Somthing different, just 'cuz.
Via
Spacecat Rocketship.
The Rules of this tag game are:
1. Grab the book nearest to you...no cheating!
2. Open to page 123.
3. Scroll down to the fifth sentence.
4. Post text of next 3 sentences on to your blog.
Not the nearest book, because it didn't have 123 pages, but this.
Bill was no upstart with a chip on his shoulder and a pistol in his pocket. He was exactly who he had always sneeringly described himself to be: Church and Spy Establishment, with uncles who sat on Tory Party committees, and a rundown estate in Norfolk with tenant farmers who called him "Mr. William." He was a strand of the finely spun web of English influence of which we had perceived ourselves the centre.
-The Secret Pilgrim, John LeCarre.
If you review or recommend books on your blog, consider yourself tagged.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Crowd
I got off the train at the wrong stop a while ago. At the wrong time. Living so close to a major league ball park, in a sports mad city, needs an alert mind, and a link to their home game schedule. That day, I had neither. I'd worked a Sunday 7-3 shift, got off hungry and wanting only to be home.
The trains were full, and I was annoyed by the crush, and the bulging woman leaning on me, her crotch rubbing against my knee, her incessant chatter about the movement of the train to anyone who would listen - in this case the accommodating young asian woman next to me - her florid body intruding, her grip on the handrail inadequate. So when she got off at the stop where I should have changed trains for the line that lead away from the ballpark, towards the lovely walk through the grassy park with a stream and little bridge to home, I simply sighed relief, and kept my seat.
My irritation and lack of compassion would manifest two stations on. Everybody on earth with a Red hat or shirt was either getting off the train or getting on. A long shuffle in the subterranian halls and stairs, leading to a chaotic mob of meandering fans. I scooted and stopped, desperate to get home past the clots of gob-smacked rubber-neckers, the strolling parents and strollered babies, the shouts of "Needtickets, needtickets, needtickets?" interspersed with "Igottickets, Igottickets, Igottickets!" by men standing like rocks in the turbulent stream. I ran in the gutter, along the curb, a dozen steps, then had to veer and stop, sidestep and stop. I cut down the nearer, hopefully less congested, asphalt on the near side of the Park, following the slow moving cars who cleared momentary paths for me to march behind. I skittered past skinny chicks in pink hats, obliviously stuck on cell phone leashes, the frustration heating my chest. I scanned for any potential space, exploiting any opening ruthlessly. Until the crowds thinned, further from the venue, and I simply ran the rest of the way home, a couple of blocks, to home and quiet and solitude.
I don't always mind crowds. I used to love going to Eastern Market on Christmas Eve morning. The Toblerone samples at Hirt's didn't hurt, but the surge of shoppers hunting treat foods to share was happy, energizing. I loved going to the Hudson's Christmas displays, not minding the other children, or the lines for Santa. It felt warm and inviting. The million people downtown for the International Freedom Festival fireworks were oceanic, powerful and inclusive.
Perhaps it is just a matter of being at cross purposes.
I loved slides and swings. Small, I was brought to a park where a large bunch of children were queueing for a slide, round and round, climb and slide. I tried to wait for them to leave so I could play. I was instructed that I was to join in. I climbed up, one child per rung (or so), was trampled slightly. Slid down, sticking a bit, and a big boy slid down behind me, overtaking me, leaving me crushed and ruffled. I declined to try again.
There is an anonymity in large masses of people, which is appealing to me. And abhorrent. A loneliness more profound, as well as a sense of belonging more powerful. I have marched in step with a thousand others, and have felt immense, and miniscule in the same breath.
I think I'd like to be alone right now.
The trains were full, and I was annoyed by the crush, and the bulging woman leaning on me, her crotch rubbing against my knee, her incessant chatter about the movement of the train to anyone who would listen - in this case the accommodating young asian woman next to me - her florid body intruding, her grip on the handrail inadequate. So when she got off at the stop where I should have changed trains for the line that lead away from the ballpark, towards the lovely walk through the grassy park with a stream and little bridge to home, I simply sighed relief, and kept my seat.
My irritation and lack of compassion would manifest two stations on. Everybody on earth with a Red hat or shirt was either getting off the train or getting on. A long shuffle in the subterranian halls and stairs, leading to a chaotic mob of meandering fans. I scooted and stopped, desperate to get home past the clots of gob-smacked rubber-neckers, the strolling parents and strollered babies, the shouts of "Needtickets, needtickets, needtickets?" interspersed with "Igottickets, Igottickets, Igottickets!" by men standing like rocks in the turbulent stream. I ran in the gutter, along the curb, a dozen steps, then had to veer and stop, sidestep and stop. I cut down the nearer, hopefully less congested, asphalt on the near side of the Park, following the slow moving cars who cleared momentary paths for me to march behind. I skittered past skinny chicks in pink hats, obliviously stuck on cell phone leashes, the frustration heating my chest. I scanned for any potential space, exploiting any opening ruthlessly. Until the crowds thinned, further from the venue, and I simply ran the rest of the way home, a couple of blocks, to home and quiet and solitude.
I don't always mind crowds. I used to love going to Eastern Market on Christmas Eve morning. The Toblerone samples at Hirt's didn't hurt, but the surge of shoppers hunting treat foods to share was happy, energizing. I loved going to the Hudson's Christmas displays, not minding the other children, or the lines for Santa. It felt warm and inviting. The million people downtown for the International Freedom Festival fireworks were oceanic, powerful and inclusive.
Perhaps it is just a matter of being at cross purposes.
I loved slides and swings. Small, I was brought to a park where a large bunch of children were queueing for a slide, round and round, climb and slide. I tried to wait for them to leave so I could play. I was instructed that I was to join in. I climbed up, one child per rung (or so), was trampled slightly. Slid down, sticking a bit, and a big boy slid down behind me, overtaking me, leaving me crushed and ruffled. I declined to try again.
There is an anonymity in large masses of people, which is appealing to me. And abhorrent. A loneliness more profound, as well as a sense of belonging more powerful. I have marched in step with a thousand others, and have felt immense, and miniscule in the same breath.
I think I'd like to be alone right now.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Surgeons
He was never my buddy, nor would I consider him a friend, exactly. He never looked down on me, but we were not on the same level, just the same team. His responsibilities were more, his skill awesome, his demeanor unflappable. He liked my jokes, laughed, and had trouble remembering how to tell them again. He treated me with respect for my position, my duties, my training, my abilities. He visibly relaxed when he knew I would be his nurse on a long, complex day. This took a while to notice, through the reserve.
I trusted him to be on time for the first case. I knew what he liked, what he needed, and trusted him to give me a heads up for anything out of his reliable routine. He sometimes went missing to start subsequent cases when he got caught long doing procedures in endo, but even that was rare enough. I trusted his temperament, he only showed his irritation with others by eye rolling, not readily noticed by those not familiar with him. More likely, I would hear him mutter at himself, exasperated at his imperfections. He would warn himself, calling his own name threateningly. He was a patient and thorough teacher, to med students, surgical residents and new scrub techs alike.
He was incredibly self sufficient, and had worked out techniques for plugging in the camera and cords himself, often using his feet. He seemed bemused when I called him Twinkle Toes. I considered it a good day when I got to all the attachments before he had to slip his clog off.
He loves being a surgeon. He speaks well of his wife, and children. I would recommend him to anyone needing his services without hesitation.
His partner, and near equal, more personable and funnier, certainly with less hair, is perhaps better with talking with his patients. I enjoyed days with him more, but was also more wary of his crankiness. Both were calm in crisis, attentive wells of competence. The best days were when they worked together, supporting and enhancing each other's talents while teasing like brothers.
I miss them both, miss knowing them by heart, and dancing through a long day with them. I miss watching them work.
(Lest you think all surgeons are screaming prima dons. Most are intelligent, skilled professionals, with varying degrees of personality. They work closely with the same people for hours and days at a stretch. The dreadful ones are much the exception, though given the volume, it's hard to remember that.)
I trusted him to be on time for the first case. I knew what he liked, what he needed, and trusted him to give me a heads up for anything out of his reliable routine. He sometimes went missing to start subsequent cases when he got caught long doing procedures in endo, but even that was rare enough. I trusted his temperament, he only showed his irritation with others by eye rolling, not readily noticed by those not familiar with him. More likely, I would hear him mutter at himself, exasperated at his imperfections. He would warn himself, calling his own name threateningly. He was a patient and thorough teacher, to med students, surgical residents and new scrub techs alike.
He was incredibly self sufficient, and had worked out techniques for plugging in the camera and cords himself, often using his feet. He seemed bemused when I called him Twinkle Toes. I considered it a good day when I got to all the attachments before he had to slip his clog off.
He loves being a surgeon. He speaks well of his wife, and children. I would recommend him to anyone needing his services without hesitation.
His partner, and near equal, more personable and funnier, certainly with less hair, is perhaps better with talking with his patients. I enjoyed days with him more, but was also more wary of his crankiness. Both were calm in crisis, attentive wells of competence. The best days were when they worked together, supporting and enhancing each other's talents while teasing like brothers.
I miss them both, miss knowing them by heart, and dancing through a long day with them. I miss watching them work.
(Lest you think all surgeons are screaming prima dons. Most are intelligent, skilled professionals, with varying degrees of personality. They work closely with the same people for hours and days at a stretch. The dreadful ones are much the exception, though given the volume, it's hard to remember that.)
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Yell
My parents fought. Or, rather, my father screamed and ranted, my mother spoke low and cried a lot. Whatever I see that as now, as a child, I saw an aggressor and a victim. I was terrified of people out of control. Hated yelling and belligerent behaviour.
The Army training, which is to say Drill Sergeants, was different. Such professional shouting, in iron control, impersonal. Got my adrenaline going, but did not hit that childhood sore spot. I learned to stand and take it calmly, quite easily. It was part of a voluntary deal. I chose to enlist, and knew Basic would be hard, and had agreed to the terms of the game. In effect, I had given my permission, so I was in control, even during those two months when I had no control over what I wore, ate, or how much sleep I lost. Like going on a roller coaster, I had a choice. I now emulate my Drill Sergeants, and raise my voice for volume only, tightly controlled, emotionless - in as much as possible in a given situation.
When I am truly frustrated and stressed, I get very quiet, or cannot speak at all. Then someone will invariably say,
"Are you ok?" softly and sympathetically. I crumble. Involuntarily, and shaming, my voice chokes and my face blotches red, the tears pour. I do my damnedest keep calm, to hide, I ask witnesses to ignore it. I walk away if I can, or get back to work, get busy. I find the tears dry up if I am allowed to simply keep going. I blame allergies for the red face and stuffy nose, to non-witnesses. I would never cry again, if I had any control over it.
I was weighed down by hostility, baffled by angry people, especially if they had any say in my life. I slid out, conceded, ran, quit. It was easier, and I had little idea how else to act, when chaos stared at me. I hated feeling like a victim.
I learned how to confront, how to, as the pamphlets say "Deal with difficult people" from a patient in a nursing home. She had a long history of schizophrenia, decades institutionalized, a selfish and brutal version of intelligence, angry manipulative, no doubt a very effective self defence mechanism. I had to take care of her. Warned about her, I stood my ground, tried to 'stay on her side' and appear to assume good intentions on her part, was consistently kind and insistent. While shivering in my sneakers. Over the course of a year, she came to trust me and depend on me, often only doing something (like not yelling at her roommate) because "Nurse says so." I never stopped being afraid of her. I never liked her. But I credit her challenges with my becoming steadfast, and firmly insisting.
I use all of these techniques at work, but only a few surgeons have ever lost control -at- me. Yelling in the room doesn't count. Getting in my face does. The first, and worst, I no longer deal with. I figured out that when he yelled "Shut Up!" - he knew I was right. I feel dragged down by those who elicit my contempt, a reaction, a judgement I avoid as mutually destructive. Childish bullying from professionals is deeply frightening.
I watch COPS! with a clinical eye, examining how police deal with angry, drunk, out of control folks. I've had a lot of my own experience reinforced by that show. (That is my justification for the voyeurism, and I'm sticking to it.)
There is a scene in one of the Sharpe's series, where Sharp asks his newest recruits, "I know you can fire three rounds a minute, but CAN YOU STAND?" Then fires cannon over their heads. It's a funny bit. When I must argue, I stay very calm. I fight fair. I listen. I will confront. I will stand. But that cannon still goes off inside my head.
The Army training, which is to say Drill Sergeants, was different. Such professional shouting, in iron control, impersonal. Got my adrenaline going, but did not hit that childhood sore spot. I learned to stand and take it calmly, quite easily. It was part of a voluntary deal. I chose to enlist, and knew Basic would be hard, and had agreed to the terms of the game. In effect, I had given my permission, so I was in control, even during those two months when I had no control over what I wore, ate, or how much sleep I lost. Like going on a roller coaster, I had a choice. I now emulate my Drill Sergeants, and raise my voice for volume only, tightly controlled, emotionless - in as much as possible in a given situation.
When I am truly frustrated and stressed, I get very quiet, or cannot speak at all. Then someone will invariably say,
"Are you ok?" softly and sympathetically. I crumble. Involuntarily, and shaming, my voice chokes and my face blotches red, the tears pour. I do my damnedest keep calm, to hide, I ask witnesses to ignore it. I walk away if I can, or get back to work, get busy. I find the tears dry up if I am allowed to simply keep going. I blame allergies for the red face and stuffy nose, to non-witnesses. I would never cry again, if I had any control over it.
I was weighed down by hostility, baffled by angry people, especially if they had any say in my life. I slid out, conceded, ran, quit. It was easier, and I had little idea how else to act, when chaos stared at me. I hated feeling like a victim.
I learned how to confront, how to, as the pamphlets say "Deal with difficult people" from a patient in a nursing home. She had a long history of schizophrenia, decades institutionalized, a selfish and brutal version of intelligence, angry manipulative, no doubt a very effective self defence mechanism. I had to take care of her. Warned about her, I stood my ground, tried to 'stay on her side' and appear to assume good intentions on her part, was consistently kind and insistent. While shivering in my sneakers. Over the course of a year, she came to trust me and depend on me, often only doing something (like not yelling at her roommate) because "Nurse says so." I never stopped being afraid of her. I never liked her. But I credit her challenges with my becoming steadfast, and firmly insisting.
