Remedy

Poor D has been suffering greatly with tree pollen. I'd heard that honey could help*, or at least be comforting†. And I know tea is good‡ for airways. Or at least not harmful. At any rate, warm beverages are nice when it's hard to breathe. D has never been a tea drinker, never appealed, and he grew up with the religious prohibition. But he was willing to try hot tea and honey as a medicinal. Indeed, it seemed to help a bit, which is all one can expect of home remedies - a moderate comfort when afflicted, but without side effects. He already takes antihistamines and decongestants.

This morning I brewed up a blend of oolong with this,



with milk and honey.

And for the first time, he tells me he actually liked tea for it's own sake. The aromatics - which he didn't realize he could actually smell through the mucous, somehow got through. Not to mention feeling appreciably better.

For the first time, in over 20 years, he has asked to share a pot of tea with me. Cool.


As for the allergies, I don't react much to the trees, the grasses will get me later a bit, but the fall weeds are my nemesis.



*Almost certainly not.
†A bit, adjusted for taste.
‡Well, can't hurt.

Eggshells

No, it wasn't wise, perhaps. Call it a calculated risk.

I planted the tomatoes. Also the strawberries, but Farmgal told me that was ok, and the nursery woman said the hen&chickens would be fine as well.



I planted all the tomatoes. Didn't realize there were so many plants, an even dozen. So, I put one in the back corner where nothing grew last year, and two in the front, where they will get more light, but less water. Three sacrificial plants. The soil really is in better shape this year, though. Loosened up, lots of last falls's dead leaves, thick snow pack melted into the ground, loads more worms. More sun coming through. I'm going to have to do some research on earthworms.

There is no indication of any kind of cold weather for the next week, and if there is a frost in May, I will use the dryer lint and paper bags, and snuggle 'em down for the night. I really doubt that will happen though.

Scattered the eggshells around, to deter snails. The peas are coming up, so is the lettuce. The rhubarb is alive and well. Everything is, frankly, looking hopeful. So I ran with hope.


The watermain leak was on city property, in front of the neighbor to the north.



All the noise of the backhoe bothered Moby...



not at all.

Uniform

Uniform is for U.


Undulating, ululating unsung U.

Uniting, universal and unifying.



Or sometimes undoing everything, untying, undying, uninspired and unkempt. Utah's University of Ungulates.






U is Up and Under. Usurping and unusual. Uzbekistan.



Utterly upbraided.





Cry uncle.

Zulu, Yankee, X-ray, Whiskey, Victor, Uniform.

Skeleton

Strange little week, one day running as fast and long as I could, the next day too much idleness. At least I had the chance to have a nurse training with me. Old(-er) nurse, new to the OR, which is an entire world to itself.

And in showing her the ropes as I know them, I articulated to her in work terms, the kind of universal insight I've been taking in lately. How difficult it is to learn, or teach, when you can't slow the process down to watch it carefully, but have to take it at speed, and just catch on as best one can. How each person can only bring their own mistakes and experiences and biases to the student, and each one has only their own demons to show the learner.

I keep thinking about how what bothers us most in others is a reflection of what we know, deep down at least, what is most wrong in ourselves. This is why compassion for others is essential to the growth of our own souls, because what we abhor in others is a form of what is most lacking in ourselves. Whenever we complain of others, we aren't complaining about them, but exposing some weakness, some flaw in ourselves. The more we fight this, say it's different, I'm not like that, that's not my problem, the more we can pinpoint what it is we see. Because it isn't a clear mirror, it's just twisted enough that we don't recognize ourselves in it. And that is exactly why we are so frightened. Maybe it's an exaggeration, or reversed, or stretched out, but it is still, always, us. Me.

And only by treating it like a frightened cat, a beaten child, with great tenderness, can we coax it out, and understand the ignorant and feral fear. Everyone searching for enlightenment knows that compassion is important. I think this is why. The demons are not out there, never were. They are inside, and like hallucinations, we see them as external. We have to kindly nurture ourselves, gradually brighten the closet, and let the skeletons out to dance.

lie

she's a good dude to lie on

sit

oh, let us sit upon the dude and talk of not a thing

Forgotten

Like Mr. Rogers, I change clothes when I get to work. Into something much more comfortable, scrubs like cotton pyjamas. Shoes are much the same, but I have shoes that never leave work, with good arch supports and insoles, orange, stained, often with blue covers on. And more times than I like to think, I will sometimes take my everyday shoes off, pull on scrubs, and them put the outside shoes right back on, only to look down because I've noticed that the shoes are still warm, and have to try again.

