Okay.
What gives? I'm still sick.
I got a little better by last Monday, had a pretty good Tuesday, started feeling bad again Wednesday, floated through Thursday, woke up Friday, thought "Oh, no, I'm still sick! I can't call in again." Went to work. Got sent home by Wiz at 1500.
"You're going home at 1500." He tells me.
"I don't need to. My voice sounds a lot worse than I feel. It's just laryngitis."
"The float is coming at 1500. I'll be in MRI. Give report and go."
It is good to have someone who knows you well. I really needed to go home. I felt like hell. But I would never have requested to go home. The only way to get me out of there was to arrange for my replacement and pack me up and out.
I went home. Lilly wanted to go to a movie. I thought, "what's the harm? I'm on call, officially, not sick." So we went to see Happy Go Lucky. Lilly liked it a lot, but I didn't. For some reason, I walked out sad. I thought the driving instructor was way too disturbing. It's funny, because I've had almost the same exchange with someone in my life. Angry, screaming, offended by my good humor. I've had the same strange conversations with street people.
I had so much fun being YOUNG ME, I am always surprised at how much I do not want Lilly to be anything at all like YOUNG ME. "You know," I tell Lilly, "after she saw him stalking her apartment, she should never have gone in the car with him after that."
"I know, Mom."
"And you know, you must never get some place lonely with a homeless person, like she does. Never."
"I know, Mom."
All those walks at 3am on Mary Street in Coconut Grove or on the South Side of Chicago, or under bridges, or through steam tunnels, deserted churches, the lovely mystic wild lonely parts of cities. Singing sea shanties at the top of my lungs.
But maybe, by being this careful, I've starved Lilly, somehow. Maybe she needs to get wild to get a little fatter?
What was great about the movie is that it really reinforced for both of us what we already knew, that we create our own reality. Here's Lilly, starving herself in the midst of plenty--what sort of artificial reality is that? The world is really what you make it. It can be a trap, filled with rules and games, or a playground. I mean, for the average, middle class person living in a country not being plagued by war or famine. I.e. For us.
Here's my secret strange worry. Have you ever read any of the books by Carlos Castaneda? There's this teaching by Don Juan that humans are these egg-shaped energy fields, but that the people who have had children have a hole in the middle. Carlos goes back, reconnects with his daughter, and steals his energy back.
But I always wonder--how could you do that to your kid? And sometimes I wonder if I've accidentally done that to mine. I mean, I look so young and I have so much energy (well, not today) and the music and the writing--maybe I'm not supposed to have this much? Maybe Lilly is starving herself because I've somehow, psychically taken something essential from her?
That's my 1/2 hour
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
An Exemplary Day
I'm sick. My sinuses are completely full and I have a fever. I was at work til 2130 last night. My head feels like a nasty magic trick, like it's bigger on the inside than outside. I look in the mirror, and the swelling has actually filled in a crease or two, my eyes are all puffy. How can those two little ethmoid sinuses filling up make you feel like nothing will ever be okay again?
On top of that, it's cold. Freezing. And I hate the cold. I had to wear long underwear beneath my scrubs.
My parents are going nuts. They are showing up at the house at early in the morning and late at night, and leaving up to ten messages a day on both phones. Nothing messages, but full of bile. "Did you know that Lilly is going to a party at Diddle's? Did you know that?" My mother says, in one. They both leave long messages that take up the entire message space. If a guy was doing that to you, you'd get a restraining order. The subtext is "your kids suck and so do you." I can't describe to you how unpleasant and really mean spirited my mother is. I try to tell people about it, and they're kind of dismissive. Then they meet her and they understand. She's told Lilly that she's evil and has no heart and will never marry because boys will sense that. She told me the same thing. She once accused me (at 13) of having "something going on" with my father. She takes every experience and emotion you relate to her and coats it with grime. Talking to her is like "eating a dirt sandwich. You want to rinse your mouth and heart out afterwards.
"We never talk," she complains.
That's right!
So, I have a terrible day yesterday. Lilly lies about breakfast and I catch her. So I have to go to her school and make sure she eats her snack, which is humiliating for both of us. I was called off in the morning, but get called in by the rude staffing clerk who has a way of treating nurses as if we're call girls. At work yesterday. I have a patient covered with gorgeous tattoos of skulls and demons and pentacles with a lot of skull fractures and asked the RT, who's just this doofus, to help me bring him up in bed, and he slams his head into the headboard. In front of the family.
The fiance, who's already unfriendly because a pastor walked in unannounced and "why didn't I know about it?" goes screaming to the hospitality people, my manager, the house mom, and my supervisor.
Fortunately, as my manager tells me, when I go in to tell her about the incident, "she thinks your name is Julie."
And it wasn't my fault. It was that horrible RT's fault.
Then I get a trauma, who's just a mess. And takes up all my time and energy for the rest of the afternoon.
"Exemplary day." Wiz says to me at the end of the shift. "You had an exemplary day."
"It didn't feel that way."
"That's just your ego talking. Fucking you. Brain and body. The big fight" He says, nodding cryptically.
On my way out the car, my phone rings. The hospital is under construction, so we have to park far away, about a 20 minute walk. There's a shuttle, but it doesn't run at night and it's always slow. I have to trudge out late, in the dark, past the dead unblinking black eyes of the new half-constructed structures, the chain link fences, the piles of building materials, pipes, bricks, gravel. The phone rings, and pick it up, and it's my mother. Yellling at me about Lillly. "Why didn't you tell us she was going to a party?"
"Because she doesn't need your help getting there or getting home with it."
"Did you know she's going to a movie too? Did you know that?"
I'm climbing up a gravel incline to get to the level of the lot where my car is. Since I'm angry at my mother and not watching where I'm going, I slip and fall, scraping my knees right through my layers and twisting my finger.
"God damn it," I yell into the phone, losing my cool. "Quit calling me. Quit leaving messages over every god damn thing. Quit showing up at 6 am. Just stop it. I'm not talking to you. I don't have to listen to this." I hung up. Reached the saab, all by itself except for an SUV with steamed windows and its motor running about 4 spaces down.
I throw my phone and my coffee cup and purse into the back seat of the car. There's a ticket on the car.
A ticket! In this freezing lot they charge me to park in--a half mile away from the hospital in a construction lot. And the fucking powers that be had the gall to give me a ticket. Some stupid workstudy officious little college student wandering around with his pad. What's happened to all the young people, man? Why have they all turned into such nazis? What have we done wrong?
I kick the car. Then I apologize to it. Not Elka's fault.
A window rolls down on the SUV. Santeria by Sublime, blares out. A young blonde woman sticks her head out.
"Dude." She says, "you look like you are having a bad night. Want to smoke a bowl with us?" Her friend, dark haired, leans over. Both are smiling, pretty long haired girls. Girls like I was. I would have done that, at that age.
I walk over to the car.
"Come one," they urge. "Climb in. It's good shit."
My bad mood disappates. I shake my head. Smile. "No, thanks, though. There's no way I can sit in the parking lot where I work getting baked. With the kind of day I've had, I'll just bring the murphy karma right in on you."
"Yeah, dude," the blonde girl says, nodding her head. "I get you. Well, have a good night! Feel better."
And I don't. But I do, too.
That's my 1/2 hour.
On top of that, it's cold. Freezing. And I hate the cold. I had to wear long underwear beneath my scrubs.
My parents are going nuts. They are showing up at the house at early in the morning and late at night, and leaving up to ten messages a day on both phones. Nothing messages, but full of bile. "Did you know that Lilly is going to a party at Diddle's? Did you know that?" My mother says, in one. They both leave long messages that take up the entire message space. If a guy was doing that to you, you'd get a restraining order. The subtext is "your kids suck and so do you." I can't describe to you how unpleasant and really mean spirited my mother is. I try to tell people about it, and they're kind of dismissive. Then they meet her and they understand. She's told Lilly that she's evil and has no heart and will never marry because boys will sense that. She told me the same thing. She once accused me (at 13) of having "something going on" with my father. She takes every experience and emotion you relate to her and coats it with grime. Talking to her is like "eating a dirt sandwich. You want to rinse your mouth and heart out afterwards.
"We never talk," she complains.
That's right!
So, I have a terrible day yesterday. Lilly lies about breakfast and I catch her. So I have to go to her school and make sure she eats her snack, which is humiliating for both of us. I was called off in the morning, but get called in by the rude staffing clerk who has a way of treating nurses as if we're call girls. At work yesterday. I have a patient covered with gorgeous tattoos of skulls and demons and pentacles with a lot of skull fractures and asked the RT, who's just this doofus, to help me bring him up in bed, and he slams his head into the headboard. In front of the family.
The fiance, who's already unfriendly because a pastor walked in unannounced and "why didn't I know about it?" goes screaming to the hospitality people, my manager, the house mom, and my supervisor.
Fortunately, as my manager tells me, when I go in to tell her about the incident, "she thinks your name is Julie."
And it wasn't my fault. It was that horrible RT's fault.
Then I get a trauma, who's just a mess. And takes up all my time and energy for the rest of the afternoon.
"Exemplary day." Wiz says to me at the end of the shift. "You had an exemplary day."
"It didn't feel that way."
"That's just your ego talking. Fucking you. Brain and body. The big fight" He says, nodding cryptically.
On my way out the car, my phone rings. The hospital is under construction, so we have to park far away, about a 20 minute walk. There's a shuttle, but it doesn't run at night and it's always slow. I have to trudge out late, in the dark, past the dead unblinking black eyes of the new half-constructed structures, the chain link fences, the piles of building materials, pipes, bricks, gravel. The phone rings, and pick it up, and it's my mother. Yellling at me about Lillly. "Why didn't you tell us she was going to a party?"
"Because she doesn't need your help getting there or getting home with it."
"Did you know she's going to a movie too? Did you know that?"
I'm climbing up a gravel incline to get to the level of the lot where my car is. Since I'm angry at my mother and not watching where I'm going, I slip and fall, scraping my knees right through my layers and twisting my finger.
