to be injured. We will work around their absence.

I wish she with the concussion could stay home in a dark room for a few weeks, offline and quiet, to let her brain rest. The other on "sinus precautions" sounds dreadful.

DO NOT blow your nose.
DO NOT forcibly spit.
Sneeze with your MOUTH OPEN. If the urge to sneeze arises, do not sneeze through your nose and avoid pinching nostrils.

Good thing I've been virus free, everyone else at work is sick or injured. Oh, I also swallowed my temporary cap. Not an emergency, can't be the first time this has happened to anyone. This too shall pass. The permanent one goes on Wednesday. It doesn't hurt, although there is a sensation in the back of my throat. Perhaps it scratched there a little.


Taking this morning to be silent and still.

Joking

Coming out of my funk. Yesterday helped, especially knowing I had today to top up. And a cat to coax me.



"C'm'ere."



"I love you. you'll be ok."



"so. got any treats on you?"




(sheesh)



Taking a patient in for a revision above the knee amputation for bone cancer. As I'm verifying the correct side and procedure, when he says to me.

"Yeah, measure once, cut twice. DAMN! It's still too short!" He laughed.

I laughed. Of course I did. He had every right to that joke.

Patient making all sorts of smarmy, borderline inappropriate "jokes" to me through my short interview, and to the anesthesiologist as well. One of those constant talkers, which can be anxiety, but can also be innate. Either way, we were tired of him, but the propofol was starting through the IV. As he says,

"Wait, this is the best one. Two... guyswalk innoooabaaarr....."


I had to agree, it was the best joke he told. Assisted by drugs. They work like that, a handful of heartbeats and it's in full effect. No one says anything embarrassing under anesthesia, even if the airway tube wasn't in place. Coming out, they slur and mumble at best. Only very occasionally are they articulate, and then they don't make a lot of sense usually. Not at first, not until they get to PACU and come out of it a little. And smarmy guys
go back to hitting on anyone female nearby. Of all the types of side patients, I find them the most annoying. Effusive fake flattery is nauseating. I prefer being on the other end of the process, when I see them silenced for a while.

Heard any good jokes lately?


Jokes are vital.

Kin

Moby seemed to want to be up on my lap, so I lifted him up. He settled down after a full cat massage, and stayed. And stayed. Eventually, I needed to get up, but I sat him back in the chair. He stayed. Eventually, Eleanor snuggled in beside him.

Earlier, I heard cat dispute, hissing and growling, but from outside. Eleanor plastered to the north window by the sideboard. Spotted the stray black cat by the bin. I went out with the food Eleanor had turned her nose up at (the normal food, sometimes she just wants junk food, and I don't give her any.). Our little black feral with the notched ear* Mr. B. J. Kenny, ran past, returning as I put down food. I looked back where he'd come from, and saw nothing. Then looked up. And a striped kitten, perhaps 6 month size, with a collar, was up by the sideboard windows. Jumped down, and trotted toward me. Not wanting another altercation, I shooed Tiger-stripe off, which took some doing. Mr. Kenny wary, but kept eating between checking out the potential dangers of an interloper.

When I came back inside, Eleanor was watching out the front, where Tiger-stripe ran.

I wonder if Moby and Eleanor were fine to snuggle because they felt the threat, and know they are Kin. Safe enough.


*TNR, trap, neuter, release for community cats, their ears are notched to identify them. Mr. Kenny is also not little anymore. He's obviously has a route of people who feed and shelter him in this block. He's also still pretty feral, although I can pet him if I have food in front of him, just a little stroke down his back, if I'm careful.

I started calling him Mr. Kenny, and my next door neighbor also fed him, and named him BJ. After a cat from her childhood called Blackie, and so this one is Blackie Jr. Jointly, Mr. BJ Kenny. Yes, I do always call him Mr. Kenny.

Silks

Good morning.

Every morning is new, however icy and grey. The world spins, and we frame it on ourselves. But it turns without us, or rather, we are simply part of the whole. We are not individuals, but made of various bacteria and viruses and innumerable creatures' remains and shadows. And we are the life accretions on our earth. No less than the arachnids and the extremophiles, we just happen to be here. For Auld Lang Syne*, which in Sacred Harp has the lyrics, we are marching to the grave. But what is a grave but a fertile flowerbed?

And our arbitrary determination to turn over our calendars and change the number. I tend to think April would be better for this, considering. But here we are, and banks and payroll departments adjust.

The wind has calmed. The cold sets in. Sitting with tea and cereal by the humidifier. Cats on heating pads. We will put the roast in the slow cooker shortly.



A Few Clouds
7°F
-14°C
Humidity 72%
Wind Speed W 3 MPH
Barometer 30.22 in (1028.3 mb)
Dewpoint 0°F (-18°C)
Visibility 10.00 mi
Last update 01 Jan 7:54 am MST


*I wonder how old this tune is, it could go back to Sogdians and Silk Roads, perhaps it's a Neanderthal hymn.