I've never forgotten to remove my cap and put on the cotton OR hat - tucking my hair inside. That would be like forgetting pants - which I also have never done.

No, but I forget to put on my pouch before I close the locker. Have to open it up again, put it on. Has my scissors and pens, and it's where my ring and watch go if I scrub in. Because I once threw my ring away putting it in the scrub pocket. At the end of the day, worn scrubs are dumped in the laundry bag in the locker room.

Having a lock with a thumb position combination instead of numbers has been wonderful, since my hand remembers, when summoning up numbers was always an iffy proposition. Especially first thing in the morning - before 0700, or after very long days.



I have forgotten to wear my jacket home after work on warm days with cold mornings. I've left my ring & watch in the pouch at work. Or my necklace when I take it off and drop it in there as well, because it's irritating under the thyroid shield when running the fluoro.

After I lock the car, I clip the keys on to my purse* strap, where it stays all day. As I leave, I slip my badge into the outside zip pocket, where it stays when I'm not at work. These sorts of habits are part of why I forget details less now than when I was younger, lose fewer things.

My clothes I lay out the night before, mostly developed that habit so as not to wake D in the morning in small apartments. But mostly because I don't trust my morning brain, and try not to stress it out too much.



*A very small baggallini, very practical.

Glowing

Work has been odd, albeit more peaceful, these last weeks. One woman who left on vacation right before the fired tech(FT) had her come-apart at the manager, came back today, and stories had to be told. The surgeon I scrubbed for had also not heard the story - but had been asked to write a letter of recommendation for FT.

I asked, "I hope it wasn't glowing."
"I wouldn't think so," he answered.

Which is to say, he kept it guarded and a smart manager or HR department would easily have seen it as hardly a recommendation. But we also heard she'd been hired, so maybe they deserve her. Odd thing, surgeon also said he told our manager not to hire FT, and FT bragged loudly that surgeon was her buddy and loved her and they went way back - when she was first hired. And now we are hearing that all the surgeons were complaining about her, but manager dismissed their concerns. As well as ours. Charming.

You'd think, in this economy, a good job would attract a lot of good people. Hard to understand how our pool of applicants is so small. The ball is being dropped somewhere in the process.

Slower this week, and last. The first lull we've had in a very long time. Not unwelcome.

Blanket

Blanket on pillow on chair
by window with sun, add cat.
Warm blissful moment.

Meander

It's a strange process, walking a cat. It's more a meander and wait proposition.

To the corner of his territory. Which is actually the neighbor's yard.


The fence is now letting in light, since I've removed three of the thick boards. It's a snug little neighborhood, with back fences all abutted.


Moby does love being out in the long, spring grass, listening to the birds, eating the grass.


Then, I did a maintenance assault on the ivy, driving it back as close as possible to the lost fence. How did I manage last year, when it was at least knee deep, up on the windows, no walkway even discernible? No wonder it took so many attacks. At least the borax killed all the stuff rooting in our foundations, none of that came back, and the bricks are clear. Whole lotta snail shells in the central clumpiness where there must be a fence. Filled the garbage bin. Nasty, irritating stuff it is too.

Finally figured out where to find a before, since I'd failed to take one before reducing the ivy. In the inspection report. Not quite the same angle, and it's a tiny Before photo, but it shows a bit.



After the first pulling away.



And today.

Lookie-loos

Language Hat* writes about looky-loos. I know the word as a rather mocking way of calling out the nosey parkers, gawkers and rubberneckers. I know I've used it occasionally over the years, I certainly heard it growing up. Usually as a plural, too. As in 'a bunch of lookie-loos.'

Reminds me of this song, though.












*Because I love enthusiastic experts, and language. I rarely comment there, as I usually have nothing to add, but I soak it all in.

Raining

Lost boys. Angry, fearful, lacking compassion - callow youth. Absent, abusive,neglectful, useless parents, one or all off the list, as many as apply. The tower snipers, the mad bombers. No excuses for them, a lack of humanity at the core. Bullied, lacking an inner life, they lash out against the world. Burn the universe away. Destroy to purge oneself of unease. They are not innocent, and need to be held accountable, but so do those who should have raised them.