"God damn it," I yell into the phone, losing my cool. "Quit calling me. Quit leaving messages over every god damn thing. Quit showing up at 6 am. Just stop it. I'm not talking to you. I don't have to listen to this." I hung up. Reached the saab, all by itself except for an SUV with steamed windows and its motor running about 4 spaces down.
I throw my phone and my coffee cup and purse into the back seat of the car. There's a ticket on the car.
A ticket! In this freezing lot they charge me to park in--a half mile away from the hospital in a construction lot. And the fucking powers that be had the gall to give me a ticket. Some stupid workstudy officious little college student wandering around with his pad. What's happened to all the young people, man? Why have they all turned into such nazis? What have we done wrong?
I kick the car. Then I apologize to it. Not Elka's fault.
A window rolls down on the SUV. Santeria by Sublime, blares out. A young blonde woman sticks her head out.
"Dude." She says, "you look like you are having a bad night. Want to smoke a bowl with us?" Her friend, dark haired, leans over. Both are smiling, pretty long haired girls. Girls like I was. I would have done that, at that age.
I walk over to the car.
"Come one," they urge. "Climb in. It's good shit."
My bad mood disappates. I shake my head. Smile. "No, thanks, though. There's no way I can sit in the parking lot where I work getting baked. With the kind of day I've had, I'll just bring the murphy karma right in on you."
"Yeah, dude," the blonde girl says, nodding her head. "I get you. Well, have a good night! Feel better."
And I don't. But I do, too.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Anorexia Nervosa
In big block letters, on Lilly's lab requisitions, the ones we had to take from the Dr's office to the lab. Dx: ANOREXIA NERVOSA
I mentioned before that Lilly's been losing a lot of weight. We went to the eating disorder specialist yesterday.
There are no magazines in the waiting room. Only that wretched upstart, Paloma Life, which is meant to be a social magazine (about Paloma!) and mostly features the stretched, chicken-skinned faces of doctors wives standing next to each other in pic after pic. There are also stacks and stacks of Neurology Today, incongruously. I have no idea why they have them. I'm a little frustrated by this, until I think, Oh, yeah, it's an eating disorder specialist. Not good to have pics of skinny models and celebs lying around.
They give me a "why you're here" sheet to fill out, which I hand immediately to Lilly. She checks off "Eating disorder/weight loss" without hesitation and hands it back to me. We don't talk. She stares right ahead. Her eyes are so huge. They look like agates.
They take us back. Get a blind weight on Lilly. 111.7 pounds. "And how are you related?" The nurse asks me, "friend? Sister?"
"Mom!" Lilly says.
"You look so young!" The nurse says, then leaves.
"We're so sick," Lilly says, after the door closes. "If we were really psycho, we'd be like, 'yay! Lilly, you've made it! You're finally skinny enough to have to go to the hospital! You go girl! And my mom looks like a teenager! Screw this psychological health shit. We win! We win!"
We start giggling, which confuses the medical student sent to do Lilly's intake.
The student is good. Slight. Indian. Mature and respectful. We like her. The doctor knocks on the door in the middle of the interview. "I'm interrupting. I'm taking over," she says, and sits down.
"She was doing really well," I offer.
"Yes, but this is very serious. I was just reviewing her chart."
Well, duh. That's why we're here.
"So, Lilly," she begins. "Why do you think you're here?"
"Well," Lilly says, and I can tell she's going into her beautiful mature interview mode. "I think I need to establish a better balance between eating and activity."
Lilly should become a campaign manager. She has spin down.
"Do you want me to leave?" I ask.
"Do you want your mom to leave?" The doctor asks.
"No. I won't tell you anything I don't tell my mom."
The interview unfolds. Lilly, for the most part, has a handle on the problem, but it's interesting to see the blind spots. For example, Lilly tells the doctor that she eats all her food. Which she never does. Ever. I interrupt to point this out.
"Yes I do."
"What about last night?"
"I ate all my pasta last night."
"No you didn't, remember? We were going to band practice and you got up to look for a CD, and then we were late, and you only ate a mouthful and threw the rest away."
"I ate it when you weren't looking."
"I don't think so..."
The doctor interrupts. "You need to trust yourself on this one, Mom."
"Ok," Lilly shrugs. "maybe I forgot."
Lilly's heart rate is 55. "she's a runner..." I offer. "I'm a runner, too."The doctor has Lilly lie down. "I'm going to leave the room. Let you rest. If your heart rate after resting a bit is below 50, I'm going to have to admit you."
So Lilly lies down. I sit next to her holding her hand. We talk quietly. Mostly jokes. I look at Lilly, and suddenly see her. I see how terrible she really looks. Skeletal.
"So this is a big deal?" Lilly says..
"Yeah."
The doctor comes back. Heart rate is 50.
"Ok, I'm not hospitalizing you. But if you haven't gained weight by next week, I am. "
We meet with a dietitian then, get labs drawn. Lilly takes the sheet, plans out all her meals for the next 4 days on a grid. Then makes a shopping list.
That's my 1/2 hour.
I mentioned before that Lilly's been losing a lot of weight. We went to the eating disorder specialist yesterday.
There are no magazines in the waiting room. Only that wretched upstart, Paloma Life, which is meant to be a social magazine (about Paloma!) and mostly features the stretched, chicken-skinned faces of doctors wives standing next to each other in pic after pic. There are also stacks and stacks of Neurology Today, incongruously. I have no idea why they have them. I'm a little frustrated by this, until I think, Oh, yeah, it's an eating disorder specialist. Not good to have pics of skinny models and celebs lying around.
They give me a "why you're here" sheet to fill out, which I hand immediately to Lilly. She checks off "Eating disorder/weight loss" without hesitation and hands it back to me. We don't talk. She stares right ahead. Her eyes are so huge. They look like agates.
They take us back. Get a blind weight on Lilly. 111.7 pounds. "And how are you related?" The nurse asks me, "friend? Sister?"
"Mom!" Lilly says.
"You look so young!" The nurse says, then leaves.
"We're so sick," Lilly says, after the door closes. "If we were really psycho, we'd be like, 'yay! Lilly, you've made it! You're finally skinny enough to have to go to the hospital! You go girl! And my mom looks like a teenager! Screw this psychological health shit. We win! We win!"
We start giggling, which confuses the medical student sent to do Lilly's intake.
The student is good. Slight. Indian. Mature and respectful. We like her. The doctor knocks on the door in the middle of the interview. "I'm interrupting. I'm taking over," she says, and sits down.
"She was doing really well," I offer.
"Yes, but this is very serious. I was just reviewing her chart."
Well, duh. That's why we're here.
"So, Lilly," she begins. "Why do you think you're here?"
"Well," Lilly says, and I can tell she's going into her beautiful mature interview mode. "I think I need to establish a better balance between eating and activity."
Lilly should become a campaign manager. She has spin down.
"Do you want me to leave?" I ask.
"Do you want your mom to leave?" The doctor asks.
"No. I won't tell you anything I don't tell my mom."
The interview unfolds. Lilly, for the most part, has a handle on the problem, but it's interesting to see the blind spots. For example, Lilly tells the doctor that she eats all her food. Which she never does. Ever. I interrupt to point this out.
"Yes I do."
"What about last night?"
"I ate all my pasta last night."
"No you didn't, remember? We were going to band practice and you got up to look for a CD, and then we were late, and you only ate a mouthful and threw the rest away."
"I ate it when you weren't looking."
"I don't think so..."
The doctor interrupts. "You need to trust yourself on this one, Mom."
"Ok," Lilly shrugs. "maybe I forgot."
Lilly's heart rate is 55. "she's a runner..." I offer. "I'm a runner, too."The doctor has Lilly lie down. "I'm going to leave the room. Let you rest. If your heart rate after resting a bit is below 50, I'm going to have to admit you."
So Lilly lies down. I sit next to her holding her hand. We talk quietly. Mostly jokes. I look at Lilly, and suddenly see her. I see how terrible she really looks. Skeletal.
"So this is a big deal?" Lilly says..
"Yeah."
The doctor comes back. Heart rate is 50.
"Ok, I'm not hospitalizing you. But if you haven't gained weight by next week, I am. "
We meet with a dietitian then, get labs drawn. Lilly takes the sheet, plans out all her meals for the next 4 days on a grid. Then makes a shopping list.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
How to get a Minor a Passport
Shu Jo Mu Hen Sei Gan Do
Bon No Mu Jin Sei Gan Dan
Ho Mon Mu Ryo Sei Gan Gakku
Butsu Do Mu Jo Sei Gan Jo
Infinite are all beings, I vow to save them.
Infinite are all attachments, I vow to be free of them.
Infinite are all Dharmas, I vow to master them.
Infinite is the Buddha Way, I vow to attain it.
We went to get Lilly's passport today. It was Wacky Day at school. Lilly wore mismatching socks, athletic shorts over neon pink fishnet tights, my big grey cable motheaten cashmere sweater, and a plastic replica of the Time Turner from Harry Potter. She told me this was a hit with the sixth grade boys, who all wanted to play with it. Last night, while I was working on my paper, we'd somehow found the time to dye Lilly's hair red. So she had red hair again, too.
I didn't really think about all this until we were standing in line at the post office, waiting to have her pic taken.
The big bald guy with the big ears was at the counter. He's kind of loud and bossy. "Do you have an i.d.?"
"We have a birth certificate."
"You need an i.d."
"She's 16. She doesn't have an i.d."
"She has a school i.d., doesn't she?"
"She goes to a private school. They don't have school i.d.'s" What's with all this i.d. crap, anyways, for minors? I mean, isn't this in the constitution?
I produce the notarized letter from her father, allowing her to go out of the country. "We don't need that," he tells me.
Last time I was here, he had told me I did. But I didn't argue. Don't argue with officials. Yes sir, no sir. Get through the line.
"I have an i.d." Lilly pipes up. "It's in the bottom of my locker."
"You do?" I ask, incredulous. I want to kick her. Another lesson is that whatever your mother says, never contradict her. Didn't she watch The Godfather? That sort of thing is what got James Caan shot.