I use all of these techniques at work, but only a few surgeons have ever lost control -at- me. Yelling in the room doesn't count. Getting in my face does. The first, and worst, I no longer deal with. I figured out that when he yelled "Shut Up!" - he knew I was right. I feel dragged down by those who elicit my contempt, a reaction, a judgement I avoid as mutually destructive. Childish bullying from professionals is deeply frightening.
I watch COPS! with a clinical eye, examining how police deal with angry, drunk, out of control folks. I've had a lot of my own experience reinforced by that show. (That is my justification for the voyeurism, and I'm sticking to it.)
There is a scene in one of the Sharpe's series, where Sharp asks his newest recruits, "I know you can fire three rounds a minute, but CAN YOU STAND?" Then fires cannon over their heads. It's a funny bit. When I must argue, I stay very calm. I fight fair. I listen. I will confront. I will stand. But that cannon still goes off inside my head.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Circulator
I was once told by a wise shop teacher, that if you want someone to talk to you, ask them about their job. They will chew your ear off. I have found this to be more true than I could have imagined in my youth.
I am sometimes the exception. For the simple reason that my work environment is so inaccessible that I run out of breath giving context before I can actually 'splain myself. Oh, I try. I wrote about it in my Nanowrimo effort, last year.
I perform such dance of multitudes, of tiny jobs strung together like beadwork or lace, a puzzle of movement and position, of checking and re-checking.
I banter and deflect and pull metaphorical teeth. I chart and fill in forms and run around. I think ahead, often on poor data, so I am often wrong, and have to page and ask and adjust.
I get the right bed and positioning equipment in the room, based on surgeon preference. I talk with patients who may be confused, or deeply stressed, or resigned and joking, or not speaking English. I can manage a bit of Spanish, enough for what I need to know. I know how to get Interpreter Services.
I take care of scrub techs who may or may not like or respect my efforts, but I have to keep them properly supplied without regard to my own feelings. I must endure everyone else's musical tastes. I make sure everyone is observing sterile technique.
I handle specimens and send off blood, and open expensive implants and tools. I make sure the electro-cautery is working, and suction, irrigation, and power for the drills is attached and turned on. I tie up the backs of sterile gowns and answer pages for surgeons and residents, and try to get their names spelled properly in the chart. I call for sales reps and x-ray and cell-saver and pathology and if equipment alarms - clinical engineering.
I am at the patient's side during induction, to lend a hand and help, usually not needed, to the anesthesiologist. I put in the foley catheters (over 1500 at a conservative estimate over the last decade.) I open sterile supplies and prep solutions. I know where the code cart is. I have done CPR, I have witnessed deaths, I have washed the dead.
I have slipped and fallen on those hard floors. Bruised myself all over from hard corners. Cracked a knuckle in a supply area from an open drawer sticking out. Been stuck by solid suture needles twice, by a surgeon and an intern, one each. One laceration near my clavicle from a steel pass-though door corner, leaving a scar I should have had stitched, but it was a 12 hour Friday, too busy during the day, and I just wanted to get home after. I bandaged myself and kept going. A profusely bleeding eyebrow from a misplaced computer ledge brought the overwhelming care and concern of fellow nurses, and some tiny beige steri-strips. We do take care of each other when injured or ill. A migraine aura prompted an anesthesiologist to give me IV drugs with not a flutter of fuss. I fell off a wheeled stool once, snaking both my feet unwisely into the circular rung, and began to slide. The surgeon was dealing with some patient bleeding, so didn't look around when I made a nice thud. They asked if I fainted, as a young nurse had done the previous week, who I'd caught, and slid gently to the floor. I said, calmly and quietly,
"I'm fine. I just fell off my stool."
I hold hands in those last anxious moments before the drugs win. (The drugs always win.). I talk into ears, and I say,
"We are going to take really good care of you."
I make sure every body part is well padded, and in as neutral a position as possible.
And later,
"You did just great, the surgery is all done, you are fine."
Then, I get warm blankets, and make sure bodies are as covered as they can be, gowns replaced and edges tucked in, a recovery slot called for, or an ICU notified. Turnover cleaning team called, and everything gathered for the next case. On a trauma day, I may not know what it is until I call the front desk.
There is more. That is enough.
I am sometimes the exception. For the simple reason that my work environment is so inaccessible that I run out of breath giving context before I can actually 'splain myself. Oh, I try. I wrote about it in my Nanowrimo effort, last year.
I perform such dance of multitudes, of tiny jobs strung together like beadwork or lace, a puzzle of movement and position, of checking and re-checking.
I banter and deflect and pull metaphorical teeth. I chart and fill in forms and run around. I think ahead, often on poor data, so I am often wrong, and have to page and ask and adjust.
I get the right bed and positioning equipment in the room, based on surgeon preference. I talk with patients who may be confused, or deeply stressed, or resigned and joking, or not speaking English. I can manage a bit of Spanish, enough for what I need to know. I know how to get Interpreter Services.
I take care of scrub techs who may or may not like or respect my efforts, but I have to keep them properly supplied without regard to my own feelings. I must endure everyone else's musical tastes. I make sure everyone is observing sterile technique.
I handle specimens and send off blood, and open expensive implants and tools. I make sure the electro-cautery is working, and suction, irrigation, and power for the drills is attached and turned on. I tie up the backs of sterile gowns and answer pages for surgeons and residents, and try to get their names spelled properly in the chart. I call for sales reps and x-ray and cell-saver and pathology and if equipment alarms - clinical engineering.
I am at the patient's side during induction, to lend a hand and help, usually not needed, to the anesthesiologist. I put in the foley catheters (over 1500 at a conservative estimate over the last decade.) I open sterile supplies and prep solutions. I know where the code cart is. I have done CPR, I have witnessed deaths, I have washed the dead.
I have slipped and fallen on those hard floors. Bruised myself all over from hard corners. Cracked a knuckle in a supply area from an open drawer sticking out. Been stuck by solid suture needles twice, by a surgeon and an intern, one each. One laceration near my clavicle from a steel pass-though door corner, leaving a scar I should have had stitched, but it was a 12 hour Friday, too busy during the day, and I just wanted to get home after. I bandaged myself and kept going. A profusely bleeding eyebrow from a misplaced computer ledge brought the overwhelming care and concern of fellow nurses, and some tiny beige steri-strips. We do take care of each other when injured or ill. A migraine aura prompted an anesthesiologist to give me IV drugs with not a flutter of fuss. I fell off a wheeled stool once, snaking both my feet unwisely into the circular rung, and began to slide. The surgeon was dealing with some patient bleeding, so didn't look around when I made a nice thud. They asked if I fainted, as a young nurse had done the previous week, who I'd caught, and slid gently to the floor. I said, calmly and quietly,
"I'm fine. I just fell off my stool."
I hold hands in those last anxious moments before the drugs win. (The drugs always win.). I talk into ears, and I say,
"We are going to take really good care of you."
I make sure every body part is well padded, and in as neutral a position as possible.
And later,
"You did just great, the surgery is all done, you are fine."
Then, I get warm blankets, and make sure bodies are as covered as they can be, gowns replaced and edges tucked in, a recovery slot called for, or an ICU notified. Turnover cleaning team called, and everything gathered for the next case. On a trauma day, I may not know what it is until I call the front desk.
There is more. That is enough.
Litter
Changed the filter on the vacuum. Washed the canister out well. Vacuumed. Used the hose around the toilet. Sucked up that little white hemispheric bolt cover. Spent a half hour with oil, a spatula, a long screwdriver, and a salvaged surgical clamp (gotten with permission), a lot of flinging of the hose, and head shaking at my own ineptitude. I got it out. I don't think there is much damage. It still sucks.
I did wipe up in the tub. Changed the litter boxes.
Mostly, though, I did my PT, rested, watched dumb TV, and 'vacationed'. Drank a lot of tea, and nibbled on little mozzarella balls, cashews, cereal, and potato chips. Sequentially, not all at the same time. Cleaned the counters a bit.
I was going to go out, do some grocery shopping. Get better litter boxes, since these have a dip around the edge that is hard to clean out. No, they are not sold as litter boxes, but they work. Let's not get picky about this, ok?
Caught up on all your blogging.
Sent photos, of my visit to my cousins yesterday, to said cousins. We had lovely walk around Newburyport and a tour of their garden, a very British lunch, and was out-walked by my Aunt Peggy, who fell last winter, breaking her knee and wrist and lacerating her face.
Oh, and I was going to get the dishes out of the dishwasher. Yup, I was going to.
No, I did not get to the store. The only time I went out was to throw out the old litter. This good wheat chaff litter. Clumps and deodorizes, doesn't track much. Moby's paw pads look better than when we used the more famous clumping stuff we tried first. And we know he isn't licking clay. He seems to actually like just going in there and scratching, sometimes. Vigorously. I never wanted to have litter boxes in the bathroom, but in small apartments with carpet, it's the only choice. Sure does gather around the bottom of the toilet.
We should do something, go out for dinner.
Eh.
I did wipe up in the tub. Changed the litter boxes.
Mostly, though, I did my PT, rested, watched dumb TV, and 'vacationed'. Drank a lot of tea, and nibbled on little mozzarella balls, cashews, cereal, and potato chips. Sequentially, not all at the same time. Cleaned the counters a bit.
I was going to go out, do some grocery shopping. Get better litter boxes, since these have a dip around the edge that is hard to clean out. No, they are not sold as litter boxes, but they work. Let's not get picky about this, ok?
Caught up on all your blogging.
Sent photos, of my visit to my cousins yesterday, to said cousins. We had lovely walk around Newburyport and a tour of their garden, a very British lunch, and was out-walked by my Aunt Peggy, who fell last winter, breaking her knee and wrist and lacerating her face.
Oh, and I was going to get the dishes out of the dishwasher. Yup, I was going to.
No, I did not get to the store. The only time I went out was to throw out the old litter. This good wheat chaff litter. Clumps and deodorizes, doesn't track much. Moby's paw pads look better than when we used the more famous clumping stuff we tried first. And we know he isn't licking clay. He seems to actually like just going in there and scratching, sometimes. Vigorously. I never wanted to have litter boxes in the bathroom, but in small apartments with carpet, it's the only choice. Sure does gather around the bottom of the toilet.
We should do something, go out for dinner.
Eh.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Update
For all those who so kindly sent healing intentions and steadfast encouragement,/ again, thank you. Now, the Update. I have been to Physical Therapy, which helped. And today another epidural injection. Which is causing an impressive amount of pain. Pain that was lost below my baseline last time. The doc pointed out the damage on the MRI, and being in a more receptive frame of mind, I could see evidence that, no, in fact, I had not been exaggerating my distress before. Holy herniation, no. Herniation that folded back up the spine. Oh. Well. I guess that was why it hurt so damn much. Eeek. Still, only at about a 6/10, right now. Bearable.
Moby slept on the foot of the affected side through the night last night. I'd shift, and he would simply sprawl further out over my leg. I've had dreams about him two nights running. One, he attacked a four foot bird with red wing feathers. The other, he simply waited as I met a crooked kitten, and wondered if he would like to have a fellow cat. The only phone I could find to call D, to see what he thought, only had three numbers. I only wish I had a cat spine.
No, I am not on the Neurontin again. Just acetaminophen. Ok, and Dos Equis.
Moby slept on the foot of the affected side through the night last night. I'd shift, and he would simply sprawl further out over my leg. I've had dreams about him two nights running. One, he attacked a four foot bird with red wing feathers. The other, he simply waited as I met a crooked kitten, and wondered if he would like to have a fellow cat. The only phone I could find to call D, to see what he thought, only had three numbers. I only wish I had a cat spine.
No, I am not on the Neurontin again. Just acetaminophen. Ok, and Dos Equis.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Cover
I once looked forward to the parent teacher conference days. I'd hear what a good, quiet, intelligent girl I was. But in fourth grade, I hit a wall. Worse, I never heard the whistle, nor saw the lights, never even realized I was standing on the tracks, when Reality slammed me down. Pummeled and splintered me like a small rag doll, I was sobbing shockily.
"She has not been turning in her math homework. I'm afraid she does not know her multiplication tables. I want her in the lower track."
No, not in with the run of the mill fourth and fifth graders, I panicked. I read at a high school level. Likewise science and social studies. So what that long division went way over my head? I'd ignored the arithmetic I had no skill for, no understanding of. I'd thrown away my homework. Simple. Problem solved.
"Did you think this would go away? That I wouldn't find out?" Mom. As angry and incredulous as I had ever seen her. Well, in as much as I thought at all, I'd assumed that long division and times tables would be over after a week or so (like the industrial exports of Michigan) never to be needed again. But. No. Numbers were not going away. Realization imploded. The hot, wet shame of being caught, of being wrong, of being stupid, swelled up and made my belly ache.
My brother's old index cards were dug out, and I filled them with numbers separated by Xs. I felt stung by this abrupt slide down the ladder. I felt the sting in my hands. My chest felt bruised, breathing was hard. My head hurt, hard bumped. I hated that Mom's hand was on my back, forcing me upwards, brooking no slumping. Every evening, all weekend, she tested me, over and over. I even dreamed reciting the six times, seven times, eight times eight equals sixty... four?
I ground my teeth, enduring the half & half fourth and fifth grade readers lurching through stories I'd read the first week. Struggling to get the numbers straight in math class, I lived in stinging, shaming, despairing tears. I railed against the waste of being held back in my other classes, just because of times tables unmemorized. I so yearned to be back with the mostly fifth graders. I hated the bullygirls who considered it justice that I'd been taken down a notch. Adding "crybaby" to the taunts I'd mostly kept my head below, before.
With great resentment, I stuffed those cursed tables into my brain. Only when I'd multiplied my age a few times would I value them as study skills. I studied hard, then, only to build up a shell of knowledge to keep them away from me, parents and teachers and bullies alike. I vowed to never be caught out again. I would be perfect, beyond rebuke, would keep every picky rule they could dish out, and keep subversion in my heart.
"She has not been turning in her math homework. I'm afraid she does not know her multiplication tables. I want her in the lower track."