Some are born with a deep resilience, paying back kindness for kicks. Some will turn out mean despite reasonable handling. But put the both together, and the conscienceless and evil emerge. A monstrous wave, a positive feedback loop, beyond normal comprehension.

I remember feeling like that, as a young 'adult' on my own, feeling helpless and furious, fantasizing picking off people from a tower. Distanced, a mighty force of destruction. And I was one of the tender kids, crying at other's hurts. I couldn't help thinking about how the people on the ground felt, and the people who loved them grieving. Still imagined myself mowing them down on bad days. D admitted he could understand the urge to walk into his middle school and riddle everyone with bullets. That rage exists in many of us, the toddler frustrated and denied. Most of us are taught, or have enough in us to learn empathy. Some are not, and it takes little more to lead them into violence.

That the parents of the brothers who apparently killed and maimed in Boston are denying and blaming is more frightening. That the uncle seems to get it, and hangs his head in family shame seems to reinforce the idea - he could see it happening, though perhaps not the scale of reaction. These brothers were taught to blame. The kind of family bubble I understand too well. The more abusive, the thicker the isolation, the further from our collective understanding of reality and compassion. Perhaps the older brother was schizophrenic, or merely a bully, and the younger went along in a blind hero-worship. The truth will never be known, only inferred.

Too often, marginal parents wrap the cloak of parenthood around themselves, rejecting any intrusion. But the raising of children is precisely what society needs to check on. Well raised children have a better chance of being good neighbors, spouses, parents, friends, leaders. Every child should have a mass of parents, all checking on each other, integrated, educating. Every child should have the right to a rich, safe childhood. Education, opportunities, nutrition, shelter, clothing, health care, kindness. One or two parents cannot do this alone, for them to defiantly assume they can and no one should look in on them, is beyond stupid. Children need friends, aunts and uncles, grandparents and teachers - as many as possible. The more the healthier.

The rain pours. Let it rain.

Victor

Victor is for V. As in Victory, and victorious,

and Victoria the Queen.


V is valuable and valiant although perhaps a bit vain. Sometimes just vein.



Vigilant and verbose and full of variety, it will vanquish the villains in a vice of vermillion.




Among others, V can save and give, believe and retrieve, sieve and deliver.

Victor, nearly invincible.

Zulu, Yankee, X-ray, Whiskey, Victor.

Thumbs

Cold week, not objectively that cold, but the cold that cuts through, gets in and under. Weird week, more dark disturbing dreams, of a rape and murder, waking with no idea where I was. Oriented myself with difficulty, fell back into dreams of dementia, writing myself notes about what I forgot, then losing the notes. Head and neck pain throughout.

I rarely ask our dear scrub tech with the great hands and pain magnets at the end of his fingers, but today, I asked. He thumbed my neck for a long time, and I did feel much, much better. I try not to abuse his skill and kindness unless I really need to, but today was the exception. He's a good guy, and a musician - hence the strong and effective fingers. One of those people with a good touch.


Dithering, tired, achy, not in anydamnmood. Disturbed and distressed.

D will rub my sore neck with tiger balm, and all will look better in the morning.

Whiskey

Whiskey is for W. Or Whisky, just a variation. Either way, shorter than saying doubleyou. And THAT is because the Roman alphabet didn't have a W, or more importantly -single V, just an angular U, and English has had to make do ever since.



Whiskey is a distilled alcoholic drink - snobs, abstainers and drunks going on about it ad nauseum. Nothing to do with whiskers, though.


Possibly something about waters of life - but that's just whistling in the wind whipped waves.


W wonders where, why, when, who, which, what, and wishes for hows. Howls and scowls.

Whatever.


Zulu, Yankee, X-ray, Whiskey.

There

I keep imagining what the OR was like yesterday, there. It would have been a holiday, no regularly scheduled cases, enough staff for traumas. I imagine every OR nurse/tech/surgeon already in the city rushed there, others just got on the train and headed in. I know what it looked like, the calm speed, the grim organization.

What I felt yesterday was that urge to rush there, to do my job. Impractical as that obviously is.

Thought about the staff at Marathon Sports, who fitted me with great shoes my first week there. I was suffering with plantar fasciitis, and they not only got me shoes, but gave me a discount for being a nurse, and offered good advice on how to deal with it. (Pop bottle, half filled with water, frozen, massage foot with it.) They are all fine, though.


As for my work, very slow week, so I was called off today. Well, April needs a holiday. Bombs exploded sometime after I got home yesterday. Glad to be home. I'm not an OR trauma nurse anymore.