"It's ok. You don't really need one," he informs us. "It's just a good idea to have one. Ok. Let's go over and take your picture."
We head over to the other side of the counter, where the camera is. On the way over, I see someone I know. Phillip Lundqvist. Phillip was the weirdest, wildest, sexiest, most interesting guy in our high school. He became a curator for the Guggenheim. He had beautiful lush curly brown hair and he drove a jeep. He was my best friend, Heather's boyfriend. We never really did anything to betray Heather, but every day after school, my mother would drop me off downtown and go back to work, and I would just wander for 3 or 4 hours until she got off work. And somehow, Phillip and I started running into each other. And then, somehow, we started meeting on the corner of 9th and Cherry every day and going for ice cream. Then we would take off in his jeep with our ice cream at 90 miles an hour out into the country and drive like maniacs on the dirt roads through the fields in the county until it was time for me to be picked up. We hardly ever talked. Lots of crazy laughing, though. And he never kissed me or anything. Or even touched me. But we never told anyone we did this.
So there he was. Lots of thick curly grey hair and wrinkles. But the same eyes. Wearing overalls and a slicker. He looked like he'd been through hell.
He told me his mother had died, and that he'd quit work to take care of her when he was dying and now he was busy wrapping up the estate, selling the farm, etc. He told me none of his seven brothers and sisters had pitched in.
Then the bald guy came over. "Are you done filling out the form?"
"No," I said. "I'm talking. I'm sorry."
"Well, I have to go on break."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
He goes.
A short black woman with a prominent scar on her face that looks exactly like a dog bite, teeth marks and all. I hand her our documents.
"Where's her i.d."
"He said we didn't need one."
"You need one."
"But he said we didn't."
The bald guy comes back over. "I told her she doesn't need one. It's just for their convenience. She's a minor."
"Ok." the woman says.
He leaves.
"Ok then," I say, handing her the documents.
"You need to get an id."
"But he just said...."
"I didn't."
"But he just said that I didn't need one, I'm just going by what he said. Why didn't you say something?"
She gets really nasty. "Because I don't INTERRUPT YOU WANT ME TO INTERRUPT? THAT OK WITH YOU? NOW YOU GO GET AN I.D. I'M THE PASSPORT CLERK AND IF I SAY YOU NEED AN ID THAN YOU GO GET ONE."
I don't know what to say. I take a deep breath. Lilly sucks in her breath and we both stare at the woman, who stares back.
"Ok." I say. "Will a school i.d. be okay?"
"State. Drivers permit or state i.d."
We leave, meekly.
"Oh, my God," Lilly says. "I can't believe that just happened."
I'm shaking. "Did I do ok? Did I act mad?"
"No. " Lilly says, "you did great."
We head out to the drivers testing building, way North of town. It's in one of those buildings they put up in the 70's without windows. It's across the street from a Krispy Kreme, a Korean grocery store, and a trailer park. When we were on food stamps, we used to go to this building. Lilly goes in, starts taking the test. The older woman at the desk leans into me.
"Does she have trouble with her 's's?" She asks.
"I'm sorry?"
She repeats herself. "Does she have trouble with her s's? I always had so much trouble making the s sound."
I look at the woman more closely and realize she has a cleft. Repaired. But I can see the faint tracing of a scar. We start talking to each other like long lost relatives. She's so nice and kind. I tell her all about Lilly. It turns out she's from Miami, too, and went to high school at the school where my grandfather was a guidance counselor in the late forties. She tells me about her pretty mother, how they moved around as her mother went from man to man. It's a sad childhood, but things worked out. She's been married 51 years and has a daughter, lived all over the world
Lilly fails the test. Twice. We head off to the DOR to get a state i.d. But I feel like I've made a friend.
We go back to the post office.
I steel myself to deal with the mean dog bite woman.
She arrives at the counter cheerful as a lark.
"You got it?"
I hand it to her.
"that'll do. You go to a private school?" She asks Lilly.
"Paloma Independent." Lilly says.
"I sent mine to Catholic school."
"We thought about that for Lilly," I say. "but they stop at 8th grade here."
"Yes," Dog Bite nods, "then you have to ship them to Daviston for the high school there."
We talk about the public schools. She tells me about her daughter, how she wants to be a nurse (how did she find out I'm a nurse, I wonder?). She gets everything done, stamped, signed. Gives me a receipt.
"I'm so sorry about that earlier," she whispers, grabbing the counter.
And I got to say. "Sorry about what? No worries!"
"That worked out well, " Lilly muses, as we walk back to the car.
That's my 1/2 hour, and then some
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Anniversary
Today's my wedding anniversary.
Small death? Derailment? Salvation? I have not decided. I have no idea whether my marriage was a mistake or not.
One of the benefits (or detriments?) of my practice is I don't really see things as mistakes.
I ran away in the middle of the night with my husband. I had only known him six weeks and had only dated him for three. We were having a fight. We had slept together once and then he had dropped me. I had run into him at a party. I poured a beer on his head and I guess he thought, "this is the girl for me!"
He had just finished doing his laundry. He took the laundry basket filled with clean clothes and put it into the back seat of my Chevy Impala filled with 1/2 empty packs of packs of unfiltered camels (I was trying to quit--don't ask about my strategy--even I'm not sure what it was). We headed south. I think the reason I did something so crazy is because I was nicotine deprived and losing my mind.
So now I have Nick and Lilly and a crazy ex-husband.
I've been at the library all day, doing a "health promotion paper" on the dangers of cell phone use. There aren't too many, but they aren't completely harmless. So, as with anything magical, use it carefully. That's really a good rule. Things that are too magical always exact a price--love, birth control, cars, x-rays. Think about the stories. If some new technology virtually confers upon you magical powers, it's bad for you somehow.
I called my crazy ex husband yesterday. I'm taking Lilly to an eating disorder specialist Thursday. She just hit 112 lbs. Her hip bones stick out like conch shells and her periods have stopped "I think I'm getting a little weird about food." She says in this off-hand way. I found myself spilling all this to this nurse I work with, not someone I particularly respect or am close to. He's kind of sloppy--not really as a nurse, but personally. Doesn't shave, scrubs always rumpled and sort of dirty looking. Looks like he's always rolled out of bed. Doesn't look like he showers very much. Now I know why. It's strange the way you always know the right people to talk to about things. It was at the end of my shift and he was taking over. "I'm going home to watch my daughter not eat dinner," I said as a joke. Then the whole thing just came lurching out.
"We're going through the same thing with Wanda." He tells me. "She's institutionalized right now. We can't handle it at home. " He and I swap crazy eating stories about our daughters. We start laughing. The stories are so similar.
"This will rip your home apart," he warns. "An anorexic ends up controlling every single person in the house. We have five kids, but we only have one, if you know what I mean."
5 kids. One severley disturbed. No wonder he looks like he just rolled out of bed.
Just like an alcoholic, I suppose. The craziest person wins.
"Get on it early. We kept ignoring it, trying to make it go away." He gave me the number for his doctor. Then he called me the next day to make sure I called. I wanted to cry.
At dinner last night I watched Lilly do anything except eat. Twirl the pasta, move it around her plate, get up, search for CD's. I realized, when does she actually eat? Ever?
I've done this to her. I never remember to eat. I'll go for two days sometimes, when I'm by myself. Always have done this. I don't have an appetite. Only for sweet things. Then I'll be sort of cranky and tired and wondering why everyone is so stupid and insensitive--then I'll think, oh, yeah, I haven't eaten in two days. I mean, I am totally disconnected from my gut in this respect.
So I called her dad, because I thought he'd like to know. Being her dad and all. He's so deranged. "Well, I've been telling her--she's been after 3% body fat--but I've been telling her that's unreasonable. Girls aren't supposed to have 3% body fat. I've been telling her she needs to eat."
"She exercises constantly." I tell him.
"She did that all summer. Hours on the treadmill every day."
I want to ask him why he didn't stop her when she started exercising all the time over the summer. Why he left her alone in the house all the time. He's so charismatic, such a powerful personality. Talking to him, I am once again swept up into his story, even though I know it's not accurate. I find myself in the same conversational pattern, wanting to please him, agree with him. I came to be so afraid of him. It kicks in, briefly. I know how to please maniacs.
I hang up.
Return to myself. Whatever that is. Return to quiet. My own lack of noise. Take a deep breath.
I realize that the reason I am still alone is because I am afraid of that happening again, of becoming so subsumed by someone else's personality that I lose myself.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Small death? Derailment? Salvation? I have not decided. I have no idea whether my marriage was a mistake or not.
One of the benefits (or detriments?) of my practice is I don't really see things as mistakes.
I ran away in the middle of the night with my husband. I had only known him six weeks and had only dated him for three. We were having a fight. We had slept together once and then he had dropped me. I had run into him at a party. I poured a beer on his head and I guess he thought, "this is the girl for me!"
He had just finished doing his laundry. He took the laundry basket filled with clean clothes and put it into the back seat of my Chevy Impala filled with 1/2 empty packs of packs of unfiltered camels (I was trying to quit--don't ask about my strategy--even I'm not sure what it was). We headed south. I think the reason I did something so crazy is because I was nicotine deprived and losing my mind.
So now I have Nick and Lilly and a crazy ex-husband.
I've been at the library all day, doing a "health promotion paper" on the dangers of cell phone use. There aren't too many, but they aren't completely harmless. So, as with anything magical, use it carefully. That's really a good rule. Things that are too magical always exact a price--love, birth control, cars, x-rays. Think about the stories. If some new technology virtually confers upon you magical powers, it's bad for you somehow.
I called my crazy ex husband yesterday. I'm taking Lilly to an eating disorder specialist Thursday. She just hit 112 lbs. Her hip bones stick out like conch shells and her periods have stopped "I think I'm getting a little weird about food." She says in this off-hand way. I found myself spilling all this to this nurse I work with, not someone I particularly respect or am close to. He's kind of sloppy--not really as a nurse, but personally. Doesn't shave, scrubs always rumpled and sort of dirty looking. Looks like he's always rolled out of bed. Doesn't look like he showers very much. Now I know why. It's strange the way you always know the right people to talk to about things. It was at the end of my shift and he was taking over. "I'm going home to watch my daughter not eat dinner," I said as a joke. Then the whole thing just came lurching out.