No, not in with the run of the mill fourth and fifth graders, I panicked. I read at a high school level. Likewise science and social studies. So what that long division went way over my head? I'd ignored the arithmetic I had no skill for, no understanding of. I'd thrown away my homework. Simple. Problem solved.
"Did you think this would go away? That I wouldn't find out?" Mom. As angry and incredulous as I had ever seen her. Well, in as much as I thought at all, I'd assumed that long division and times tables would be over after a week or so (like the industrial exports of Michigan) never to be needed again. But. No. Numbers were not going away. Realization imploded. The hot, wet shame of being caught, of being wrong, of being stupid, swelled up and made my belly ache.
My brother's old index cards were dug out, and I filled them with numbers separated by Xs. I felt stung by this abrupt slide down the ladder. I felt the sting in my hands. My chest felt bruised, breathing was hard. My head hurt, hard bumped. I hated that Mom's hand was on my back, forcing me upwards, brooking no slumping. Every evening, all weekend, she tested me, over and over. I even dreamed reciting the six times, seven times, eight times eight equals sixty... four?
I ground my teeth, enduring the half & half fourth and fifth grade readers lurching through stories I'd read the first week. Struggling to get the numbers straight in math class, I lived in stinging, shaming, despairing tears. I railed against the waste of being held back in my other classes, just because of times tables unmemorized. I so yearned to be back with the mostly fifth graders. I hated the bullygirls who considered it justice that I'd been taken down a notch. Adding "crybaby" to the taunts I'd mostly kept my head below, before.
With great resentment, I stuffed those cursed tables into my brain. Only when I'd multiplied my age a few times would I value them as study skills. I studied hard, then, only to build up a shell of knowledge to keep them away from me, parents and teachers and bullies alike. I vowed to never be caught out again. I would be perfect, beyond rebuke, would keep every picky rule they could dish out, and keep subversion in my heart.
Lounge (Photo)
We though we'd gotten him a scratching post. But, apparently, it's actually a Catlounger. Who knew?
Chain
There are very few things the military does right. I was in, glad I merely did the Guard/Reserve route, rather than Regular Army, got a lot out of it, found D because of it. Hated the institution. I can see exactly how that culture of "don't get caught" and loyalty to the hierarchy can produce the evil of secret prisons and torture.
But, it does do two jobs well. One is that meticulous cleanliness that makes it possible to live in a 64 bed bay full of other people. The second is one I wish I saw more often in the management level of my profession.
If a private ran to the Commanding Officer, complaining about a fellow private, or his/her sergeant, that CO's first question would be,
"Did you speak to that person directly?"
If the answer is No, then the poor dope would be told to Do So, then shown a copy of the chain of command, then the door. If, instead, that individual had talked with the problem person, and everyone on that chain, the CO would endeavor to resolve the problem. It seems artificial, and prolonged, but it puts responsibility on the one with the issue, to solve conflict at the lowest level possible.
My managers, and other nurse managers in other hospitals, all women, have not understood the essential value of this. I have been brought in to respond to vague accusations of "not being nice" or " not having good priorities" by cow-orkers who did not want their names connected to the complaint with the excuse that they were afraid of me. I could, sort of, buy that I was scary to young mormon suburbanites, but to be accused of frightening tough Bostonians is simple baloney. 'Right to face my accuser' is an essential element of Western Law. This is a miserable piece of female politics, the cattiness, hiding and roundabout complaining, that makes me despair of nurses as a group. Running to the Authority, passive aggressive bullshit.
Group Think vs Community. Old Boy network vs Organization. I grew up with older brothers. I am generally more comfortable with men, and strong women. I prefer mixed groups. There is a balance then, diluting the toxicity of the extremes. Abuse and evil are not wholly owned by either gender, both are prone to petty selfishness and entitlement. Only when we live up to the best tendencies of both principles can we thrive, and become whole.
Yeah, I need this week's vacation.
But, it does do two jobs well. One is that meticulous cleanliness that makes it possible to live in a 64 bed bay full of other people. The second is one I wish I saw more often in the management level of my profession.
If a private ran to the Commanding Officer, complaining about a fellow private, or his/her sergeant, that CO's first question would be,
"Did you speak to that person directly?"
If the answer is No, then the poor dope would be told to Do So, then shown a copy of the chain of command, then the door. If, instead, that individual had talked with the problem person, and everyone on that chain, the CO would endeavor to resolve the problem. It seems artificial, and prolonged, but it puts responsibility on the one with the issue, to solve conflict at the lowest level possible.
My managers, and other nurse managers in other hospitals, all women, have not understood the essential value of this. I have been brought in to respond to vague accusations of "not being nice" or " not having good priorities" by cow-orkers who did not want their names connected to the complaint with the excuse that they were afraid of me. I could, sort of, buy that I was scary to young mormon suburbanites, but to be accused of frightening tough Bostonians is simple baloney. 'Right to face my accuser' is an essential element of Western Law. This is a miserable piece of female politics, the cattiness, hiding and roundabout complaining, that makes me despair of nurses as a group. Running to the Authority, passive aggressive bullshit.
Group Think vs Community. Old Boy network vs Organization. I grew up with older brothers. I am generally more comfortable with men, and strong women. I prefer mixed groups. There is a balance then, diluting the toxicity of the extremes. Abuse and evil are not wholly owned by either gender, both are prone to petty selfishness and entitlement. Only when we live up to the best tendencies of both principles can we thrive, and become whole.
Yeah, I need this week's vacation.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Sister (Photo and Meme)
This is the Roseway, sister ship to the Liberty that we 'sailed" on last evening.
Middle Aged meme. If you feel no longer young, but not yet old, consider yourself tagged. Leave a note so we can all come look.
What I'll never do, and that's ok.
Skydiving
The splits
Become a famous actor with my own sitcom
Ballet dancer
Wear a big fluffy formal crinoline dress
What I have done, and would like to do again
Rappelling
Bellydancing
Throw pots
Flying in a helicopter
Cross country skiing
What I've done, and will have to do again
Move
Start new jobs
Heal injuries
Laugh and mop it up.
What I won't do again
Be promiscuous
Get divorced
Go to war
Phone surveys or sales
Act on stage
What I still may get to do
Visit Istanbul and the Hagia Sophia
Get published, and paid for it
Live on a ship (for a week or so)
Own our own place, with garden
Train animals
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Sail (Photo)
What is a two hour sailing cruise with no wind? Actually, contemplative, and a restful, beautiful evening.
Math
There is this TV show called Numb3rs, featuring a mathematician who is smart, sexy (stop laughing), and consults for the FBI. I so get this. I had a crush on my college algebra TA, and his endearing Oklahoma twang. I was 28 (I'd avoided anything requiring math when I was a Theater student.) Probably a few years older than him, so stop thinking dewey eyed Freshman. I crushed on him in no small part because he barely took points off for dumb arithmetic errors, as long as the equations were correct, and I got a hard earned B+ from him for the final grade. He made story problems easy, the only way to approach mathematics. And he made the distinction between arithmetic and mathematics.
One Friday, when half the class didn't bother to show up, he shared his passion. He demonstrated a proof on the board, coming alive. And I got it. Oh, I could never go there again without a map and a guide, but I could follow him, it made sense, it flowed. Like listening to my Uncle Walt talk about aerodynamics or building stresses. Or our engineer friends talking computers. Or K talking the chemistry of making computer chips. I'm always enamored of deep, loving knowledge, and being given a tour of a different view on the world.
So, why isn't Mathematics, proofs and rationale, taught in grade school? Seems to me essential, the grammar of math, and much more logical than language rules. I loved Geometry in grade school, because there were few numbers, mostly words, and lots of constructions.
I don't see numbers in my head, like I do words and letters. I cannot add up a column of numbers the same way twice. Which went critical in my statistics class. The instructor (I did not have a crush on her) had us manage 20 or so data point numbers as a quiz, five minutes at the beginning of every class. I could apply the equations, if I could have ever gotten through adding up the initial data in five minutes. A classmate tipped me off to the disabled student union. Blessed be, I took my quizzes there, to take as long as needed, number help. Sitting there waiting for a kind counselor to come check my arithmetic, I remembered my oldest brother trying to teach me numbers. Asked me what they looked like. He incited me to give them personalities. Three was angry, five was grumpy, and eight was heavy and stubborn. The numbers, especially those three, writhed and twisted, like letters for a dyslexic. Dyscalculia. All my stupidity in math became clear.
I took me a long time to learn to read a clock. I ignored my long division assignments, until I was caught, and had to learn my multiplication tables. I shied away from numbers, knowing I didn't get them. I wanted to study Meteorology, go chase storms, but knew I'd need a lot more math than I was prepared to handle. Such a timid twit I was.
Just as dyslexia does not rule out reading, my numeral confusion still slows me, but no longer stops me. See that RN behind my name? Yeah, well. But I don't do Pediatrics, because every dose has to be calculated to weight. I know my limitations. I just know to be careful, check, get others to check after me. I do the Soduku as number therapy. My most common mistake is not seeing a numeral properly. I can tell when I am very tired, I do much worse. I still puzzle it out in pen.
I'm terrible at names, too. I wonder if it's related.
One Friday, when half the class didn't bother to show up, he shared his passion. He demonstrated a proof on the board, coming alive. And I got it. Oh, I could never go there again without a map and a guide, but I could follow him, it made sense, it flowed. Like listening to my Uncle Walt talk about aerodynamics or building stresses. Or our engineer friends talking computers. Or K talking the chemistry of making computer chips. I'm always enamored of deep, loving knowledge, and being given a tour of a different view on the world.
So, why isn't Mathematics, proofs and rationale, taught in grade school? Seems to me essential, the grammar of math, and much more logical than language rules. I loved Geometry in grade school, because there were few numbers, mostly words, and lots of constructions.
I don't see numbers in my head, like I do words and letters. I cannot add up a column of numbers the same way twice. Which went critical in my statistics class. The instructor (I did not have a crush on her) had us manage 20 or so data point numbers as a quiz, five minutes at the beginning of every class. I could apply the equations, if I could have ever gotten through adding up the initial data in five minutes. A classmate tipped me off to the disabled student union. Blessed be, I took my quizzes there, to take as long as needed, number help. Sitting there waiting for a kind counselor to come check my arithmetic, I remembered my oldest brother trying to teach me numbers. Asked me what they looked like. He incited me to give them personalities. Three was angry, five was grumpy, and eight was heavy and stubborn. The numbers, especially those three, writhed and twisted, like letters for a dyslexic. Dyscalculia. All my stupidity in math became clear.
I took me a long time to learn to read a clock. I ignored my long division assignments, until I was caught, and had to learn my multiplication tables. I shied away from numbers, knowing I didn't get them. I wanted to study Meteorology, go chase storms, but knew I'd need a lot more math than I was prepared to handle. Such a timid twit I was.
Just as dyslexia does not rule out reading, my numeral confusion still slows me, but no longer stops me. See that RN behind my name? Yeah, well. But I don't do Pediatrics, because every dose has to be calculated to weight. I know my limitations. I just know to be careful, check, get others to check after me. I do the Soduku as number therapy. My most common mistake is not seeing a numeral properly. I can tell when I am very tired, I do much worse. I still puzzle it out in pen.
I'm terrible at names, too. I wonder if it's related.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Lines
Inspired by Udge whose lyric challenge I could not even hope to figure out, I decided to do one even harder. These are all They Might Be Giant lyrics. All from different songs. If you can guess which song, fine. If not, just let it wash over you as the strangest poetry, since I don't do poems here. And as a bit of a tweak to all those who say they hate TMBG, but only know Istanbul, which is a cover, for one thing.
Its a long, long rope they use to hang you soon I hope
And I wonder why this hasn't happened
Why why why
A furry hat, elastic mask, a pair of shiny marble dice
Blew out your pilot light
And made a wish
Unnoticed by few
Very very few
And that includes you
I don't want a pizza, I don't want a piece of peanut brittle, I don't want a pear.
I don't want a bagel I don't want a bean I wouldn't like a bag of beef or a beer or a cup of chowder, corn, cake, or creamed cauliflower.
Ignore the mountain of discarded falderal
Peter came out and gave us medals
Declaring us the nicest of the damned
Chinese people were fighting in the park
We tried to help them fight, no one appreciated that
And we still havent walked in the glow of each others majestic presence
Every jumbled pile of person has a thinking part that wonders
What the part that isn't thinking isn't thinking of
And when I lean my head against the frosted shower stall
I see stuff through the glass that I don't recognize at all
Jodie Foster held two pair
Bach had three of a kind
Gandhi said, "With my full house,
I will blow your mind!"
I'm searching for some disbelief that I can still suspend
But never mind the furthermore-the plea is self-defense again
While lying there in my bed there was a message for me
As I went through the pillow, I noticed something
Wearing a raincoat is flying around in a yellow rubber airplane
Made out of a raincoat,
I lay out in the sun too long
And burned off all of my skin
I felt so dizzy I got into the car
And got into an accident
Out of the burning wreckage I fell
Wanting only to lay where I fell
The back wheels O is now a letter D
Wreck!
I was an I and now I am a V
I heard they had a space program
When they sing you can't hear, there's no air
Sometimes I think I kind of like that and
Other times I think I'm already there
Its a long, long rope they use to hang you soon I hope
And I wonder why this hasn't happened
Why why why
A furry hat, elastic mask, a pair of shiny marble dice
Blew out your pilot light
And made a wish
Unnoticed by few
Very very few
And that includes you
I don't want a pizza, I don't want a piece of peanut brittle, I don't want a pear.
I don't want a bagel I don't want a bean I wouldn't like a bag of beef or a beer or a cup of chowder, corn, cake, or creamed cauliflower.
Ignore the mountain of discarded falderal
Peter came out and gave us medals
Declaring us the nicest of the damned
Chinese people were fighting in the park
We tried to help them fight, no one appreciated that
And we still havent walked in the glow of each others majestic presence
Every jumbled pile of person has a thinking part that wonders
What the part that isn't thinking isn't thinking of
And when I lean my head against the frosted shower stall
I see stuff through the glass that I don't recognize at all
Jodie Foster held two pair
Bach had three of a kind
Gandhi said, "With my full house,
I will blow your mind!"