Vivid dream. Found an egg carton with several eggs in a branch. Pulled the branch down, only to see there were birds guarding the eggs - a nest I realized. I let it back up gently. But a woman from work came along and gathered the eggs, ignoring me when I warned her those were not chicken eggs, and it was a nest. I'd retreated into in a very large version of my parent's garage. Floating black carp menacing me through the open door - angry about the eggs, even though I hadn't been the one to take them. I knew it would attack me, but I didn't want to hurt such an amazing creature. It swam in - through the air. So I grabbed my garden fork, and simply kept it at bay, with the fork facing the fish, not attacking. It darted and swooped at me, at one point impaling itself on the tines. Swam off, but I had the feeling, even injured, that it would be back.


I used to play in the garage, when it was raining or very hot. I could ride my trike around the concrete floor, watching dust motes in dim sunbeams. A quiet place. Sometimes my brothers would shut the door and hold it, and I would scream and bang to be let out. Eventually, I figured out that didn't work, and after an initial onslaught, I'd simply sit and daydream. They'd get bored, and I'd come out when I felt like it. Maybe I'd heard my mother tell them never to lock me in, so I learned that if they weren't just outside, it would be unlocked anyway.

Jagged

Trying not to get too much wrapped up, but I know those places in Boston. The people at Marathon Sports fitted us for shoes. I worked at that hospital for three years where everyone has been taken for treatment. Nothing I can do. Tugged at. Yanked.

Old friend from grade school gets in touch occasionally. She sent this photo she found of us, and other girls, from a field trip to the Detroit zoo.


Struggled to remember names, but I knew all. All, except the one on the end who became a very close friend in high school. Somehow, I remember her as older, and forgot this younger version. When I looked closer, knowing who it was, she became obvious. Strange, the mind remembers oddly, forgets oddly.



I don't recall the exact day, no idea who took this photo. I remember myself as so friendless. Maybe not as much as I felt isolated. Hidden and lost, perhaps more to myself.

I'd love to contact everyone in this photo, at least know they are ok.

Goggie

Moby has not only been brave and noble with Spike the Dog from next door, but also with a walker with a large puppy, and the neighbor from the other side who is dogsitting Gizmo, for a friend. Moby deigns to greet them as well. D got to experience a Greeting with Spike and Moby yesterday. Something to see, cat just walks up, nose-kiss to dog, then goes about cat-business. D and Neighbor still amazed.

We would not have predicted this.

Although we often figured that Moby might be OK with a large, placid dog. In no small part because Dog would be furry, warm and lumpy, therefore a good place to nap. Hoping someday to be in a position to rescue a good dog. Not this year, due to tax issue. But, well, more likely, now that we've seen Moby seem to rather like dogs, at some distance. Spike tried a bit too hard a second time, and Moby got his "Ugh, dog breath, dude" look on his body.

The idea of a dog is on the table. Which certainly means we are doomed.

Chives

The soil is recovering. Loads more worms, of all girths and lengths, front and back. More centipedes. I've started to flip rocks, since I have a reason to, now. I gently return them, of course. I'd laid wood from the fence as walkways last month. Noticed long slender leaves sneaking up around, and beneath -- the chives that couldn't be arsed last year. Flourishing. We shall have chives.

The spot with more sun is full of ashes, though. Very bad in this part of the world, with soil already salty and alkaline. No luck finding any information on pioneer plants to help it recover, not online. Just recommendations not to add ashes to the soil, save in rare cases of very acidic soil. Well, I'm not adding any, I'm trying to get rid of what I was dumped with. So, I asked my county extension gardeners, sent an email. I might get a reply. I suspect the veronica is doing so well because I did dig up some of the ash last year, disposed of some of it. Might be all I can do. Dilute and let the native "weeds" take over next year. Replace the dirt with bought stuff, mulch with leaves in the fall. I'm convinced all the stolen leaves that sat on top during the winter were very good for it all.

I think the garden knows it's loved as well. The real love, that finds out what is needed, and that is what is done.

Greenery

The strange grey around me. Dug up some rocks.

The hedge is tamed, but will always need trimming.


The clover is green and fills the space with texture.



The lemon balm is welcome to spread.



Here shall be strawberries, once I get the rest of the ashes out.



Parsley happy in it's work.



Veronica happy in it's greenery.


Filling in gaps.


Chard has some sort of problem, not sure what. But it lives.