"We're going through the same thing with Wanda." He tells me. "She's institutionalized right now. We can't handle it at home. " He and I swap crazy eating stories about our daughters. We start laughing. The stories are so similar.
"This will rip your home apart," he warns. "An anorexic ends up controlling every single person in the house. We have five kids, but we only have one, if you know what I mean."
5 kids. One severley disturbed. No wonder he looks like he just rolled out of bed.
Just like an alcoholic, I suppose. The craziest person wins.
"Get on it early. We kept ignoring it, trying to make it go away." He gave me the number for his doctor. Then he called me the next day to make sure I called. I wanted to cry.
At dinner last night I watched Lilly do anything except eat. Twirl the pasta, move it around her plate, get up, search for CD's. I realized, when does she actually eat? Ever?
I've done this to her. I never remember to eat. I'll go for two days sometimes, when I'm by myself. Always have done this. I don't have an appetite. Only for sweet things. Then I'll be sort of cranky and tired and wondering why everyone is so stupid and insensitive--then I'll think, oh, yeah, I haven't eaten in two days. I mean, I am totally disconnected from my gut in this respect.
So I called her dad, because I thought he'd like to know. Being her dad and all. He's so deranged. "Well, I've been telling her--she's been after 3% body fat--but I've been telling her that's unreasonable. Girls aren't supposed to have 3% body fat. I've been telling her she needs to eat."
"She exercises constantly." I tell him.
"She did that all summer. Hours on the treadmill every day."
I want to ask him why he didn't stop her when she started exercising all the time over the summer. Why he left her alone in the house all the time. He's so charismatic, such a powerful personality. Talking to him, I am once again swept up into his story, even though I know it's not accurate. I find myself in the same conversational pattern, wanting to please him, agree with him. I came to be so afraid of him. It kicks in, briefly. I know how to please maniacs.
I hang up.
Return to myself. Whatever that is. Return to quiet. My own lack of noise. Take a deep breath.
I realize that the reason I am still alone is because I am afraid of that happening again, of becoming so subsumed by someone else's personality that I lose myself.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Small Death
Jay got back last night from New York. Not til midnight. I screwed around all day, then went to my friend Luz's bachelorette party.
It's amazing how I never feel uncomfortable socially any more. Ever. I don't always have the best time, but I never feel awkward. It's not like I've stopped making faux pas (if anything, they've increased). I just don't care. I slip up, see the glances get exchanged and think, "Oops. Oh, well." Then I move on.
I love Luz. She's thirty-three. Cuban. How did she get to be thirty-three? One day at a time, I guess. I was only a few years older when I started nursing school. We were in school together. Beautiful girl. Woman. She has a hard time keeping friends because she has a pretty serious drinking problem which everyone knows about and no one knows about, if you know what I mean.
But she's met this guy, a fireman. And they're getting married. His sister threw the party, and it was one of those events where no one knows each other very well, and no one really knows Luz very well. The sister had invited her own friends as "filler". They were all very nice. Just like butter. Uncomplicated, pretty young county women, professionals. The sister-in-law is a civil engineer, as were all of her friends. Dressed conservatively. Jeans, turtleneck Luz's "friends" were all nurses. And they were dressed to party. Sequins, 4 inch heels, lots of eye make-up. Luz and I, incidentally, dressed the same, but in reverse: she wore a black and white print dress with a black cardigan, I wore a black dress with a black and white print cardigan. Funny. Not too sexy. There was a little too much talk at the table about nursing stuff. But what can you do? We were there 5 hours. You have to talk about something.
Everyone was very nice, but stilted. Luz kept getting up through the course of the evening and going outside to smoke by herself, so there were lots of quiet moments. I sat next to my friend Lisa's new best friend (she picks up best friends like she does men), and thought, maybe this is how I should have presented myself in life--blonde, straightened hair, skinny, lots of make-up, --I mean, mysterious, feminine and "done"--social worker, dating one of our young plastic surgeons. Woman, woman, woman. The kind of girl that makes men confused and weak in the knees.
I'm too furry and friendly, I decided, sitting next to her, silently through our conversation. I'm drawn by Roz Chast. She by Patrick Nagel. No one has ever been weak in the knees over me.
Oh, well. What are you going to do? Too late now.
5 hours in, I dipped. Went home. No word from Jay, which irritated me. Napped on the couch. Finally, I called him. "I'm almost home," he says, "but I have a flat tire, so I have to stop. Listen, could you drop by the grocery store on your way out and buy some wood?"
I'm pretty much still asleep, and for some reason, this request really annoys me. I mean, I've gone out there every god damn day, played with the dog, fed the cars, sorted the mail, deposited the checks and paid the bills--why at 11:30 at night do I have to go to the grocery store?
"Yeah, sure." I say, but my peevishness must have come through, because he calls me right back.
"Listen, don't worry about the wood. We've got wood. I just didn't want to haul it in."
I must have done what Wiz refers to as "the exhale of impending doom." ("Right through your nose, just a short little puff. The only way I can tell when you're pissed. Then I know we're all in trouble."
But I go anyways, because I remember the cats need food.
I have the sense he's lied to me about something recently. That squishy nauseated feeling, but I don't know what it is. And I'm not excavating. Lies grow. It'll pop up.
This morning, we're sitting on the couch drinking coffee, and he says, out of nowhere. "I'm truer than you think I am."
Bingo.
I don't say anything. Just drink my coffee.
Then. "What do you think I think about you?"
"I think you think I come on to all these other women, and I don't. I'm only attracted to you. You're the only woman I want to be with."
I sip my coffee. Amazing the way things come up. "I don't question your fidelity. I don't think you always tell me the truth."
He nods. "That's true."
Christ. What an infant. "Any whoppers lately?" I ask.
He hazards a joke. "Well, instead of going to Bath, I really stayed home and made love to strange women. I just made this whole job up" Which isn't funny. Because last year he did make a whole job up and stayed home so Hali could spend the weekend out at his place to wean Elena.
What do I do? I want to let this go, but I'm chilled to the bone. Not funny. I just keep quiet and send him nice energy. Squeeze his hand.
"No, " he says, "no whoppers lately."
The thing with men is that if you pounce on them, they will make their bad behavior your fault. They will make their guilt your fault. Not just men. Everybody. Watch what you know about people. Watch what you let show.
I thought about Gordon Wolfe, the bringer of small deaths. Here's another one.
That's my 1/2 hour.
It's amazing how I never feel uncomfortable socially any more. Ever. I don't always have the best time, but I never feel awkward. It's not like I've stopped making faux pas (if anything, they've increased). I just don't care. I slip up, see the glances get exchanged and think, "Oops. Oh, well." Then I move on.
I love Luz. She's thirty-three. Cuban. How did she get to be thirty-three? One day at a time, I guess. I was only a few years older when I started nursing school. We were in school together. Beautiful girl. Woman. She has a hard time keeping friends because she has a pretty serious drinking problem which everyone knows about and no one knows about, if you know what I mean.
But she's met this guy, a fireman. And they're getting married. His sister threw the party, and it was one of those events where no one knows each other very well, and no one really knows Luz very well. The sister had invited her own friends as "filler". They were all very nice. Just like butter. Uncomplicated, pretty young county women, professionals. The sister-in-law is a civil engineer, as were all of her friends. Dressed conservatively. Jeans, turtleneck Luz's "friends" were all nurses. And they were dressed to party. Sequins, 4 inch heels, lots of eye make-up. Luz and I, incidentally, dressed the same, but in reverse: she wore a black and white print dress with a black cardigan, I wore a black dress with a black and white print cardigan. Funny. Not too sexy. There was a little too much talk at the table about nursing stuff. But what can you do? We were there 5 hours. You have to talk about something.
Everyone was very nice, but stilted. Luz kept getting up through the course of the evening and going outside to smoke by herself, so there were lots of quiet moments. I sat next to my friend Lisa's new best friend (she picks up best friends like she does men), and thought, maybe this is how I should have presented myself in life--blonde, straightened hair, skinny, lots of make-up, --I mean, mysterious, feminine and "done"--social worker, dating one of our young plastic surgeons. Woman, woman, woman. The kind of girl that makes men confused and weak in the knees.
I'm too furry and friendly, I decided, sitting next to her, silently through our conversation. I'm drawn by Roz Chast. She by Patrick Nagel. No one has ever been weak in the knees over me.
Oh, well. What are you going to do? Too late now.
5 hours in, I dipped. Went home. No word from Jay, which irritated me. Napped on the couch. Finally, I called him. "I'm almost home," he says, "but I have a flat tire, so I have to stop. Listen, could you drop by the grocery store on your way out and buy some wood?"
I'm pretty much still asleep, and for some reason, this request really annoys me. I mean, I've gone out there every god damn day, played with the dog, fed the cars, sorted the mail, deposited the checks and paid the bills--why at 11:30 at night do I have to go to the grocery store?
"Yeah, sure." I say, but my peevishness must have come through, because he calls me right back.
"Listen, don't worry about the wood. We've got wood. I just didn't want to haul it in."
I must have done what Wiz refers to as "the exhale of impending doom." ("Right through your nose, just a short little puff. The only way I can tell when you're pissed. Then I know we're all in trouble."
But I go anyways, because I remember the cats need food.
I have the sense he's lied to me about something recently. That squishy nauseated feeling, but I don't know what it is. And I'm not excavating. Lies grow. It'll pop up.
This morning, we're sitting on the couch drinking coffee, and he says, out of nowhere. "I'm truer than you think I am."
Bingo.
I don't say anything. Just drink my coffee.
Then. "What do you think I think about you?"
"I think you think I come on to all these other women, and I don't. I'm only attracted to you. You're the only woman I want to be with."
I sip my coffee. Amazing the way things come up. "I don't question your fidelity. I don't think you always tell me the truth."