I'm searching for some disbelief that I can still suspend
But never mind the furthermore-the plea is self-defense again
While lying there in my bed there was a message for me
As I went through the pillow, I noticed something
Wearing a raincoat is flying around in a yellow rubber airplane
Made out of a raincoat,
I lay out in the sun too long
And burned off all of my skin
I felt so dizzy I got into the car
And got into an accident
Out of the burning wreckage I fell
Wanting only to lay where I fell
The back wheels O is now a letter D
Wreck!
I was an I and now I am a V
I heard they had a space program
When they sing you can't hear, there's no air
Sometimes I think I kind of like that and
Other times I think I'm already there
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Fail
Mr. Shirkey laid the paper face down on my desk, saying, dramatically.
"Oh, how the mighty have fallen."
I turned over the lab report on the worm dissection, and was slightly relieved that it was only a D, since I figured I'd deserved an F. I'd had no idea what I'd been looking at at all. I filled in the answers with nothing like a real answer, a muddle, which was all I could see. Anything under the microscope was a blurred mystery. This despite having glasses by the time I was 15, sophomore year. Despite being a straight A student in high school.
Oh, I'd gotten Cs in 7th grade typing, pity grades, since she saw I really tried, but never could get my fingers to do as dib. bod. bid. In lower grades I had occasional Bs in maths, related to numbers turning in my brain from 3 to 5 to 8 and back, which I only figured out in college statistics class (dyscalculia.) Generally, I did well in school, with enough effort to have good study habits.
For non-acedemics, if I figured I was not going to be pretty competent, I would withdraw fairly soon. Violin bruised my chin, and I couldn't finger the strings, did that about a month. Flute I managed one song, the tone never sounded good, that was maybe two months. Rented instruments, nothing much lost. My father thought that the trick to a good life was being able to play an instrument. (He always thought there was a trick to any kind of success. He'd never managed the trick to it, so was where he was.) I was terrific at cutting my losses. I minded my mother telling me I lacked sticktoitiveness.
I failed to have her ironclad faith. Lost it when I was eight, if I'd ever had it at all. I wanted it, prayed for it. Eventually nitpicked that if Faith was a gift from God, and God hadn't seen fit to give it to me, what was I to do? I rather liked that St. Thomas made Jesus prove himself, and was bothered that his unbelief was disparaged. I now think that those who have faith are being cheated of their curiosity and most of their intelligence thereby.
My first marriage failed miserably, due in no small part to my general failure to make friends or lovers. When I learned to make friends, I realized just how badly I'd chosen a husband. I failed, for a year, to get myself out of that abusive relationship.
I'd been working at a survey research center, phone surveys. I came in for my shift. I looked at the phone. I looked at my survey. I looked at the phone. I cleaned everything with alcohol. I looked at the phone. I picked up the receiver. I put the receiver down. I did this for almost two hours. I picked up my knotted stomach, walked up to my supervisor, and told him I had to quit. I simply could not make another phone call, possibly ever again in my life. He nodded, made sure they had my correct address, and wished me luck.
I once worked for a famous dance teaching studio. I could teach dance well. That was not the issue. I would not lie to, nor pressure at every break in breath, my students to sign up for the most expensive dance class packages. They fired me.
I worked night shift as an aide at a nasty little nursing home, all psych patients, about half elderly. Two of the other aides who hated me said I'd pushed a patient. This was the same week I got into nursing school. The nursing supervisor fired me with one of those half assed, ever changing reasons. Afraid they would call my nursing school, I did not fight it, but left in exhausted tears, and indignant fury. Every doubt and fear overwhelmed me. I also failed to report the place, but I did not know enough then.
I took Anatomy 204. Great teacher, great class, I studied pretty well, I thought. Then the midterm appeared before me. Empty lines. Trace a drop of blood from the right ventricle through the right kidney to the liver naming all vessels and organs. List all the muscles, the nerve artery and vein involved in raising your left arm. The following Monday, when the test was passed back, I took a peek, then took myself to the nearest restroom stall, and sobbed. I would get an A on the final, and take the class again, for the A for the class.
In nursing school, I failed daily. I rarely made the same mistakes twice, but I found new ones constantly. So, I was never snotty about asking for someone to check behind me. As a result, when I was in my senior clinicals, I was the one the my clinical instructor sent to the other floor, without her to watch over me, when there weren't enough precepting nurses.
"You'll be fine."
What she really meant was that I was reasonably competent, not cocky. I would ask anyone for help, without hesitation, without ego. She trusted me to neither jump off the deep end, nor stop in my tracks. I probably wouldn't kill anybody. I had learned how to fail, but keep going, turn it around.
I was new in surgery, maybe four months in. I scrubbed, and went to put on my sterile gown. Hit the sleeve on the (unsterile) light. (Damn, blast, idiot snarflebarble... .) Nurse took off my gown, so my hands were still sterile, got another gown, hit the light again. (Stupidstupidstupid... .) Again with the gown, third time in a row, again, I hit the sleeve of the gown on the light. I felt about this ( ` ) smart. I have never contaminated a gown putting it on since. This is the story I tell to newbies in the OR to this day.
"It gets better. Give yourself time, this is hard. Sometimes we forget."
I don't do everything well, but I keep trying. I still screw up numbers, but I double check them. I don't work under microscopes. Still can't play an instrument. I forget stuff. I get the thingmabob on the whatsit the wrong way, and have to redo it. I do not quit because a task is hard. I fall, and keep working until I get the job right. There is no trick to what I do right, save only practice, experience. And remembering, deep in my bones, when I am wrong.
"I screwed up. I am fixing it right now."
Well, hell, makes for a good story, if I tell it right.
"Oh, how the mighty have fallen."
I turned over the lab report on the worm dissection, and was slightly relieved that it was only a D, since I figured I'd deserved an F. I'd had no idea what I'd been looking at at all. I filled in the answers with nothing like a real answer, a muddle, which was all I could see. Anything under the microscope was a blurred mystery. This despite having glasses by the time I was 15, sophomore year. Despite being a straight A student in high school.
Oh, I'd gotten Cs in 7th grade typing, pity grades, since she saw I really tried, but never could get my fingers to do as dib. bod. bid. In lower grades I had occasional Bs in maths, related to numbers turning in my brain from 3 to 5 to 8 and back, which I only figured out in college statistics class (dyscalculia.) Generally, I did well in school, with enough effort to have good study habits.
For non-acedemics, if I figured I was not going to be pretty competent, I would withdraw fairly soon. Violin bruised my chin, and I couldn't finger the strings, did that about a month. Flute I managed one song, the tone never sounded good, that was maybe two months. Rented instruments, nothing much lost. My father thought that the trick to a good life was being able to play an instrument. (He always thought there was a trick to any kind of success. He'd never managed the trick to it, so was where he was.) I was terrific at cutting my losses. I minded my mother telling me I lacked sticktoitiveness.
I failed to have her ironclad faith. Lost it when I was eight, if I'd ever had it at all. I wanted it, prayed for it. Eventually nitpicked that if Faith was a gift from God, and God hadn't seen fit to give it to me, what was I to do? I rather liked that St. Thomas made Jesus prove himself, and was bothered that his unbelief was disparaged. I now think that those who have faith are being cheated of their curiosity and most of their intelligence thereby.
My first marriage failed miserably, due in no small part to my general failure to make friends or lovers. When I learned to make friends, I realized just how badly I'd chosen a husband. I failed, for a year, to get myself out of that abusive relationship.
I'd been working at a survey research center, phone surveys. I came in for my shift. I looked at the phone. I looked at my survey. I looked at the phone. I cleaned everything with alcohol. I looked at the phone. I picked up the receiver. I put the receiver down. I did this for almost two hours. I picked up my knotted stomach, walked up to my supervisor, and told him I had to quit. I simply could not make another phone call, possibly ever again in my life. He nodded, made sure they had my correct address, and wished me luck.
I once worked for a famous dance teaching studio. I could teach dance well. That was not the issue. I would not lie to, nor pressure at every break in breath, my students to sign up for the most expensive dance class packages. They fired me.
I worked night shift as an aide at a nasty little nursing home, all psych patients, about half elderly. Two of the other aides who hated me said I'd pushed a patient. This was the same week I got into nursing school. The nursing supervisor fired me with one of those half assed, ever changing reasons. Afraid they would call my nursing school, I did not fight it, but left in exhausted tears, and indignant fury. Every doubt and fear overwhelmed me. I also failed to report the place, but I did not know enough then.
I took Anatomy 204. Great teacher, great class, I studied pretty well, I thought. Then the midterm appeared before me. Empty lines. Trace a drop of blood from the right ventricle through the right kidney to the liver naming all vessels and organs. List all the muscles, the nerve artery and vein involved in raising your left arm. The following Monday, when the test was passed back, I took a peek, then took myself to the nearest restroom stall, and sobbed. I would get an A on the final, and take the class again, for the A for the class.
In nursing school, I failed daily. I rarely made the same mistakes twice, but I found new ones constantly. So, I was never snotty about asking for someone to check behind me. As a result, when I was in my senior clinicals, I was the one the my clinical instructor sent to the other floor, without her to watch over me, when there weren't enough precepting nurses.
"You'll be fine."
What she really meant was that I was reasonably competent, not cocky. I would ask anyone for help, without hesitation, without ego. She trusted me to neither jump off the deep end, nor stop in my tracks. I probably wouldn't kill anybody. I had learned how to fail, but keep going, turn it around.
I was new in surgery, maybe four months in. I scrubbed, and went to put on my sterile gown. Hit the sleeve on the (unsterile) light. (Damn, blast, idiot snarflebarble... .) Nurse took off my gown, so my hands were still sterile, got another gown, hit the light again. (Stupidstupidstupid... .) Again with the gown, third time in a row, again, I hit the sleeve of the gown on the light. I felt about this ( ` ) smart. I have never contaminated a gown putting it on since. This is the story I tell to newbies in the OR to this day.
"It gets better. Give yourself time, this is hard. Sometimes we forget."
I don't do everything well, but I keep trying. I still screw up numbers, but I double check them. I don't work under microscopes. Still can't play an instrument. I forget stuff. I get the thingmabob on the whatsit the wrong way, and have to redo it. I do not quit because a task is hard. I fall, and keep working until I get the job right. There is no trick to what I do right, save only practice, experience. And remembering, deep in my bones, when I am wrong.
"I screwed up. I am fixing it right now."
Well, hell, makes for a good story, if I tell it right.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Monday, September 04, 2006
Tail
"Vans usually have their tails in motion - in every direction imaginable a habit that is known as "flouncing". The tails seem to function totally on their own. Even when the cat is asleep, its tail remains active and the cat will eventually grab its own tail and pin it under its legs for a more peaceful nap."
-Turkish Van, Swimming Cats
Flushing cat video.
Moby is certainly not a Van, Turkish or otherwise. Not a spot of white on him, a thick undercoat. And Vans are rare. He does play with his water, and doesn't seem to mind a bit of wet, will stick his head under the stream when we pour water into his bowl. We've never seen him flush, but then, we keep the lid down.
His tail does flounce as described above. His shortish, muscular tail, that makes me wonder if he has a touch of Manx, flicks and curls, wags and wriggles. Only when he seems most deeply asleep is it quiet at all. It perks up and curls at the end when we call his name, even when he is busy doing other cat things that we can't understand, and therefore can't stop right now, sorry. We saw him once trying to nap, when the tail was dancing in front of his nose. He irritably reached out a paw and stopped it, as if to say "Cut it out, you."
Sometimes I hold his tail loosely in my fist, feeling the twitch and thrum. Moby seems not to mind.
Over the last two years, we have formed a deep friendship with him. He knows he can trust us, a simple squirm, and he will be set down gently. He will be let out of the bag eventually, Vets are kind to him, and he will come home afterward. He will never be left in a place with dogs and rabbits and other animals for two months, ill with worms and a cold, though well fed, and the people were kind. He knows we never hurt him intentionally, and when a foot hits him, we will apologize and let him hide for a while. Often, chicken will follow.
We, in turn, have learned to trust him. If he puts his claws out, we leave our hand there, and he does not dig in, but retracts, and licks an apology. We rub his tum gently when he is in the mood, but do not play that way, so he does not feel threatened to the point of defending himself with teeth and hind legs thrashing.
We think about him in that shelter. They were careful about sending him home with us, as they told us they were careful about black cats. More so around Halloween. They wanted him to have a home, not be sacrificed. We saw him on the shelter website, and thought him ideal. When we met him, they let us be in a caged area with him. I held him, and he squirmed away, looking for "out", without putting a claw on me. D remembers him climbing over his shoulder, with the same gentle urgency. We knew we would have to earn his affection. We were both hooked. A cat like both of us, not easily won over, no surface shinola, but without malice. We were told his first owner had brought him in because he was at work so much, he did not feel he could take good care of him. It sounds like an excuse, but it feels true enough.
He knows he has taught us well, attentive to feline wisdom. We amuse him, with our strange habits, like never leaving the house once, but always coming back in before leaving. As he amuses us. He likes us to chuckle.
All our quirks together, there is love at home.
-Turkish Van, Swimming Cats
Flushing cat video.
Moby is certainly not a Van, Turkish or otherwise. Not a spot of white on him, a thick undercoat. And Vans are rare. He does play with his water, and doesn't seem to mind a bit of wet, will stick his head under the stream when we pour water into his bowl. We've never seen him flush, but then, we keep the lid down.
His tail does flounce as described above. His shortish, muscular tail, that makes me wonder if he has a touch of Manx, flicks and curls, wags and wriggles. Only when he seems most deeply asleep is it quiet at all. It perks up and curls at the end when we call his name, even when he is busy doing other cat things that we can't understand, and therefore can't stop right now, sorry. We saw him once trying to nap, when the tail was dancing in front of his nose. He irritably reached out a paw and stopped it, as if to say "Cut it out, you."
Sometimes I hold his tail loosely in my fist, feeling the twitch and thrum. Moby seems not to mind.
Over the last two years, we have formed a deep friendship with him. He knows he can trust us, a simple squirm, and he will be set down gently. He will be let out of the bag eventually, Vets are kind to him, and he will come home afterward. He will never be left in a place with dogs and rabbits and other animals for two months, ill with worms and a cold, though well fed, and the people were kind. He knows we never hurt him intentionally, and when a foot hits him, we will apologize and let him hide for a while. Often, chicken will follow.