He nods. "That's true."
Christ. What an infant. "Any whoppers lately?" I ask.
He hazards a joke. "Well, instead of going to Bath, I really stayed home and made love to strange women. I just made this whole job up" Which isn't funny. Because last year he did make a whole job up and stayed home so Hali could spend the weekend out at his place to wean Elena.
What do I do? I want to let this go, but I'm chilled to the bone. Not funny. I just keep quiet and send him nice energy. Squeeze his hand.
"No, " he says, "no whoppers lately."
The thing with men is that if you pounce on them, they will make their bad behavior your fault. They will make their guilt your fault. Not just men. Everybody. Watch what you know about people. Watch what you let show.
I thought about Gordon Wolfe, the bringer of small deaths. Here's another one.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
How to Waste a Morning
I need to get to work. I took the day off today with the idea that I would spend it doing homework, but instead, all I've been able to do is lie on the couch in my flannel nighty (square necked snowflake pattern c no buttons--I hate buttons--from the Vermont Country Store Catalog) reading the New Yorker and googling information about Santa Muerte.
I read a Charles de Lint story this morning (I've been useless, I tell you) called Small Deaths. I really like Charles de Lint, but sometimes his writing leaves me with sort of a headache--like I've eaten too much cheap candy. Like Edmund eating the witch's turkish delight. Some of his stories are wonderful, and I love the urban American psyche he excavates for material. There is a lot of magic in the streets, white and black. And reading him, sometimes, that part of me that ran away in Atlanta wakes up and wants to go walking again, following my nose through the alleys. But sometimes....
Well, in this story, a well-dressed man comes up to a woman in a cafe. She thinks he's hitting on her and rebuffs him. He warns her, "don't mock me, for I am the bringer of the small death" or something like that. Then the idea doesn't really develop. But what an idea.
Santa Muerte is thought to be associated with Oya, the santeria goddess of wind, storms, change. Oya is the mistress of Chango. There's a really funny Cuban song about Chango--how this American tourist thinks an altar to Chango is a buffet, eats the fruit offering and really pisses the god off. I used to hear it all the time in Miami. In fact, laughing out loud at that song one night while I was driving in the car by myself to boxing match in Hialeah was my first indication that I was finally understanding spanish. Reading about Santa Muerte made me want to hear that song, so I went to www.playlist.com and looked for it. I didn't find it, but I did find this great group called King Chango and another one called the Brooklyn Artists. I put their songs on speaker, cha-cha'd around the living room a little while. Thought about Miami. Thought about Xavier. Santa Muerte. Chango. Both love and shelter prisoners. I hope he is all right.
I've had my dance with Santa Muerte myself, recently, as a handmaiden. Always, but this particular go round really has taken it out of me.
I hope I am not like that tourist, taking the offerings, eating the food, but not understanding their meaning. Not understanding or anticipating what I am invoking. I am afraid that many times and in many situations, I do not know what to take seriously and what to leave lie. Buddha touches the ground to withstand Mara. But it is also root his heart to the earth, I think.
Random musings. I'm going to go sit now. Lilly's at the mall.
That's my 1/2 hour.
I read a Charles de Lint story this morning (I've been useless, I tell you) called Small Deaths. I really like Charles de Lint, but sometimes his writing leaves me with sort of a headache--like I've eaten too much cheap candy. Like Edmund eating the witch's turkish delight. Some of his stories are wonderful, and I love the urban American psyche he excavates for material. There is a lot of magic in the streets, white and black. And reading him, sometimes, that part of me that ran away in Atlanta wakes up and wants to go walking again, following my nose through the alleys. But sometimes....
Well, in this story, a well-dressed man comes up to a woman in a cafe. She thinks he's hitting on her and rebuffs him. He warns her, "don't mock me, for I am the bringer of the small death" or something like that. Then the idea doesn't really develop. But what an idea.
Santa Muerte is thought to be associated with Oya, the santeria goddess of wind, storms, change. Oya is the mistress of Chango. There's a really funny Cuban song about Chango--how this American tourist thinks an altar to Chango is a buffet, eats the fruit offering and really pisses the god off. I used to hear it all the time in Miami. In fact, laughing out loud at that song one night while I was driving in the car by myself to boxing match in Hialeah was my first indication that I was finally understanding spanish. Reading about Santa Muerte made me want to hear that song, so I went to www.playlist.com and looked for it. I didn't find it, but I did find this great group called King Chango and another one called the Brooklyn Artists. I put their songs on speaker, cha-cha'd around the living room a little while. Thought about Miami. Thought about Xavier. Santa Muerte. Chango. Both love and shelter prisoners. I hope he is all right.
I've had my dance with Santa Muerte myself, recently, as a handmaiden. Always, but this particular go round really has taken it out of me.
I hope I am not like that tourist, taking the offerings, eating the food, but not understanding their meaning. Not understanding or anticipating what I am invoking. I am afraid that many times and in many situations, I do not know what to take seriously and what to leave lie. Buddha touches the ground to withstand Mara. But it is also root his heart to the earth, I think.
Random musings. I'm going to go sit now. Lilly's at the mall.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Storm Crows
Waiting for the bank to open. I can't find my roll of quarters. I've parked in my usual spot by the library, but I don't want to get another ticket. No money! I'm already close to my budget limit and it's only 6 days into the month.
It's just going to get worse. Nick hit a car yesterday in the parking lot at Gerbes. He called me. "Mom, I just hit a car."
"Are you okay?"
"The guy's really nice. He says he thinks it'll only cost $2,000."
"Was he driving?"
"No, he was coming out of the liquor store."
"Nick, give him our phone number and the insurance information and get out of there."
"But he's being really nice..."
"Did he call the police?"
"No! He was so nice, Mom, he refused to let me call the police. He said it just wasn't that big a deal."
"Ok. That's nice. Just do what I say."
The kids get home.
"I think you're not being fair to this guy," Nick says, as I dial the phone. "He was really nice."
I call the number Nick's handed me. A man answers. Young voice. 30's? 40's? "Oh, Hi!" he says, I can hear ice rattling in a cup. He's clearly drunk. "Your kids are so sweet."
"Thank you. I'm so sorry about this..."
"No worries...listen, if you want to keep insurance out of this, I'll just take the car to the shop, get an estimate, I know all about insurance..."
I bet you do, I think. No wonder he didn't want Nick to call the cops. Either that or there's a warrant out.
"Listen--I'm semi retired, so I don't get going til 1 or 2 in the afternoon sometimes, can I call you then and we can talk about this some more?"
"That's fine."
"You've got some sweet kids, there."
"Thank you. Thank you for being so kind. Nick was really rattled."
Big sigh. "Oh, I could see that, honey. I could. I remember being a teenager, runnin into stuff."
I feel immensely irritated with Nick. Nothing gets me hotter than seeing my children's naivete. Like lambs to the slaughter. Nick especially. He often misses what I can see so clearly. Here's a chance for practice, I remind myself, as I feel the rage rising. But, you know, sometimes when you expect the best out of someone, that is what you get--even if that is not who they are. People really respond to non-judgment. And people who are basically good, even if they're a little screwy, respond to trust. Maybe not in the long term. But in the short term. For example, you might not be able to trust them with a blank check, but you could trust them with a twenty.
Sat yesterday. I am so happy I found my sangha. I need sangha. I need community. While I sat, I tried to focus on my breath, with the usual indifferent success, and I also tried to think of everyone in the room with me. Not block them out, but be there with them. Breathe together. Seido, that old crow, looks like he's been through a hurricane. Robes tattered around his ankles. I wondered what happened. I walk back with him to his office, helped to carry one of the bags of zafus, prattling on about umbrellas. The sun is almost down, and the wind is blowing with the scent of storm on it. As we walk across the plaza, people stare at us a bit--the robes, I realize. I hardly think twice about them.
"You doing okay?" I ask. We're not close. Occasional bouts of confessional conversations over rum tonics in his basement when I was the only one there and he couldn't face sitting, but always with this weird, strangers-on-a-train formality.
"I'm restless," he tells me. "I feel like something's missing. I feel a void. I don't know what my next step is. I'm thinking about moving to Mount Baldi permanently. Becoming a resident monk. Or staying here. Buying a house. Turning it into a zendo. They're some people who would fund it."
I just nod. I don't know what to say. I think that Seido's void would be filled if he rolled his sleeves up and really got dirty. But maybe not. My solution isn't everyone's. I think going to Mount Baldi is probably the wrong thing for him to do. But what do I know? I can't even remember when to bow, and I've been doing this crap for 26 years now. 26 years! Almost every damn day.
His office is in the old law school. I know the building well. My mother went to law school for a year and a half. She is was in the first class that admitted women. She would take me with her (I was three) and she would sit in the far left corner of the classroom and I would hide under the table (they all sat at these long tables) and color. I was absolutely quiet. Hours. (Jesus, my kids would have NEVER behaved that well--shows how terrified I was of my mother). She flunked out. It was a different time then, and it wasn't okay for the wife to let the dishes pile up while she studied. Too much pressure.
I tell Seido a little bit about this. We go up to his office, which is painted the same color as my bedroom, periwinkle. And filled with books and his paintings and a nice old chintz couch. Great place.
"You should live here." I tell him.
"I do. I take naps on the couch."
Naps. Seido lives in a world where naps are possible. What is he complaining about? He starts to take off his zen gear, I say goodnight and go.
That's my 1/2 hour.
It's just going to get worse. Nick hit a car yesterday in the parking lot at Gerbes. He called me. "Mom, I just hit a car."
"Are you okay?"
"The guy's really nice. He says he thinks it'll only cost $2,000."
"Was he driving?"
"No, he was coming out of the liquor store."
"Nick, give him our phone number and the insurance information and get out of there."
"But he's being really nice..."
"Did he call the police?"
"No! He was so nice, Mom, he refused to let me call the police. He said it just wasn't that big a deal."
"Ok. That's nice. Just do what I say."
The kids get home.
"I think you're not being fair to this guy," Nick says, as I dial the phone. "He was really nice."
I call the number Nick's handed me. A man answers. Young voice. 30's? 40's? "Oh, Hi!" he says, I can hear ice rattling in a cup. He's clearly drunk. "Your kids are so sweet."
"Thank you. I'm so sorry about this..."
"No worries...listen, if you want to keep insurance out of this, I'll just take the car to the shop, get an estimate, I know all about insurance..."
I bet you do, I think. No wonder he didn't want Nick to call the cops. Either that or there's a warrant out.
"Listen--I'm semi retired, so I don't get going til 1 or 2 in the afternoon sometimes, can I call you then and we can talk about this some more?"
"That's fine."
"You've got some sweet kids, there."
"Thank you. Thank you for being so kind. Nick was really rattled."
Big sigh. "Oh, I could see that, honey. I could. I remember being a teenager, runnin into stuff."
I feel immensely irritated with Nick. Nothing gets me hotter than seeing my children's naivete. Like lambs to the slaughter. Nick especially. He often misses what I can see so clearly. Here's a chance for practice, I remind myself, as I feel the rage rising. But, you know, sometimes when you expect the best out of someone, that is what you get--even if that is not who they are. People really respond to non-judgment. And people who are basically good, even if they're a little screwy, respond to trust. Maybe not in the long term. But in the short term. For example, you might not be able to trust them with a blank check, but you could trust them with a twenty.
Sat yesterday. I am so happy I found my sangha. I need sangha. I need community. While I sat, I tried to focus on my breath, with the usual indifferent success, and I also tried to think of everyone in the room with me. Not block them out, but be there with them. Breathe together. Seido, that old crow, looks like he's been through a hurricane. Robes tattered around his ankles. I wondered what happened. I walk back with him to his office, helped to carry one of the bags of zafus, prattling on about umbrellas. The sun is almost down, and the wind is blowing with the scent of storm on it. As we walk across the plaza, people stare at us a bit--the robes, I realize. I hardly think twice about them.
"You doing okay?" I ask. We're not close. Occasional bouts of confessional conversations over rum tonics in his basement when I was the only one there and he couldn't face sitting, but always with this weird, strangers-on-a-train formality.
"I'm restless," he tells me. "I feel like something's missing. I feel a void. I don't know what my next step is. I'm thinking about moving to Mount Baldi permanently. Becoming a resident monk. Or staying here. Buying a house. Turning it into a zendo. They're some people who would fund it."
I just nod. I don't know what to say. I think that Seido's void would be filled if he rolled his sleeves up and really got dirty. But maybe not. My solution isn't everyone's. I think going to Mount Baldi is probably the wrong thing for him to do. But what do I know? I can't even remember when to bow, and I've been doing this crap for 26 years now. 26 years! Almost every damn day.
His office is in the old law school. I know the building well. My mother went to law school for a year and a half. She is was in the first class that admitted women. She would take me with her (I was three) and she would sit in the far left corner of the classroom and I would hide under the table (they all sat at these long tables) and color. I was absolutely quiet. Hours. (Jesus, my kids would have NEVER behaved that well--shows how terrified I was of my mother). She flunked out. It was a different time then, and it wasn't okay for the wife to let the dishes pile up while she studied. Too much pressure.
I tell Seido a little bit about this. We go up to his office, which is painted the same color as my bedroom, periwinkle. And filled with books and his paintings and a nice old chintz couch. Great place.
"You should live here." I tell him.
"I do. I take naps on the couch."
Naps. Seido lives in a world where naps are possible. What is he complaining about? He starts to take off his zen gear, I say goodnight and go.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Chinese Food
Well, we have a new president.
I hope this means what I think it does.
It's a beautiful day, here. Now I have to get down to business and focus on my coursework. Last night was a lost cause, of course. Jay drove to the airport in the city--2 hours on the road in his radio-less Saab. Ancient Saabs seem to be the vehicle of choice for the genteel liberal poor--have you noticed this? And none of them have radios. Or, they do have radios, but the shady people we purchase them from don't know the code to turn them on. So I had to call him every 15 minutes with updates: "McCain won Kentucky."
"Shit!"
Yesterday was also my online class chat. One of my classmates, whom I met last week during mandatory on-site clinicals, informed me and the rest of the class that I had correctly diagnosed her ear infection. I think if I could just find the time to focus on it, that I might actually be pretty good at this stuff. Last week was just a lost cause. I had too much on my plate. Nick's Tulane application had to be in and we were just crazy getting all the last minute stuff wrapped up. My father is helping, but he's also hindering, too. Some times he calls or comes by 6 or 7 times a day. Hopefully this week will be better, but I don't see how.
Lilly announced that she is going to be an opera singer. She's scheduled herself for Tanglewood auditions in Chicago and has announced she is going to take piano lessons. Lilly just sets off, arranges things, and sends me the bill. Nick requires a lot more pushing. He's like me--always asking for permission.
We should all be like Lilly. Except for the weight. Lilly's losing too much weight. She suggested Chinese on Monday night, before her band practice (Lilly started a funk band. They already have two gigs coming up. They're really good.) We went to our favorite Chinese restaurant, Kai Min, which is on the second floor of one of the old buildings downtown, across the hall from the community radio station. It's been there forever, and seems to have fallen on hard times recently (they served us on paper plates shaped like footballs) We were the only people there except for two overweight pimply college girls, sitting in a booth by the window. As far as I could tell, the girls weren't talking to each other. The only people running the place seemed to be Chinese teenagers, not the usual owners. No one spoke English. The radio was playing syruppy pop tunes. About 3/4 of the way through the meal, one of the college girls started singing along with the radio (Fergie and the Black Eyed Peas) at the top of her lungs in a strong clear voice, "I hope you know, I hope you knooooowwwwww......that this has nothing to do with you...."
She kept going. Lilly and I stared at each other. Spoons frozen above our egg drop soup. I had hoped that the chinese food would make Lilly want to eat (all that MSG), but she only ate 1/2 of her soup and a crab rangoon, packing up the rest. Well, I thought, at least we'll have dinner tomorrow.
When Lilly was five, and Kai Min was a little classier, we were eating dinner there and our local rock promoter and club owner was in eating dinner with Chrissie Hynde, who was playing a show at the Blue Note that night. She was dressed entirely in black vinyl and had all her eye makeup on. Lilly kept staring at her throughout dinner. At that time in her life, I was letting Lilly dress however she wanted to. I had this theory that it would create confidence and artistic daring and help her deal with whatever flack came her way regarding her cleft. Lilly was attracted to shiny stuff (she wore nothing but glittering ruby red slippers for almost 3 years) and sort of adapted cheap club wear that would trail on the ground. Lame dresses that she would belt with scarves, that sort of thing. This went over okay at the Montessori school she attended in Miami, but in Paloma, we were working on toning her down, and it was a bit of a process.
Lilly kept asking "Who is that beautiful lady?" Finally, in the middle of dinner, Lilly got up from the table, clacked over to Hynde in her ruby slippers and stood at the end of the table.
I was a little worried, because I'd heard stories about how mean Hynde can be to fans (squeezing Kim Deal's breast--remember that story?). Lilly didn't know who she was.
"Hello," Hynde said. "How are you?"
"Hello," Lilly said reverentially. "I just love your outfit."
"Thank you very much."
Lilly smiled and came back to our table.
Ah. Soul Mates always know each other.
That's my 1/2 hour.
I hope this means what I think it does.
It's a beautiful day, here. Now I have to get down to business and focus on my coursework. Last night was a lost cause, of course. Jay drove to the airport in the city--2 hours on the road in his radio-less Saab. Ancient Saabs seem to be the vehicle of choice for the genteel liberal poor--have you noticed this? And none of them have radios. Or, they do have radios, but the shady people we purchase them from don't know the code to turn them on. So I had to call him every 15 minutes with updates: "McCain won Kentucky."
"Shit!"
Yesterday was also my online class chat. One of my classmates, whom I met last week during mandatory on-site clinicals, informed me and the rest of the class that I had correctly diagnosed her ear infection. I think if I could just find the time to focus on it, that I might actually be pretty good at this stuff. Last week was just a lost cause. I had too much on my plate. Nick's Tulane application had to be in and we were just crazy getting all the last minute stuff wrapped up. My father is helping, but he's also hindering, too. Some times he calls or comes by 6 or 7 times a day. Hopefully this week will be better, but I don't see how.
Lilly announced that she is going to be an opera singer. She's scheduled herself for Tanglewood auditions in Chicago and has announced she is going to take piano lessons. Lilly just sets off, arranges things, and sends me the bill. Nick requires a lot more pushing. He's like me--always asking for permission.
We should all be like Lilly. Except for the weight. Lilly's losing too much weight. She suggested Chinese on Monday night, before her band practice (Lilly started a funk band. They already have two gigs coming up. They're really good.) We went to our favorite Chinese restaurant, Kai Min, which is on the second floor of one of the old buildings downtown, across the hall from the community radio station. It's been there forever, and seems to have fallen on hard times recently (they served us on paper plates shaped like footballs) We were the only people there except for two overweight pimply college girls, sitting in a booth by the window. As far as I could tell, the girls weren't talking to each other. The only people running the place seemed to be Chinese teenagers, not the usual owners. No one spoke English. The radio was playing syruppy pop tunes. About 3/4 of the way through the meal, one of the college girls started singing along with the radio (Fergie and the Black Eyed Peas) at the top of her lungs in a strong clear voice, "I hope you know, I hope you knooooowwwwww......that this has nothing to do with you...."
She kept going. Lilly and I stared at each other. Spoons frozen above our egg drop soup. I had hoped that the chinese food would make Lilly want to eat (all that MSG), but she only ate 1/2 of her soup and a crab rangoon, packing up the rest. Well, I thought, at least we'll have dinner tomorrow.