We, in turn, have learned to trust him. If he puts his claws out, we leave our hand there, and he does not dig in, but retracts, and licks an apology. We rub his tum gently when he is in the mood, but do not play that way, so he does not feel threatened to the point of defending himself with teeth and hind legs thrashing.
We think about him in that shelter. They were careful about sending him home with us, as they told us they were careful about black cats. More so around Halloween. They wanted him to have a home, not be sacrificed. We saw him on the shelter website, and thought him ideal. When we met him, they let us be in a caged area with him. I held him, and he squirmed away, looking for "out", without putting a claw on me. D remembers him climbing over his shoulder, with the same gentle urgency. We knew we would have to earn his affection. We were both hooked. A cat like both of us, not easily won over, no surface shinola, but without malice. We were told his first owner had brought him in because he was at work so much, he did not feel he could take good care of him. It sounds like an excuse, but it feels true enough.
He knows he has taught us well, attentive to feline wisdom. We amuse him, with our strange habits, like never leaving the house once, but always coming back in before leaving. As he amuses us. He likes us to chuckle.
All our quirks together, there is love at home.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Doze (Photo)
A Perma Puddle with an illegally (read stupidly) parked car in the pedestrian walkway.
Sleeping along the trail, and on the street.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Omphalos
She lays on the operating room table, under cream cotton blankets, a blue patterned gown peeking out at her side, blue sheet underneath. She is a short, high mound, with a black wide safety strap across her wide thighs. Motionless, she is the center of the activity around her. A tidy, brisk man, in a billowy blue hat covering no hair, saunters in - the Surgeon. He looks at her, craning his neck sideways, while wiping his goggles with the edge of the blanket. A sturdy woman, in green scrubs, black pouch at her waist, purple cotton hat covering all her hair, blue duckbill mask - the Nurse, stands by her side. A tall thin man at the recumbent woman's head, adjusting knobs - the Anesthesiologist, nods.
"You can let go now." And the nurse takes her fingers from the woman's throat.
"Nice lady, but she was not easy, no neck at all." He tapes the tube securely to her mouth, squeezes the black bag to inflate her lungs, closes her eyes with clear tape.
"Not so easy to find her cricoid either." The nurse exposes the round belly, and screws up her face. "Belly button clamp, please m'dear." And reaches out, palm wide open. "Probably for the prep too, but I need to get the top layers."
A man at the opposite end of the room, working at a covered table of instruments, dark green gown, gloved, masked, blue paper hat, the Scrub brings to her outstretched hand a 6" long instrument from his set. "You heard Grace wanted me to translate. I tell her, no, I speak Kurdish, Arabic, some French, but no Bulgarian. She says, 'They are the same aren't they?'"
"She didn't," the surgeon asks, then sees the look from Kamil. "Oh, wait, you said Grace." And chuckles. He is standing, sterile gloves on, by the prep solutions on a small sterile table.
"This is going to be a doozie, Dr. F." She is pulling lint from the umbilicus. "It's not just a little bit. She's got her full 68 years worth in here."
"Oh, don't tell me that."
"Well, the top is black. And, oh, there is more, and more... and more yet." She reports, while working.
She continues meticulously cleaning out the usual incision site. There is quiet in the room, some shuffling around, as she pulls out more organic material. "Aha!"
"What? A Volkswagon?"
"Nearly, an umbilicolith."
Soft laughter. "Good one. Now, I'm afraid of how many gall stones I'm going to find when we get in there, and you already found one in her belly button."
"Can I get paid for an umbilicolithectomy?" Asks the nurse.
"Not unless you are a Nurse Practitioner, sorry." Says Dr. F.
"Can't you make the incision somewhere else? Isn't that going to get infected?" Asks the scrub.
"We can, and with her now, I'll certainly go above a bit. But especially with her, I gotta know where the anatomy is. That is our safe landmark." Dr. F sighs.
"And so grandma's advice to wear clean underwear in case you get into an accident is useless. The ER will cut that off and not notice. What you really got to do is keep your belly button clean, in case they need to do a lap appy, or gall bladder." The nurse is now crinkling up her nose. "I'm down to the earliest archeology, and it's starting to smell."
"Stop, you're making us all sick." Whines the surgeon.
"Hey, I have an immaculate omphalos. I'm just telling you what I'm finding in this poor woman."
"Here, let me do the rest with the prep. Maybe give her some antibiotics. We can't take an hour just cleaning that out." He takes over, pouring the pink soap across her abdomen, peering down. "I think I am seeing blue sheet. You really weren't kidding, were you?"
"I never kid about belly buttons. This one, I am going to tell for the rest of my life. I shall write it in my diary. 'Today, I plumbed the navel depths, and came out alive."
(Seen elsewhere. Here, my version.)
"You can let go now." And the nurse takes her fingers from the woman's throat.
"Nice lady, but she was not easy, no neck at all." He tapes the tube securely to her mouth, squeezes the black bag to inflate her lungs, closes her eyes with clear tape.
"Not so easy to find her cricoid either." The nurse exposes the round belly, and screws up her face. "Belly button clamp, please m'dear." And reaches out, palm wide open. "Probably for the prep too, but I need to get the top layers."
A man at the opposite end of the room, working at a covered table of instruments, dark green gown, gloved, masked, blue paper hat, the Scrub brings to her outstretched hand a 6" long instrument from his set. "You heard Grace wanted me to translate. I tell her, no, I speak Kurdish, Arabic, some French, but no Bulgarian. She says, 'They are the same aren't they?'"
"She didn't," the surgeon asks, then sees the look from Kamil. "Oh, wait, you said Grace." And chuckles. He is standing, sterile gloves on, by the prep solutions on a small sterile table.
"This is going to be a doozie, Dr. F." She is pulling lint from the umbilicus. "It's not just a little bit. She's got her full 68 years worth in here."
"Oh, don't tell me that."
"Well, the top is black. And, oh, there is more, and more... and more yet." She reports, while working.
She continues meticulously cleaning out the usual incision site. There is quiet in the room, some shuffling around, as she pulls out more organic material. "Aha!"
"What? A Volkswagon?"
"Nearly, an umbilicolith."
Soft laughter. "Good one. Now, I'm afraid of how many gall stones I'm going to find when we get in there, and you already found one in her belly button."
"Can I get paid for an umbilicolithectomy?" Asks the nurse.
"Not unless you are a Nurse Practitioner, sorry." Says Dr. F.
"Can't you make the incision somewhere else? Isn't that going to get infected?" Asks the scrub.
"We can, and with her now, I'll certainly go above a bit. But especially with her, I gotta know where the anatomy is. That is our safe landmark." Dr. F sighs.
"And so grandma's advice to wear clean underwear in case you get into an accident is useless. The ER will cut that off and not notice. What you really got to do is keep your belly button clean, in case they need to do a lap appy, or gall bladder." The nurse is now crinkling up her nose. "I'm down to the earliest archeology, and it's starting to smell."
"Stop, you're making us all sick." Whines the surgeon.
"Hey, I have an immaculate omphalos. I'm just telling you what I'm finding in this poor woman."
"Here, let me do the rest with the prep. Maybe give her some antibiotics. We can't take an hour just cleaning that out." He takes over, pouring the pink soap across her abdomen, peering down. "I think I am seeing blue sheet. You really weren't kidding, were you?"
"I never kid about belly buttons. This one, I am going to tell for the rest of my life. I shall write it in my diary. 'Today, I plumbed the navel depths, and came out alive."
(Seen elsewhere. Here, my version.)
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Give
The envelope went into the long handled basket during mass every Sunday, and I was given it to put in. The story of the Widow's Mite was repeated at least every year, to encourage the income. To be fair, mine was not a rich parish, but a declining inner city church with roof and heating shortfalls. Neither was my family wealthy, and that extra bit would have improved essential nourishment significantly for myself and my brothers as young growing bodies. But that was the point, really. Our contributions came from our need, not our want, and was therefore most worthy. I felt quite virtuous at the time. The current problems of the Catholic hierarchy leave me smugly cynical, and satisfied with my choice to shed my religious carapace. I also discarded the Victorian ideal of Charity as a Virtue, knowing it to be cold and manipulative.
When I was in college, there were so many dealers, pickpockets and panhandlers on and around campus, a strip of classroom buildings surrounded by notorious urban streets, I purposefully kept no change in my pocket. In part so that I could honestly say I had no cash on me. Had I given to every beggar, it would have been true anyway by the time I got to the other end of the University. They angered me. They had no more right to my thin scrim of cash than I did, and rather less, since I had worked for mine. I did feel bad for the homeless and suffering, but I had not harmed them, had not stolen their job nor wrecked their lives. I didn't exactly blame them, for the most part. I just didn't think it was within my power to fix them, nor mine to feel guilty for their plight.
Studying history, I came to believe that most charitable intentions went badly awry. The farm subsidies during FDR wound up benefitting large industrial farming conglomerates, and putting small family farms out of business. Used clothing and cash handouts to third world areas create dependence and sap local market initiative. Giving directly to panhandlers benefits the few aggressive ones, who are often users and alcoholics. We are told it's better to give directly to shelters and food banks.
Why, though, when D and I were downtown late one evening, a deserted well lit street, and a young person collapsed in front of us, did I reflexively look away? And D stopped us and went back to help. I felt ashamed, and we called 911, stayed with her, checked her vitals. Drugs, or alcohol, native, very young. The EMTs came and took her to the hospital. What was the threat? Why did I so readily turn my eyes? I say it was old street smarts overreacting. I tell myself that.
I want to be kind, and would never intentionally harm anyone. My instincts are to make myself secure, so that I can help. First Rule of Water Safety, make sure you are safe, or you just get two stiffs in the water. Very professional. Triage. And I believe this is the best I can do, over my long haul. That obvious generosity is self serving, gosh what a good girl am I. When I was in Saudi Arabia, walking around the streets of Riyadh, why then did I always slip a rial or two to the outstretched, black gloved hands of the shrouded women crouched on the curb?
My friend whose childhood poverty was severe, compared to mine, volunteers and gives to charities. Says she valued the given food and clothes when she was small and hungry and cold. I was grateful to have been given much of my clothing, a bed, a bicycle, though never obvious food. There is a balance between being good and being nice, between meddlesome undermining of motivation, and giving essential care. Where do I cross the line between defending my own safety and withholding necessary help for another in crisis?
I do keep asking the question of myself.
When I was in college, there were so many dealers, pickpockets and panhandlers on and around campus, a strip of classroom buildings surrounded by notorious urban streets, I purposefully kept no change in my pocket. In part so that I could honestly say I had no cash on me. Had I given to every beggar, it would have been true anyway by the time I got to the other end of the University. They angered me. They had no more right to my thin scrim of cash than I did, and rather less, since I had worked for mine. I did feel bad for the homeless and suffering, but I had not harmed them, had not stolen their job nor wrecked their lives. I didn't exactly blame them, for the most part. I just didn't think it was within my power to fix them, nor mine to feel guilty for their plight.
Studying history, I came to believe that most charitable intentions went badly awry. The farm subsidies during FDR wound up benefitting large industrial farming conglomerates, and putting small family farms out of business. Used clothing and cash handouts to third world areas create dependence and sap local market initiative. Giving directly to panhandlers benefits the few aggressive ones, who are often users and alcoholics. We are told it's better to give directly to shelters and food banks.
Why, though, when D and I were downtown late one evening, a deserted well lit street, and a young person collapsed in front of us, did I reflexively look away? And D stopped us and went back to help. I felt ashamed, and we called 911, stayed with her, checked her vitals. Drugs, or alcohol, native, very young. The EMTs came and took her to the hospital. What was the threat? Why did I so readily turn my eyes? I say it was old street smarts overreacting. I tell myself that.
I want to be kind, and would never intentionally harm anyone. My instincts are to make myself secure, so that I can help. First Rule of Water Safety, make sure you are safe, or you just get two stiffs in the water. Very professional. Triage. And I believe this is the best I can do, over my long haul. That obvious generosity is self serving, gosh what a good girl am I. When I was in Saudi Arabia, walking around the streets of Riyadh, why then did I always slip a rial or two to the outstretched, black gloved hands of the shrouded women crouched on the curb?
My friend whose childhood poverty was severe, compared to mine, volunteers and gives to charities. Says she valued the given food and clothes when she was small and hungry and cold. I was grateful to have been given much of my clothing, a bed, a bicycle, though never obvious food. There is a balance between being good and being nice, between meddlesome undermining of motivation, and giving essential care. Where do I cross the line between defending my own safety and withholding necessary help for another in crisis?
I do keep asking the question of myself.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Suitcase
"Have suitcase, will travel, that girl." My mother said of me. I was fortunate to have been nearly the sole child in the family when I was small. The relatives were older, had no children, or none at home for a long, long time. And I was, for a child, a good guest.
I was two, the first time, when my mother was in the hospital for a week, a hysterectomy, I found out decades later. I went to stay with my Aunt Alma, who had only married Uncle Milton two years before. She delayed getting her poodle, Gigi, that week, to care for me. I stayed there for at least a week every summer, and often a weekend or so at other times of year, so that I cannot tease out which memories happened when. I still cannot quite believe Gigi was not there that first visit. Uncle Milton was the blur. His Union job in the Detroit auto industry the source of what seemed such wealth to me then, the neat suburban house with bought shrubbery, air conditioning in the car, finished basement, and color TV.
Aunt Alma expressed her love in food. We made bread, my kneading never neared her muscular competence with a ball of dough. She made jam, and bought real butter, and no other bread, butter and jam, will ever taste as wonderful. She sated my craving for fresh fruit, though she did not understand how I could eat grapefruit, or strawberries, without sugar or cream. She fed me corn on the cob, from her garden. She fried chicken and made dumplings. She let me drink Pepsi out of tall tupperware tumblers, whichever of the four colors I wanted.
She took me for walks with Gigi. When I brought my second hand bicycle for visits, to race wildly around the large church parking lot across the street, she got a bicycle and rode with me, much more sedately, and around the block. I believe now that she was rather lonely, and we became friends. She loved to tell the story about me, still high-chaired, when she took a bite out of the toast in front of me, and I snapped out,
"EAT OWN TOAST!"