When Lilly was five, and Kai Min was a little classier, we were eating dinner there and our local rock promoter and club owner was in eating dinner with Chrissie Hynde, who was playing a show at the Blue Note that night. She was dressed entirely in black vinyl and had all her eye makeup on. Lilly kept staring at her throughout dinner. At that time in her life, I was letting Lilly dress however she wanted to. I had this theory that it would create confidence and artistic daring and help her deal with whatever flack came her way regarding her cleft. Lilly was attracted to shiny stuff (she wore nothing but glittering ruby red slippers for almost 3 years) and sort of adapted cheap club wear that would trail on the ground. Lame dresses that she would belt with scarves, that sort of thing. This went over okay at the Montessori school she attended in Miami, but in Paloma, we were working on toning her down, and it was a bit of a process.
Lilly kept asking "Who is that beautiful lady?" Finally, in the middle of dinner, Lilly got up from the table, clacked over to Hynde in her ruby slippers and stood at the end of the table.
I was a little worried, because I'd heard stories about how mean Hynde can be to fans (squeezing Kim Deal's breast--remember that story?). Lilly didn't know who she was.
"Hello," Hynde said. "How are you?"
"Hello," Lilly said reverentially. "I just love your outfit."
"Thank you very much."
Lilly smiled and came back to our table.
Ah. Soul Mates always know each other.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Voting
I voted today, of course.
Jay woke me up early this morning. He was so excited. He wanted to be the first person at the polls. Dork.
"Wake up! We have to go vote!"
I started to get up. It was pitch black outside. The stars were shining, the hill and the pond sloping away. The sweet incense like smell of the leaves blowing in. It's very warm here. We had slept with the windows open. Then I looked at the clock. 4:30 am.
I don't love either Jay or Barack that much.
"It's 4:30 am."
"Oh, sorry."
We couldn't go back to sleep, so made love instead. Then fell asleep after.
At 6:18 sharp, I was awakened by the sound of gunfire. Lots of it.
"What's that?"
"Duck hunting season started. They have a precise time they can start shooting. First light. Changes every day."
Maybe a little grey yellow light was breaking over the hills. It almost looked imaginary. "It sounds like we're being attacked." The gunfire continued.
"Christ, how many of them are out there?"
Jay got up, made coffee. He's going to upstate New York today for 5 days, then to Alberta, Idaho, and some place else. He was going to go to Canada last week to film a duck hunting special for Bass Pro, but for some reason, the ducks blew it off. No ducks. Maybe they're getting organized--getting the word out.
Heck, if a black man can get himself elected of this country, it would not surprise me one bit if the ducks were getting wise to the hunters.
I'll miss Jay, but it's good that he's going, because I'm really behind on my classwork.
It's funny, but I haven't even thought about race during this campaign. I wonder if most people still do. I was reading a blog called "The Root" this morning--I'll post the link--and it framed this election in racial terms, which surprised me. "Yeah," I thought, "I guess they have a point." But I never thought one of the key things about Obama was his race. It was always considered impolite in my family to notice and comment on things like race and ethnicity--although my mother often did--comments utterly ignored by my grandmother and father. It fell into the same category as finances. Whether you were accepted or not ostensibly should depend on your charm and character, and not your background, race, or finances, good or bad.
Then I went to Dartmouth. And one of my housemates, Eileen Brown, said something to me that I'll remember the rest of my life. I had just made the idiotic comment that I didn't really notice whether people were white or black (I was nineteen, okay?). And she said, "If you're really my friend, you had better damn well notice I'm black. Because being black involves a lot of stuff that you'd better be mad about and worried about if you really are my friend."
I drove into town. I passed the Little Dixie county fire, the polling place by Jay's. Packed. Pick-up trucks pulled over on the side of the road a quarter mile down. I've never seen the polling places so crowded.
I vote at Unity church, which everyone who doesn't know me very well thinks I should attend. I like voting days, because I get to see all the funny little people who live in my just-hanging-on-by-our-bitten-fingernails-to-middle-class (whewww) neighborhood I have to wait in line to show my i.d. I think about being grumpy and complaining that this is unconstitutional, but the little old lady is so kind and excited as she checks my address, I can't muster up the meanness. She's wearing a lavender pantsuit, with embroidered violets on the lapels. A bent little Nigerian man with a name that takes up almost his entire nametag (his wife, equally bent is standing beside the ballot box in a bright head scarf) explains in great detail to me how I am to fill in the circles next to the candidates of my choice. They've changed pen brands for this election (thick, sharpie magic markers were used in the past), and the pens they've supplied us with have much thinner tips, so the poll workers are very anxious that we get this right. (Paloma never has problems with votes being messed up, let me tell you. The city of OCD.)
I complete my ballot. It does take longer with the new pens. Give it to the Nigerian lady.
"Sticker! You must have a sticker!" She calls after me, runs up, hands me an "I voted" sticker. "and you're taking the pen." So I am. I sheepishly hand it back to her. Then I walk outside the church. An older woman I don't know in sweeping scarves is walking towards me. "You look so beautiful!" she tells me, beaming. "What beautiful colors you're wearing." I hadn't noticed, but I guess they are--wine and amber and brown courdouroy tree of life skirt, green suede jacket, plum pashmina.
"thank you. Have a good day!"
"I am, oh, I am." she says, beaming.
A man is several feet behind her. "Good morning," he says, smiling.
"Good morning!" I reply.
"It's going to be a beautiful afternoon." He says. He stops on the walk. He is in his late 50's, neatly, cheaply dressed. Khakis, blue and white striped shirt. Hair needs a trim. I've never seen him before in my life "It's going to be a good day tomorrow, too, I think."
"I think." I say. "I hope."
"I hope."
We look at each other. He has tears in his eyes. I pat his hand. He nods, gives my hand a squeeze, and goes inside the church.
Oh, man. I hope.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Jay woke me up early this morning. He was so excited. He wanted to be the first person at the polls. Dork.
"Wake up! We have to go vote!"
I started to get up. It was pitch black outside. The stars were shining, the hill and the pond sloping away. The sweet incense like smell of the leaves blowing in. It's very warm here. We had slept with the windows open. Then I looked at the clock. 4:30 am.
I don't love either Jay or Barack that much.
"It's 4:30 am."
"Oh, sorry."
We couldn't go back to sleep, so made love instead. Then fell asleep after.
At 6:18 sharp, I was awakened by the sound of gunfire. Lots of it.
"What's that?"
"Duck hunting season started. They have a precise time they can start shooting. First light. Changes every day."
Maybe a little grey yellow light was breaking over the hills. It almost looked imaginary. "It sounds like we're being attacked." The gunfire continued.
"Christ, how many of them are out there?"
Jay got up, made coffee. He's going to upstate New York today for 5 days, then to Alberta, Idaho, and some place else. He was going to go to Canada last week to film a duck hunting special for Bass Pro, but for some reason, the ducks blew it off. No ducks. Maybe they're getting organized--getting the word out.
Heck, if a black man can get himself elected of this country, it would not surprise me one bit if the ducks were getting wise to the hunters.
I'll miss Jay, but it's good that he's going, because I'm really behind on my classwork.
It's funny, but I haven't even thought about race during this campaign. I wonder if most people still do. I was reading a blog called "The Root" this morning--I'll post the link--and it framed this election in racial terms, which surprised me. "Yeah," I thought, "I guess they have a point." But I never thought one of the key things about Obama was his race. It was always considered impolite in my family to notice and comment on things like race and ethnicity--although my mother often did--comments utterly ignored by my grandmother and father. It fell into the same category as finances. Whether you were accepted or not ostensibly should depend on your charm and character, and not your background, race, or finances, good or bad.
Then I went to Dartmouth. And one of my housemates, Eileen Brown, said something to me that I'll remember the rest of my life. I had just made the idiotic comment that I didn't really notice whether people were white or black (I was nineteen, okay?). And she said, "If you're really my friend, you had better damn well notice I'm black. Because being black involves a lot of stuff that you'd better be mad about and worried about if you really are my friend."
I drove into town. I passed the Little Dixie county fire, the polling place by Jay's. Packed. Pick-up trucks pulled over on the side of the road a quarter mile down. I've never seen the polling places so crowded.
I vote at Unity church, which everyone who doesn't know me very well thinks I should attend. I like voting days, because I get to see all the funny little people who live in my just-hanging-on-by-our-bitten-fingernails-to-middle-class (whewww) neighborhood I have to wait in line to show my i.d. I think about being grumpy and complaining that this is unconstitutional, but the little old lady is so kind and excited as she checks my address, I can't muster up the meanness. She's wearing a lavender pantsuit, with embroidered violets on the lapels. A bent little Nigerian man with a name that takes up almost his entire nametag (his wife, equally bent is standing beside the ballot box in a bright head scarf) explains in great detail to me how I am to fill in the circles next to the candidates of my choice. They've changed pen brands for this election (thick, sharpie magic markers were used in the past), and the pens they've supplied us with have much thinner tips, so the poll workers are very anxious that we get this right. (Paloma never has problems with votes being messed up, let me tell you. The city of OCD.)
I complete my ballot. It does take longer with the new pens. Give it to the Nigerian lady.
"Sticker! You must have a sticker!" She calls after me, runs up, hands me an "I voted" sticker. "and you're taking the pen." So I am. I sheepishly hand it back to her. Then I walk outside the church. An older woman I don't know in sweeping scarves is walking towards me. "You look so beautiful!" she tells me, beaming. "What beautiful colors you're wearing." I hadn't noticed, but I guess they are--wine and amber and brown courdouroy tree of life skirt, green suede jacket, plum pashmina.
"thank you. Have a good day!"
"I am, oh, I am." she says, beaming.
A man is several feet behind her. "Good morning," he says, smiling.
"Good morning!" I reply.
"It's going to be a beautiful afternoon." He says. He stops on the walk. He is in his late 50's, neatly, cheaply dressed. Khakis, blue and white striped shirt. Hair needs a trim. I've never seen him before in my life "It's going to be a good day tomorrow, too, I think."
"I think." I say. "I hope."
"I hope."
We look at each other. He has tears in his eyes. I pat his hand. He nods, gives my hand a squeeze, and goes inside the church.
Oh, man. I hope.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Where the dead go
Oh--weird stuff on our floor.
The mean winds are blowing through, I think.