Which horrified my mother, with a horror of naughty children. And delighted my dear aunt, who rather liked me when I broke out of my shell.
And brushed Gigi's teeth, with the only toothbrush I had.
My other regular suitcase-home was my mother's eldest sister, Aunt Evelyn. We were much more alike than my mother and I, and simply liked to be together. She had a quiet authority that I only tested once, and trusted afterwards. She had some games, and toys from when her son was young, including a small submarine that rose and sank in her sink, with baking soda. I helped her with laundry, a wringer washer, and a clothes line in the back yard. We usually did little more than go to the rose garden in Jackson Park by bus, and then I got to go on the swings.
What I most relished was how she spoke of Ernie, her sweetheart. Uncle Ernie brought her a rose at least once a week. They kissed, hugged, and talked. Peaceably did chores together. Uncle Ernie spent time with me when he got home from work, and took us to get ice cream, or for a walk. Both gave me a view of love, and included me. I never questioned their affection for me.
Both women are part of me, they were my hope. I'd gladly pack a suitcase to see them again. They can have my toast anytime.
I was two, the first time, when my mother was in the hospital for a week, a hysterectomy, I found out decades later. I went to stay with my Aunt Alma, who had only married Uncle Milton two years before. She delayed getting her poodle, Gigi, that week, to care for me. I stayed there for at least a week every summer, and often a weekend or so at other times of year, so that I cannot tease out which memories happened when. I still cannot quite believe Gigi was not there that first visit. Uncle Milton was the blur. His Union job in the Detroit auto industry the source of what seemed such wealth to me then, the neat suburban house with bought shrubbery, air conditioning in the car, finished basement, and color TV.
Aunt Alma expressed her love in food. We made bread, my kneading never neared her muscular competence with a ball of dough. She made jam, and bought real butter, and no other bread, butter and jam, will ever taste as wonderful. She sated my craving for fresh fruit, though she did not understand how I could eat grapefruit, or strawberries, without sugar or cream. She fed me corn on the cob, from her garden. She fried chicken and made dumplings. She let me drink Pepsi out of tall tupperware tumblers, whichever of the four colors I wanted.
She took me for walks with Gigi. When I brought my second hand bicycle for visits, to race wildly around the large church parking lot across the street, she got a bicycle and rode with me, much more sedately, and around the block. I believe now that she was rather lonely, and we became friends. She loved to tell the story about me, still high-chaired, when she took a bite out of the toast in front of me, and I snapped out,
"EAT OWN TOAST!"
Which horrified my mother, with a horror of naughty children. And delighted my dear aunt, who rather liked me when I broke out of my shell.
And brushed Gigi's teeth, with the only toothbrush I had.
My other regular suitcase-home was my mother's eldest sister, Aunt Evelyn. We were much more alike than my mother and I, and simply liked to be together. She had a quiet authority that I only tested once, and trusted afterwards. She had some games, and toys from when her son was young, including a small submarine that rose and sank in her sink, with baking soda. I helped her with laundry, a wringer washer, and a clothes line in the back yard. We usually did little more than go to the rose garden in Jackson Park by bus, and then I got to go on the swings.
What I most relished was how she spoke of Ernie, her sweetheart. Uncle Ernie brought her a rose at least once a week. They kissed, hugged, and talked. Peaceably did chores together. Uncle Ernie spent time with me when he got home from work, and took us to get ice cream, or for a walk. Both gave me a view of love, and included me. I never questioned their affection for me.
Both women are part of me, they were my hope. I'd gladly pack a suitcase to see them again. They can have my toast anytime.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Vacation
I once had a three week vacation, when I was ten. Like all vacations involving my father, it had it's fraught moments. Like the accident on the way to the airport, four way stop, and neither father nor truck could manage it. But I was put on the plane, my first flight, in my stiff cotton, mom-made dress (because pants were just not right for an airline trip.) I took many pictures of clouds, endured the long hours listening to the loop of questionable music (is this when I started to hate easy listening?), trying not to feel hurt by the man in the suit who wouldn't talk with me.
My brother and his wife picked me up at the airport, and for the first time I experienced the shock of teleportation as the Phoenix July heat blasted me. Parents and brother Bill, and I visited them two years before, a long roadtrip, taking in the Rocky Mountains and Yellowstone and the Grand Canyon. So I knew this was furnace to my Michigan summer steamer. But that moment of transition felt like a door into another universe.
Vacation trips had always been gradual, before. My father got two weeks off in August from the factory, and we were piled in the car in the cool of the pre-dawn, so we could get some miles in, and were driven to a national park, hitting roadside attractions as we went. My brothers and I played games and looked for cheap motels with pools in the AAA book, and preceded the car in the Triptick map, reading the towns to come beneath the yellow highlighter line. We went to the north, and the Sleeping Bear Dunes, or to Canada and Niagara Falls, the Thousand Islands, the interminable Agawa Canyon (slower-than-imaginable) Railway, Virginia Beach, Stoney Creek beach on Lake Erie, Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, the Smoky Mountains, Loray Caverns, and then the marathon cross country slog, justified by my brother being stationed in Arizona. Not a single one missing the essential element of my father exploding into a embittered rage, personal and petty and mean.
This one I would do all by myself, and eager, even after the crash. Although, my sister-in-law's ill defined notion of discipline, her nascent pregnancy, left me confused. She wanted to entertain me by giving me as much sugar as she wanted, and I never had so much candy, pop and coke slushies in my life. I baffled her utterly, often as not refusing sweets, happily poking around in the desert field behind their house, and reading anything I could get my hands on. Her friend lived in a complex with a pool, and I spent hours each day with the other children diving for a ring thrown in the bottom, floating on inner tubes and generally baking myself brown and freckled. She shushed her friend when they started talking about periods, information I could sorely have used within four months. I worried for her child to be, knowing that as badly as I was being raised, she was not going to do much better.
My brother worked too many hours, and my dreams of re-connecting with him were disappointed. They often had friends over, and drank more than I had ever seen anyone in my family drink before. They made brownies once, chocolate was irresistible to me, and I ate from the wrong half. They left me as they went to a party. I saw She Wore A Yellow Ribbon, in color, on their B/W TV. I found out when I was 20 about the hash, and to this day they think it was funny. To leave a ten year old, unknowingly tripping, alone, and have no regrets. The story is funny. The reality, especially that they had two daughters of their own, is not.
During those three weeks, my sister-in-law had an accident, was hit by a drunk driver. She had whiplash, and wore a neck brace. My brother took us to a cookware version of a Tupperware party. Their dog Boo would sit on me at night, keeping me awake, despite my many attempts to shove him out. He was a pushy Border Collie, completely not trained. Plus two cats who jumped back and forth over the sproinging doorstop in my bedroom. My bed an air mattress on a camp cot. I was up early because I was three hours ahead of them. I became deeply sleep deprived.
We went out to the desert with their friends one night, and as it got later and later, I grew overtired, and fell into a disturbed sleep on a concrete picnic table, feeling like excess baggage. I didn't so much want to go home as to simply stop existing.
I had stepped outside my disturbed reality when I most needed to keep my head down. I found out way too much about another family. I flew back in a dress too tight, bursting at the seams, after wearing nothing but shorts and borrowed jeans (my first pair, how I loved them) for three solid weeks. The intense GREEN of a Michigan summer enveloped me, comforting and homey. The mosquitos didn't love me anymore. I never quite fit anything there again.
I have not yet had a vacation as long. I'm wary of trying.
My brother and his wife picked me up at the airport, and for the first time I experienced the shock of teleportation as the Phoenix July heat blasted me. Parents and brother Bill, and I visited them two years before, a long roadtrip, taking in the Rocky Mountains and Yellowstone and the Grand Canyon. So I knew this was furnace to my Michigan summer steamer. But that moment of transition felt like a door into another universe.
Vacation trips had always been gradual, before. My father got two weeks off in August from the factory, and we were piled in the car in the cool of the pre-dawn, so we could get some miles in, and were driven to a national park, hitting roadside attractions as we went. My brothers and I played games and looked for cheap motels with pools in the AAA book, and preceded the car in the Triptick map, reading the towns to come beneath the yellow highlighter line. We went to the north, and the Sleeping Bear Dunes, or to Canada and Niagara Falls, the Thousand Islands, the interminable Agawa Canyon (slower-than-imaginable) Railway, Virginia Beach, Stoney Creek beach on Lake Erie, Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, the Smoky Mountains, Loray Caverns, and then the marathon cross country slog, justified by my brother being stationed in Arizona. Not a single one missing the essential element of my father exploding into a embittered rage, personal and petty and mean.
This one I would do all by myself, and eager, even after the crash. Although, my sister-in-law's ill defined notion of discipline, her nascent pregnancy, left me confused. She wanted to entertain me by giving me as much sugar as she wanted, and I never had so much candy, pop and coke slushies in my life. I baffled her utterly, often as not refusing sweets, happily poking around in the desert field behind their house, and reading anything I could get my hands on. Her friend lived in a complex with a pool, and I spent hours each day with the other children diving for a ring thrown in the bottom, floating on inner tubes and generally baking myself brown and freckled. She shushed her friend when they started talking about periods, information I could sorely have used within four months. I worried for her child to be, knowing that as badly as I was being raised, she was not going to do much better.
My brother worked too many hours, and my dreams of re-connecting with him were disappointed. They often had friends over, and drank more than I had ever seen anyone in my family drink before. They made brownies once, chocolate was irresistible to me, and I ate from the wrong half. They left me as they went to a party. I saw She Wore A Yellow Ribbon, in color, on their B/W TV. I found out when I was 20 about the hash, and to this day they think it was funny. To leave a ten year old, unknowingly tripping, alone, and have no regrets. The story is funny. The reality, especially that they had two daughters of their own, is not.
During those three weeks, my sister-in-law had an accident, was hit by a drunk driver. She had whiplash, and wore a neck brace. My brother took us to a cookware version of a Tupperware party. Their dog Boo would sit on me at night, keeping me awake, despite my many attempts to shove him out. He was a pushy Border Collie, completely not trained. Plus two cats who jumped back and forth over the sproinging doorstop in my bedroom. My bed an air mattress on a camp cot. I was up early because I was three hours ahead of them. I became deeply sleep deprived.
We went out to the desert with their friends one night, and as it got later and later, I grew overtired, and fell into a disturbed sleep on a concrete picnic table, feeling like excess baggage. I didn't so much want to go home as to simply stop existing.
I had stepped outside my disturbed reality when I most needed to keep my head down. I found out way too much about another family. I flew back in a dress too tight, bursting at the seams, after wearing nothing but shorts and borrowed jeans (my first pair, how I loved them) for three solid weeks. The intense GREEN of a Michigan summer enveloped me, comforting and homey. The mosquitos didn't love me anymore. I never quite fit anything there again.
I have not yet had a vacation as long. I'm wary of trying.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Sense
I am not entirely sober tonight. I had lost my sense of humor, a crucial element of my personality and my ability to cope with the absurdity and cruelties of life. I dragged myself through work and life. My temper, trained hard to be always kind, patient, cheerful, is not naturally easy going, slipped badly. I snarled and snapped and strained against the drudgery and irritation. I got angry with D, which I consider to be mean, and bad behaviour. I knew I was tired after 30 hours in 3 days while still dealing with pain, but this seemed more than that.
Finally, the light dawned, and I remembered that I had been on a drug for nerve pain, more normally used for bipolar disorders and seizures, the last dose taken Thursday morning. Getting through work was difficult enough to account for my distress and moodiness. The remaining muscle pain and limited mobility produced enough frustration to explain my irascibility. Still. Not getting angry at D. Just not on. The withdrawal factor just occurred to me about an hour ago. Ah. Ahem. Whoops.
So I am working on my mood through the time tested expedient of alcohol as a relaxant. Just until I can get back to my normal level of stress and paranoia. One or two per day, never more. Not much, not enough to be ill, but with D's encouragement, a rarity. Poor guy.
My sense of humor is still not up to an essay, it's probably hiding under the couch, but at least I know it is in the apartment somewhere. This is all taking much longer than would be preferred. Clawing my way to normalcy.
Damn Improbability Drive.
D. So sorry.
Finally, the light dawned, and I remembered that I had been on a drug for nerve pain, more normally used for bipolar disorders and seizures, the last dose taken Thursday morning. Getting through work was difficult enough to account for my distress and moodiness. The remaining muscle pain and limited mobility produced enough frustration to explain my irascibility. Still. Not getting angry at D. Just not on. The withdrawal factor just occurred to me about an hour ago. Ah. Ahem. Whoops.
So I am working on my mood through the time tested expedient of alcohol as a relaxant. Just until I can get back to my normal level of stress and paranoia. One or two per day, never more. Not much, not enough to be ill, but with D's encouragement, a rarity. Poor guy.
My sense of humor is still not up to an essay, it's probably hiding under the couch, but at least I know it is in the apartment somewhere. This is all taking much longer than would be preferred. Clawing my way to normalcy.
Damn Improbability Drive.
D. So sorry.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Cramp
I dream of demons attacking my legs, and half wake to cramps in my legs. Last night a dragon appeared out of the ceiling to bite and gnaw. I am plagued by dreams. Sitting signing books, on an elevator, men putting up a painting, giving a girl a pinwheel, trying to eat some cheese cake I'd put aside, but never quite getting to it. Cannot remember how cheese cake tastes. I call to D and he helps me out of bed.
I'm better when I move. Yoga class, in a week or so, when I feel more stabilized.
I watch Moby, admire and pet him, a great comfort.
One more day on the drugs, hopefully it has given me enough time to heal. The electrical shocks are rarer, and less severe. I have had a beneficial odd schedule, allowing me two more days to rest, then back to work. An invite to visit cousins in a week and a half. I don't know where the writing has leaked from, but it's made quite a puddle.
We journeyed to Cambridge this afternoon, and now I have some maple sugar candy. Childhood rarest treat, and it still soothes me. Dithering in bookstores to help D's thesis research angst.
Yesterday managed to sit most of the way through lunch at India Quality, a needed nourishment. Tired of being so ultra careful, so fraught. I wish I could just ease into this, slide through. But I am irritable and bothered, forcing the cheerfulness. Enduring the limitations with ill grace. Inside at least, trying to put on a good face.
Three days of work to go, 28 hours of skirting disaster. Praying for no combative patients, or heavy equipment moving unexpectedly, or a slippery floor.
Hoping for no more cramp demons.
I'm better when I move. Yoga class, in a week or so, when I feel more stabilized.
I watch Moby, admire and pet him, a great comfort.
One more day on the drugs, hopefully it has given me enough time to heal. The electrical shocks are rarer, and less severe. I have had a beneficial odd schedule, allowing me two more days to rest, then back to work. An invite to visit cousins in a week and a half. I don't know where the writing has leaked from, but it's made quite a puddle.
We journeyed to Cambridge this afternoon, and now I have some maple sugar candy. Childhood rarest treat, and it still soothes me. Dithering in bookstores to help D's thesis research angst.
Yesterday managed to sit most of the way through lunch at India Quality, a needed nourishment. Tired of being so ultra careful, so fraught. I wish I could just ease into this, slide through. But I am irritable and bothered, forcing the cheerfulness. Enduring the limitations with ill grace. Inside at least, trying to put on a good face.
Three days of work to go, 28 hours of skirting disaster. Praying for no combative patients, or heavy equipment moving unexpectedly, or a slippery floor.
Hoping for no more cramp demons.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Specific
This is the Christian Science Monitor series onJill Carroll, abducted for 82 days in Baghdad*. In keeping with my thesis that the specific is universal, and informs the truth more than sweeping political doctrine. I likewise recommend the writings of Terry Waite, who I had the honor to hear talk, an enormously kind and genuine presence.
Thus ends my ranting on this forum.
Thus ends my ranting on this forum.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Ago (Meme)
Moira's answer
I'm tagging all you hug senders, and lurkers. With affection.
10 years ago
At 34, I was in my first year as a surgical nurse. Deeply stressed, crying in frustration often, but in no doubt that I was where I belonged. I was also planning my first tattoo, shaved my head, and was taking care of D and his smashed elbow. Hell of a year.
5 years ago
At 39, I was professionally solid, and learning to be a Recovery room nurse, and got the position of a room charge, with my own regular surgeons to memorize and cater to. They were kind and grateful, mostly. D was returning to school for his history degree, a jump from the IT job dissolving in the dotcompost.
1 year ago
I was just hired as permanent full time in the main OR here in Boston, after a year as a Traveling Nurse. I could find my way around Boston without a map. I was healthy and walking miles a day.
5 songs I know all the words to
Dead by They Might Be Giants
Sonny Came Home by Shawn Colvin
Learning to Fly by Talking Heads
Reflecting Light by Sam Phillips
Indian Paintbrush by Trapezoid
Innumerable Sacred Harp songs, hymns, novelty songs, Tommy The Who, Mary Poppins, bad pop, cadences, and folk songs.
5 Snacks
Trader Joe's potato crisps
Nuts of all kinds except walnuts
Nutella by finger (the real reason I don't share my Nutella)
Corn chips with salsa and guacamole
Fresh fruit
5 things to I'd do with £100 million
Four Tumbleweed tiny homes, with a netted courtyard, workshop,
library, pottery studio, solar panels, windmill etc.
Set up a foundation to seed smart ideas, and have a place to
work. Will assist lots of friends with this
Get an art degree
Travel
Daily massages
5 places I'd run away to
Lava Hot Springs, Idaho
Sleeping Bear Dunes, Michigan
Moab, Utah
San Francisco, California
Gloucester, Massachusetts
5 things I'd never wear
Crotch level short skirts
Platform shoes
Spike heels
Low cut cleavage (Don't have any)
Large rings with 'real' stones
5 favourite TV shows
Frank's Place (deceased)
Veronica Mars
Joan of Arcadia (deceased)
Emergency Vets
Strange Luck (deceased)
5 greatest joys
That D loves me
That Moby loves both of us, in his feline fashion
Friends of intelligence and taste and kindness
Unexpected compassion from anyone
Wildlife on my walks
5 favourite toys
Cat toys for Moby
iBook
Slinkys
Kites
Camera
I'm tagging all you hug senders, and lurkers. With affection.
10 years ago
At 34, I was in my first year as a surgical nurse. Deeply stressed, crying in frustration often, but in no doubt that I was where I belonged. I was also planning my first tattoo, shaved my head, and was taking care of D and his smashed elbow. Hell of a year.
5 years ago
At 39, I was professionally solid, and learning to be a Recovery room nurse, and got the position of a room charge, with my own regular surgeons to memorize and cater to. They were kind and grateful, mostly. D was returning to school for his history degree, a jump from the IT job dissolving in the dotcompost.
1 year ago
I was just hired as permanent full time in the main OR here in Boston, after a year as a Traveling Nurse. I could find my way around Boston without a map. I was healthy and walking miles a day.
5 songs I know all the words to
Dead by They Might Be Giants
Sonny Came Home by Shawn Colvin
Learning to Fly by Talking Heads
Reflecting Light by Sam Phillips
Indian Paintbrush by Trapezoid
Innumerable Sacred Harp songs, hymns, novelty songs, Tommy The Who, Mary Poppins, bad pop, cadences, and folk songs.
5 Snacks
Trader Joe's potato crisps
Nuts of all kinds except walnuts
Nutella by finger (the real reason I don't share my Nutella)
Corn chips with salsa and guacamole
Fresh fruit
5 things to I'd do with £100 million
Four Tumbleweed tiny homes, with a netted courtyard, workshop,
library, pottery studio, solar panels, windmill etc.
Set up a foundation to seed smart ideas, and have a place to
work. Will assist lots of friends with this
Get an art degree
Travel
Daily massages
5 places I'd run away to
Lava Hot Springs, Idaho
Sleeping Bear Dunes, Michigan
Moab, Utah
San Francisco, California
Gloucester, Massachusetts
5 things I'd never wear
Crotch level short skirts
Platform shoes
Spike heels
Low cut cleavage (Don't have any)
Large rings with 'real' stones
5 favourite TV shows
Frank's Place (deceased)
Veronica Mars
Joan of Arcadia (deceased)
Emergency Vets
Strange Luck (deceased)
5 greatest joys
That D loves me
That Moby loves both of us, in his feline fashion
Friends of intelligence and taste and kindness
Unexpected compassion from anyone
Wildlife on my walks
5 favourite toys
Cat toys for Moby
iBook
Slinkys
Kites
Camera
Friday, August 11, 2006
Odyssey
The spasms roughly rouse me from deep sleep. Hard aches from hip to foot, tingling, numb, no ease. This is a quantum difference from the previous discomfort, and I know I'll be calling to see my doctor when the office opens, now truly afraid I've left it too long.
D walks me over. Walking is tricky, but I could not compass the thought of a cab, and it really isn't far. I have a very good primary care physician. She is utterly professional and sympathetic, and immediately gets the ortho PA to come look at me. He gives me an anatomy lesson, verdict - herniated disc. Sometimes they heal, listen to the pain, steroid injections are... I stop him. Can we just start there? Yes, yes indeed. MRI scheduled for that day, injection tomorrow. More than a little confusion about where the imaging place is. Sent to the wrong office, use all our available cash ($5) on the cab to there. Office staff confused, then gives useless directions to the right place, the slot I can have if I can be there at one.
Directions, maps even, in Boston, need to be very clear. Three rights do not make a left. We walk, me carefully, but determined, flames of electricity dogging my steps. We collar a woman in postal uniform, eating a take-away salad. She gives better directions than the office staff did. A panicky, late to get into my precious slot, in the hotting up sun, stagger into the less than obvious place, five minutes late. They are kind and professional, and take us in. I toss a strawberry candy from their basket at D, who is hungry and fading, but steadfast, and reading Thud!
Shoes off, shorts with metal zipper off, scrub pants on, watch to D, I pad in and lie down as instructed.
"Are you claustrophobic?"
"No."
"Good, that'll help."
Pillow under my head and knees. She gives me earphones and slides me into the narrow white oven... um, machine. She tells me to lie very still. The earphones are playing commercials at me, for the National Guard - I roll my eyes at my tunnel ceiling, then I hear Elton John promoting this NICE soft rock station, and cringe. After she finishes with instructions and a last "You ok?" I reach down and kink the tube with one hand, and listen to the whirrs and rhythmic thunks, whines and chugging of the machine, and try to decide if I can feel the magnetism. Wondering if that in itself is a kind of treatment. I am utterly still, this is cake, easiest pose I ever had, and I've held harder ones longer. I relax and let it happen. I close my eyes, because the space is really small.
I am born easily, pulling my arms in slightly. She helps me sit up.
I clutch my large envelope of MRI films that I will need to take with me in the morning. We take a short walk to the train station, with good directions this time. D sits and reads, I pace and enjoy the breeze. Four trains go the wrong way, then one our way marked "No service." We catch the next one, and get off at Fenway. Something jogs the envelope from my grip and it is lying on the track. I lurch down and grab it, keeping the door open so the train won't start up. Hugging the films.... I don't know how it feels to be struck by lightening, but... I am crouching on the asphalt platform as the train pulls away. I stagger to the iron fence and grab it and gasp, sob wretchedly as the whole body explodes in sparks, and I try to breathe through the involuntary wracking tears. I wonder now if anyone was watching, wondering what the hell was going on with me.
On that 1-10 pain scale, I have a new 10. D stands beside me, helpless, but present. I grab his shoulder and use him to walk. My body is in that limb-went-to-sleep-and-is-now-waking-painfully zinging. Tears pour, I breathe and walk as near normal as I can, and the pain fades to a manageable say 8/10. D my crutch, my rock. He settles me home, then gets good pizza for our long overdue lunch.
Sleep is elusive and as the unblunted force penetrates rest. No drugs, no anti-inflammatories allowed this night. I am up at 4, needing to move, unable to move much. D gets me dressed, underwear and socks, shoes and shorts all beyond my ability. I'd have looked silly and gotten arrested just in a t-shirt.
I walk over, D waits at home for a package at my insistence. I can walk, the one movement left me that eases. I walk on a leg with an electrical short, but it works. He will come over when I am finished to bring me home. I sign in, and am offered a seat. I find a Metro and read leaning against a wall, wriggly as a kindergartner. I go for the x-ray, remove all but the irreplaceable underwear and socks, and don a large burgundy gown. The x-ray table is hard, the tech helps, but there is no comfort for me.
I manage to replace the shorts, but the left shoe is just slipped on, laces hanging. More waiting, more leaning, pacing the halls, careful not to trip myself. I watch a woman tie her husband's shoes, apparently post procedure. I smile in recognition. After a small eternity, my name is called.
A lovely young woman with impressive dreadlocks manages to check vital signs without requiring me to sit. The doc, an anesthesiologist enters, points out the herniation on the MRI, and another, and another very small one. Has me sit on the exam table, feet on a chair, and palpates my back as I endure. I am usually on the other side of this, I am the holder, I face the patient and urge them on, reassure and coach. My coach asks me to keep my eyes open to watch me. I do. I feel like an over-tight band about to snap, but I know the position, I open my spine and eat the agony.
"She's clamping down on me."
"I'm sorry."
"Not your fault."
I can do something about it though. I breathe yoga, and force myself down until the heels of my hands are on the arms of the chair. He makes success sounds, warns me that I will feel the meds go in. Pain spent now for better result after, oh, yeah, whatever it costs.
"You don't smoke, do you?" After a comment about the last patient who does. They can tell.
"No."
I fear implosion, as hot lead squeezes down my butt, thigh, legs, then knives with the "Lidocaine chaser."
"Can I move?"
"Just wait a moment... Ok, the needle is out. You can move."
I let my left foot slide off the chair, and close my spine. They compliment me on my cooperation, approve of my general health and that I walked there. My face is wet with quiet tears. I retrieve my films, get my instructions, D arrives and we gingerly wince home.
D opens the expected box. It is the DVD player for the TV, for distraction for me. I enter the world of Tom and Barbara Good. He remembers when I got him High Noon and The Cheap Detective the night he broke his arm. He feeds me, and worries. I try to be brave and not whine too much. I go about the work of healing.
D walks me over. Walking is tricky, but I could not compass the thought of a cab, and it really isn't far. I have a very good primary care physician. She is utterly professional and sympathetic, and immediately gets the ortho PA to come look at me. He gives me an anatomy lesson, verdict - herniated disc. Sometimes they heal, listen to the pain, steroid injections are... I stop him. Can we just start there? Yes, yes indeed. MRI scheduled for that day, injection tomorrow. More than a little confusion about where the imaging place is. Sent to the wrong office, use all our available cash ($5) on the cab to there. Office staff confused, then gives useless directions to the right place, the slot I can have if I can be there at one.
Directions, maps even, in Boston, need to be very clear. Three rights do not make a left. We walk, me carefully, but determined, flames of electricity dogging my steps. We collar a woman in postal uniform, eating a take-away salad. She gives better directions than the office staff did. A panicky, late to get into my precious slot, in the hotting up sun, stagger into the less than obvious place, five minutes late. They are kind and professional, and take us in. I toss a strawberry candy from their basket at D, who is hungry and fading, but steadfast, and reading Thud!
Shoes off, shorts with metal zipper off, scrub pants on, watch to D, I pad in and lie down as instructed.
"Are you claustrophobic?"
"No."
"Good, that'll help."
Pillow under my head and knees. She gives me earphones and slides me into the narrow white oven... um, machine. She tells me to lie very still. The earphones are playing commercials at me, for the National Guard - I roll my eyes at my tunnel ceiling, then I hear Elton John promoting this NICE soft rock station, and cringe. After she finishes with instructions and a last "You ok?" I reach down and kink the tube with one hand, and listen to the whirrs and rhythmic thunks, whines and chugging of the machine, and try to decide if I can feel the magnetism. Wondering if that in itself is a kind of treatment. I am utterly still, this is cake, easiest pose I ever had, and I've held harder ones longer. I relax and let it happen. I close my eyes, because the space is really small.
I am born easily, pulling my arms in slightly. She helps me sit up.