Last week was hell. After last week I didn't know why I was still doing this. I am getting tired.
The OR called mid-day. "We have a patient. We need a bed right away."
"We don't have a bed," I tell the OR nurse.
"Well, what are we supposed to do with this patient?"
"You're ACLS trained," I say. "I'm sure you'll figure out something."
SI was full. All 18 beds taken. We hastily arranged for one of ours to go to the floor--even though he probably shouldn't have. He was in traction and I was worried about compartment syndrome. Initially, I argued them into stepdown, but no beds were available. So he went to 5.
He was in traction, and the beds on the floor and in the ICU's are different. The overhead frame doesn't fit. So getting him from bed to bed is a little harder than normal. This takes some time.
Then the room has to be cleaned. Both in our unit and on the floor. 5 is finally ready for report, and I'm calling it when the phone rings again.
"Is that bed ready?"
"No. I'm calling report."
"When is the bed ready?"
"45 minutes."
"45 minutes!"
"Yes. We have a patient in it. A critically ill patient is in the room. Then the room has to be cleaned. It will be about 45 minutes."
I hang up. Go back to giving report to the 5 west nurse.
Our unit clerk comes over. He's short, clean, gay. A biochemist. Great clerk. Smart.
"The OR's on the phone. They say they're reporting us to the patient safety network. Do you want to talk to her?"
"Tell her to fuck off."
"I can't do that."
"which line?"
I get on the phone. She's hung up.
The doors burst open. The OR nurse comes steaming through.
"Why isn't that room ready?"
"Don't you ever threaten my clerk again. We don't have rooms instantly ready. Why can't you take care of this patient in the OR?"
"The patient is very unstable." she says.
"Then the OR is the perfect place for her."
"We need the room now!"
She starts ordering my staff around. Our staff being who they are, don't comply.
"Don't order my staff around. You're being completely inappropriate."
"What can I do to make this happen faster?"
"I still don't understand why you can't handle this in the OR. What's the big mystery?"
She said nothing. Kept her badge turned around.
Finally, the patient's out of the room, the room is cleaned by housekeeping, and it's ready. I call the OR.
45 minutes later, the patient rolls through the door.
The anesthesiologist is pushing something as she comes through.
"What are you pushing?" I ask.
"Epi." He stutters.
And then I understand. The patient is already dead. But they didn't want to handle the death in the OR.
I check for pulses. Nothing.
"No pulses."
"No," the anesthesiology resident sort of stammers, "no pulses. You won't feel any. She hasn't had any throughout surgery."
Fran, who's walked over to help, says, "I thought that was called pulseless electrical activity."
"Code! Call a code! "
Every thing happens at once. We slap pads on her, spill open the drug box--no pulse, some strange reading--a number, might mean something, might not. The dance begins. She's pale, yellow, not alive.
"Call my attending," the resident says.
The attending appears as if by magic, calls for a thoracotomy tray, opens her up, squeezes her heart in the rhythm it will not do on its own. "We need blood. I can't do this without blood"
But there's no blood ready.
"Why isn't there blood ready?" Our attending asks--he's fairly new. McGowan. I like him most of the time.
"No one told us she needed blood. We had no idea she was in this kind of shape."
Blood takes 23 agonizing minutes. I call down. Blood bank is irritated, rushed. Wiz runs for it. We start pouring it into her--but nothing. The fluid warmer breaks down in the middle of the code. At one point, Wiz will tell me later, there are 27 people in the room. I have no idea. The only thing I can see are my hands. Wiz will tell me later the code lasted 53 minutes. I feel like I'm moving through jello. Wiz will tell me that we look like kittens being drowned in a stock tank.
McGowan finally calls it.
I go with McGowan to talk to the family. Marcy and Ileana and Fran help, silently. This phrase comes into my mind "the women wash the bodies" what is that from? Is that a poem? Ileana helps me afterwards. We bathe her. After the family has visited, Ileana helps me put her body in a bag. As we turn her, we notice a lac in her flank. Blood spurts out. A lot of blood. Cups and cups.
"Renal artery?" Ileana guesses. "Did they miss that?"
Wiz is strangely silent throughout all this.
McGowan wanders back in, for whatever reason. I'm sitting at the computer. Things have settled down.
Wiz scoots one of the stools in the pods over.
"Sad day." he says to both of us.
McGowan concurs, nodding his big head.
Wiz continues. "I just wanted to touch base with you--see what you thought could have gone better during the code."
"Well,"McGowan said, "we need to be able to get blood up here faster when we need it."
"You think we could have saved her if we had blood right there?" I ask.
McGowan shrugs. "Maybe."
"Well," Wiz says, his voice so polite and kind, I give him a sharp look. What's up? "It was good of you to get here so fast."
McGowan gives this strange little grimace and shrug.
"Enjoy it." Wiz says, now nasty.
What has happened? I look from one to the other. McGowan gets up and walks out of the unit.
Wiz looks at me, shakes his little fuzzy carp head.
"He was the surgeon."
I feel really stupid. Nauseated.
"She was dead when she came through the door. He just didn't want her dying technically on him. Then it's not his statistic."
That's my 1/2 hour
The mean winds are blowing through, I think.
Last week was hell. After last week I didn't know why I was still doing this. I am getting tired.
The OR called mid-day. "We have a patient. We need a bed right away."
"We don't have a bed," I tell the OR nurse.
"Well, what are we supposed to do with this patient?"
"You're ACLS trained," I say. "I'm sure you'll figure out something."
SI was full. All 18 beds taken. We hastily arranged for one of ours to go to the floor--even though he probably shouldn't have. He was in traction and I was worried about compartment syndrome. Initially, I argued them into stepdown, but no beds were available. So he went to 5.
He was in traction, and the beds on the floor and in the ICU's are different. The overhead frame doesn't fit. So getting him from bed to bed is a little harder than normal. This takes some time.
Then the room has to be cleaned. Both in our unit and on the floor. 5 is finally ready for report, and I'm calling it when the phone rings again.
"Is that bed ready?"
"No. I'm calling report."
"When is the bed ready?"
"45 minutes."
"45 minutes!"
"Yes. We have a patient in it. A critically ill patient is in the room. Then the room has to be cleaned. It will be about 45 minutes."
I hang up. Go back to giving report to the 5 west nurse.
Our unit clerk comes over. He's short, clean, gay. A biochemist. Great clerk. Smart.
"The OR's on the phone. They say they're reporting us to the patient safety network. Do you want to talk to her?"
"Tell her to fuck off."
"I can't do that."
"which line?"
I get on the phone. She's hung up.
The doors burst open. The OR nurse comes steaming through.
"Why isn't that room ready?"
"Don't you ever threaten my clerk again. We don't have rooms instantly ready. Why can't you take care of this patient in the OR?"
"The patient is very unstable." she says.
"Then the OR is the perfect place for her."
"We need the room now!"
She starts ordering my staff around. Our staff being who they are, don't comply.
"Don't order my staff around. You're being completely inappropriate."
"What can I do to make this happen faster?"
"I still don't understand why you can't handle this in the OR. What's the big mystery?"
She said nothing. Kept her badge turned around.
Finally, the patient's out of the room, the room is cleaned by housekeeping, and it's ready. I call the OR.
45 minutes later, the patient rolls through the door.
The anesthesiologist is pushing something as she comes through.
"What are you pushing?" I ask.
"Epi." He stutters.
And then I understand. The patient is already dead. But they didn't want to handle the death in the OR.
I check for pulses. Nothing.
"No pulses."
"No," the anesthesiology resident sort of stammers, "no pulses. You won't feel any. She hasn't had any throughout surgery."
Fran, who's walked over to help, says, "I thought that was called pulseless electrical activity."
"Code! Call a code! "
Every thing happens at once. We slap pads on her, spill open the drug box--no pulse, some strange reading--a number, might mean something, might not. The dance begins. She's pale, yellow, not alive.
"Call my attending," the resident says.
The attending appears as if by magic, calls for a thoracotomy tray, opens her up, squeezes her heart in the rhythm it will not do on its own. "We need blood. I can't do this without blood"
But there's no blood ready.
"Why isn't there blood ready?" Our attending asks--he's fairly new. McGowan. I like him most of the time.
"No one told us she needed blood. We had no idea she was in this kind of shape."
Blood takes 23 agonizing minutes. I call down. Blood bank is irritated, rushed. Wiz runs for it. We start pouring it into her--but nothing. The fluid warmer breaks down in the middle of the code. At one point, Wiz will tell me later, there are 27 people in the room. I have no idea. The only thing I can see are my hands. Wiz will tell me later the code lasted 53 minutes. I feel like I'm moving through jello. Wiz will tell me that we look like kittens being drowned in a stock tank.
McGowan finally calls it.
I go with McGowan to talk to the family.
The mother twists away from me as I lead her back to the room. I try to prepare her a little for what she will see. "She looks very different.."I begin.
"Of course she looks different." Her mother says harshly. "She's dead."
I feel like a creep.
"Renal artery?" Ileana guesses. "Did they miss that?"
Wiz is strangely silent throughout all this.
McGowan wanders back in, for whatever reason. I'm sitting at the computer. Things have settled down.
Wiz scoots one of the stools in the pods over.
"Sad day." he says to both of us.
McGowan concurs, nodding his big head.
Wiz continues. "I just wanted to touch base with you--see what you thought could have gone better during the code."
"Well,"McGowan said, "we need to be able to get blood up here faster when we need it."
"You think we could have saved her if we had blood right there?" I ask.
McGowan shrugs. "Maybe."
"Well," Wiz says, his voice so polite and kind, I give him a sharp look. What's up? "It was good of you to get here so fast."
McGowan gives this strange little grimace and shrug.
"Enjoy it." Wiz says, now nasty.
What has happened? I look from one to the other. McGowan gets up and walks out of the unit.
Wiz looks at me, shakes his little fuzzy carp head.
"He was the surgeon."
I feel really stupid. Nauseated.
"She was dead when she came through the door. He just didn't want her dying technically on him. Then it's not his statistic."
That's my 1/2 hour
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