I clutch my large envelope of MRI films that I will need to take with me in the morning. We take a short walk to the train station, with good directions this time. D sits and reads, I pace and enjoy the breeze. Four trains go the wrong way, then one our way marked "No service." We catch the next one, and get off at Fenway. Something jogs the envelope from my grip and it is lying on the track. I lurch down and grab it, keeping the door open so the train won't start up. Hugging the films.... I don't know how it feels to be struck by lightening, but... I am crouching on the asphalt platform as the train pulls away. I stagger to the iron fence and grab it and gasp, sob wretchedly as the whole body explodes in sparks, and I try to breathe through the involuntary wracking tears. I wonder now if anyone was watching, wondering what the hell was going on with me.
On that 1-10 pain scale, I have a new 10. D stands beside me, helpless, but present. I grab his shoulder and use him to walk. My body is in that limb-went-to-sleep-and-is-now-waking-painfully zinging. Tears pour, I breathe and walk as near normal as I can, and the pain fades to a manageable say 8/10. D my crutch, my rock. He settles me home, then gets good pizza for our long overdue lunch.
Sleep is elusive and as the unblunted force penetrates rest. No drugs, no anti-inflammatories allowed this night. I am up at 4, needing to move, unable to move much. D gets me dressed, underwear and socks, shoes and shorts all beyond my ability. I'd have looked silly and gotten arrested just in a t-shirt.
I walk over, D waits at home for a package at my insistence. I can walk, the one movement left me that eases. I walk on a leg with an electrical short, but it works. He will come over when I am finished to bring me home. I sign in, and am offered a seat. I find a Metro and read leaning against a wall, wriggly as a kindergartner. I go for the x-ray, remove all but the irreplaceable underwear and socks, and don a large burgundy gown. The x-ray table is hard, the tech helps, but there is no comfort for me.
I manage to replace the shorts, but the left shoe is just slipped on, laces hanging. More waiting, more leaning, pacing the halls, careful not to trip myself. I watch a woman tie her husband's shoes, apparently post procedure. I smile in recognition. After a small eternity, my name is called.
A lovely young woman with impressive dreadlocks manages to check vital signs without requiring me to sit. The doc, an anesthesiologist enters, points out the herniation on the MRI, and another, and another very small one. Has me sit on the exam table, feet on a chair, and palpates my back as I endure. I am usually on the other side of this, I am the holder, I face the patient and urge them on, reassure and coach. My coach asks me to keep my eyes open to watch me. I do. I feel like an over-tight band about to snap, but I know the position, I open my spine and eat the agony.
"She's clamping down on me."
"I'm sorry."
"Not your fault."
I can do something about it though. I breathe yoga, and force myself down until the heels of my hands are on the arms of the chair. He makes success sounds, warns me that I will feel the meds go in. Pain spent now for better result after, oh, yeah, whatever it costs.
"You don't smoke, do you?" After a comment about the last patient who does. They can tell.
"No."
I fear implosion, as hot lead squeezes down my butt, thigh, legs, then knives with the "Lidocaine chaser."
"Can I move?"
"Just wait a moment... Ok, the needle is out. You can move."
I let my left foot slide off the chair, and close my spine. They compliment me on my cooperation, approve of my general health and that I walked there. My face is wet with quiet tears. I retrieve my films, get my instructions, D arrives and we gingerly wince home.
D opens the expected box. It is the DVD player for the TV, for distraction for me. I enter the world of Tom and Barbara Good. He remembers when I got him High Noon and The Cheap Detective the night he broke his arm. He feeds me, and worries. I try to be brave and not whine too much. I go about the work of healing.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Loopy
My doctor said this stuff would help with nerve pain, and not effect my head. Not like the proffered narcotics that I eschewed. It is normally used for seizures and bipolar disorders. It is certainly helping with the pain.
But I am so high. Sometimes the world spin is detectable and disorienting. Sometimes I laugh for no obvious reason. I talk in a rush, of ideas that don't quite fit together. It has not been 24 hours since the epidural, so I can't take a shower yet. I feel grimy.
I woke at five AM in extreme discomfort. D put on some dance music, and I moved in gentle bellydance to loosen the spasming. Stiff, careful movements. I dragged the rope for Moby to chase, in time to the beat.
I read your words of kindness and concern, support and understanding. So wonderful to feel a part of this community.
Going to have a popsicle.
This is eating my planned vacation week, but it beats not having the time at all.
See? Loopy.
But I am so high. Sometimes the world spin is detectable and disorienting. Sometimes I laugh for no obvious reason. I talk in a rush, of ideas that don't quite fit together. It has not been 24 hours since the epidural, so I can't take a shower yet. I feel grimy.
I woke at five AM in extreme discomfort. D put on some dance music, and I moved in gentle bellydance to loosen the spasming. Stiff, careful movements. I dragged the rope for Moby to chase, in time to the beat.
I read your words of kindness and concern, support and understanding. So wonderful to feel a part of this community.
Going to have a popsicle.
This is eating my planned vacation week, but it beats not having the time at all.
See? Loopy.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Update
Not one, but three, herniated discs. MRI, epidural injections, all done. On my back and not tracking well, but not crying, either. Should have taken the narcotics, but did not want to go there.
Ow.
Ow.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Wist (Photo)
Obs. rare. [app. back-formation from WISTLY adv.]
Attentive, intent.
An image from last fall, an interactive art installation on the MIT campus.
Sweets
When I was small, I was such a little hummingbird. Sweets, fruit and brightly colored food were irresistible. I vividly imagine myself on an overgrown embankement on Hines Drive, nestled in amidst berry bushes. Blackberries. On my hands, staining my face, a few odd ones in the pail.
Cake, particularly birthday cake, was worth eating, to feast upon the hollowed out wedge of chocolate frosting. Or white frosting. Icing roses. Imagine, please that all this frosting was not out of a little tub, but homemade. Thick, a little crusty, more like fudge. Not eating the cake was not an option, just like dinner had to be got to in order to deserve dessert, so the cake must not be shunned (that being rude) but must be eaten in order to lick the frosting.
I loved fluffer nutters on Wonderbread, especially squeezed into a tight white ball of sugary wadding. I have even mixed marshmallow fluff with Karo corn syrup. Vanilla wafers with extra frosting, either leftovers from the last birthday cake, or the tub when that became available. When mom baked pie, a standard for any family gathering, and an orgy of sugar and crust, chocolate and nuts, I would get a piece of dough to eat. I would layer on nuts and brown sugar, fold, repeat until it was nearly egg shaped. Mom always wanted to bake it, and sometimes did. I preferred it raw and chewy. Cohesive.
And, like most children, I grew out of it. My tongue sought out less obvious pleasures. Stronger tastes, bitter flavors. It makes good evolutionary sense, most poisons are bitter, alkaloids, and will kill a child in smaller doses than for an adult. Adults use these same compounds as medicine, and in food at least - mild mind altering substances.
We lay in bed last night, listening to a guitar version of Musorgski's Pictures at an Exhibition, and admitting to former, more pop tastes, in classical music. I had Hooked On Classics. A valuable, if sugary step in my musical education. I loved it, could hum along, whistle it even. I am embarrassed to admit as much now, disco classics. Still, it opened that world to me. But like a potty chair, a great early triumph, not something to be brought up too often, or in depth, or really at all. Just as today, I rarely eat gooey sweets.
Not everyone follows this, of course. It is a general tendency. Some folks could eat only sweets all their lives, from the bottom of a treacle well and becoming very ill indeed. Some children like beer and coffee. Just as some adults never develop their musical tastes, still enjoying pop music from when they were young, never challenging themselves to venture out. And I wondered if taste is also a matter of growth and experience, at least in part. The over sweet and under flavored, favored by children because it really does simplify complex experiences, grow obvious and bland over time. Subtlety and texture, complexity and an edge of danger exert a more powerful appeal. Maybe it is not just in the tongue, but the brain becoming more sensitive, affecting other aspects of appreciation.
It's just a crackpot theory, the musings of a summer night, with Andreas Segovia.
Cake, particularly birthday cake, was worth eating, to feast upon the hollowed out wedge of chocolate frosting. Or white frosting. Icing roses. Imagine, please that all this frosting was not out of a little tub, but homemade. Thick, a little crusty, more like fudge. Not eating the cake was not an option, just like dinner had to be got to in order to deserve dessert, so the cake must not be shunned (that being rude) but must be eaten in order to lick the frosting.
I loved fluffer nutters on Wonderbread, especially squeezed into a tight white ball of sugary wadding. I have even mixed marshmallow fluff with Karo corn syrup. Vanilla wafers with extra frosting, either leftovers from the last birthday cake, or the tub when that became available. When mom baked pie, a standard for any family gathering, and an orgy of sugar and crust, chocolate and nuts, I would get a piece of dough to eat. I would layer on nuts and brown sugar, fold, repeat until it was nearly egg shaped. Mom always wanted to bake it, and sometimes did. I preferred it raw and chewy. Cohesive.
And, like most children, I grew out of it. My tongue sought out less obvious pleasures. Stronger tastes, bitter flavors. It makes good evolutionary sense, most poisons are bitter, alkaloids, and will kill a child in smaller doses than for an adult. Adults use these same compounds as medicine, and in food at least - mild mind altering substances.
We lay in bed last night, listening to a guitar version of Musorgski's Pictures at an Exhibition, and admitting to former, more pop tastes, in classical music. I had Hooked On Classics. A valuable, if sugary step in my musical education. I loved it, could hum along, whistle it even. I am embarrassed to admit as much now, disco classics. Still, it opened that world to me. But like a potty chair, a great early triumph, not something to be brought up too often, or in depth, or really at all. Just as today, I rarely eat gooey sweets.
Not everyone follows this, of course. It is a general tendency. Some folks could eat only sweets all their lives, from the bottom of a treacle well and becoming very ill indeed. Some children like beer and coffee. Just as some adults never develop their musical tastes, still enjoying pop music from when they were young, never challenging themselves to venture out. And I wondered if taste is also a matter of growth and experience, at least in part. The over sweet and under flavored, favored by children because it really does simplify complex experiences, grow obvious and bland over time. Subtlety and texture, complexity and an edge of danger exert a more powerful appeal. Maybe it is not just in the tongue, but the brain becoming more sensitive, affecting other aspects of appreciation.
It's just a crackpot theory, the musings of a summer night, with Andreas Segovia.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Heatwave (Photo)
Moby copes with the high heat and humidity, in part, by laying on my silk shirt. On top of a pile on my mostly unused chair in front of my mostly unused computer, while I stand with the laptop. Which is also why the dearth of photos lately. IPhoto is on the iMac, not the iBook.
Sorry 'bout that.
Scar
The first acupuncture needle went in painlessly. This surprized me slightly. Some did hurt. For some, he had me take a deep breath. I was attentive and cooperative, trying not to be a nurse/bad patient. When I was needled on one side, he covered me with one of those foil thermal blankets., and my own metabolism warmed me. Felt like it was being held up, tent-like on the spiky projections. Some of the most painful punctures eased, disappeared from my senses. Others that I had hardly noticed began to ache. The pain seemed to travel from place to place, to swell and shrink. I became fascinated with the subtle movements, like watching waves in my mind's eye. I tried to tune out the soothing, repetitive music, and remember not to move, as I was covered in spines.
He retuns, and turns on the lights, covering my dark adapted eyes, and deftly removes the needles. I revolve, and the process repeats, the pain not always where expected, just as in massage. I am diagnosing myself, processing the newer metaphors of Chinese medical theory. The flow resumes, heat and ache, electricity and life, sinuses clogging, and I hear the storm hitting, through the walls. Booming thunder far more reassuring than the music playing through again.
The experience continues through my week. Definite improvement in my energy level, the pain in the rest of my body gone. The focus of pain is the same, but has changed, less persistent. I still have to stand, but I can sit to eat lunch tolerably, and walk afterward. My gait is normal, save for a few minutes first thing in the morning. Sitting on the Throne is not a torture, with predictable positive unclenching. After a twelve hour shift, I am tired, but not depleted, as I have been so often.
This is the right therapy, I feel certain. This is not, primarily, a physical trauma I am trying to heal. I am the sum of myself and the roughing up life has given me. I'm not going to get rid of the scars, but I can integrate them, use them, learn from them. I have known too many women who wax on about "learning experiences" but never actually seem to learn anything. This hurts, I will not like the hurt, but I can wring out the lesson, and change.
And change again.
And change again.
And still be the little girl who moved a concrete drainspout with neighborhood kids, and still has the scar down her shin to prove it. Prove that I lost my grip on it.
I sat on the closed toilet seat, tears running down my face, as my brothers put the entire box of band-aids across the laceration, glad that they kept our easily panicked father away from me until mom got home. I was crying, but I was also watching the blood, the process of cleaning and bandaging, staying very still.
He retuns, and turns on the lights, covering my dark adapted eyes, and deftly removes the needles. I revolve, and the process repeats, the pain not always where expected, just as in massage. I am diagnosing myself, processing the newer metaphors of Chinese medical theory. The flow resumes, heat and ache, electricity and life, sinuses clogging, and I hear the storm hitting, through the walls. Booming thunder far more reassuring than the music playing through again.
The experience continues through my week. Definite improvement in my energy level, the pain in the rest of my body gone. The focus of pain is the same, but has changed, less persistent. I still have to stand, but I can sit to eat lunch tolerably, and walk afterward. My gait is normal, save for a few minutes first thing in the morning. Sitting on the Throne is not a torture, with predictable positive unclenching. After a twelve hour shift, I am tired, but not depleted, as I have been so often.
This is the right therapy, I feel certain. This is not, primarily, a physical trauma I am trying to heal. I am the sum of myself and the roughing up life has given me. I'm not going to get rid of the scars, but I can integrate them, use them, learn from them. I have known too many women who wax on about "learning experiences" but never actually seem to learn anything. This hurts, I will not like the hurt, but I can wring out the lesson, and change.
And change again.
And change again.
And still be the little girl who moved a concrete drainspout with neighborhood kids, and still has the scar down her shin to prove it. Prove that I lost my grip on it.
I sat on the closed toilet seat, tears running down my face, as my brothers put the entire box of band-aids across the laceration, glad that they kept our easily panicked father away from me until mom got home. I was crying, but I was also watching the blood, the process of cleaning and bandaging, staying very still.
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