On the water, with the pewter sea stretching all around me, half in, feet warm in the kayak, I'm something close to happy. There are islands to stop at, with the mangroves stretching toward you like thought, and perfect shells to find. The sea takes all things and changes them, folds them in upon itself, absorbs grows, rolls on. If you sit still long enough, it takes you, too. This year, the trip was cold. 40 degrees. We huddled in our ski sweaters and long underwear and wool hats on the beaches, made camp, ate sardines on crackers. Nothing better than a cold white beach, feet you can't feel and sardines. And rum. We had a bottle of rum. You know, it keeps you going. Everything went wrong on this trip--last year, it was the Blue Lagoon. This year: Quest for Fire.
Got stuck in Atlanta for a day (don't take AirTran), so a day late getting on the water. Then, with the cold, we must have paddled faster, so we made Everglades City an entire day sooner than we expected. We paddle up the river into town, looking at the tin roofed houses lining the water. We paddle by an old white clapboard hotel with yellow shutters. There are a few sort of hale looking people in their 60's sitting on the wide screened-in porch, sipping coffee.
"That's an interesting place," Jay comments.
"The Rod and Gun Club," I say, reading the wooden sign out front as we pass. They watch us as we go by. There's no place to get out so we paddle back and take out our kayak out at the park service ramp. I start crying. I am so happy out there, I never want to go back to the world. I can't describe it. The clear water on the sand, absorbing myself in the little things. It's like being a child again. I don't care if it's cold and wet. I feel like I'm breaking up with a lover. I can't explain this to Jay. I can't say: no we weren't out there long enough and now our complicated lives are all going to wash back over us and I'm going to start planning everything in 15 minute increments and writing down every penny I spend and not using purple pens on Tuesdays. And there's going to be the other Halie and you not being in love once we get back to Paloma. I wanted to stay out another night. Filthy, dehydrated. I just cry and cry. I can't stop.
"Let's take a walk." Jay says.
We walk into the park, sit on a picnic table. I can't stop crying. He holds my hand. I'll say one thing for Jay: he's really good when I'm crazy.
"Do you want to go out another night? I'll go out another night if you want to, but don't you think we're pretty beat? I'm really exhausted."
"I'm not tired at all." I say.
"Okay. Let's go back out there."
But I know I'm tired. He buys me a bag of cheese doodles. We pack up the kayak, leave it by the side of the fence at the park service headquarters. I feel as if I'm not even a person, I wander around the tourists like some sort of swamp animal.
There are some kayakers from Tennessee who take pity on us and give us a ride into town. I had started talking with the woman and told her I was a nurse. It's funny how you can just look like any old hell but once someone finds out you're a nurse, they trust you. We ask them if they know any good places to stay in Everglades City.
"We're staying at the Rod and Gun Club." The woman offers. She's a dietician from Knoxville. In her fifties, in really good shape. What is it about dieticians? Well, I guess they know how to eat right. "But they only take cash."
"That's not a private club?" I ask.
"We saw it on our way in." Jay says.
"We'll drop you off there. See if you like it."
We arrive at the hotel. And step into another world. The Knoxville people disappear. There's no one around. The interior of the hotel is made from native cypress, dark, polished, and immaculately clean. The light filters in through the louvred shutters on the windows--just like the ones Lauren Bacall closes against the hurricane in Key Largo. There are ancient dead animals on the wall, very poorly preserved. A christmas tree. An empty dining room. No one's around.
"Hello?" we ask.
That's my 1/2 hour. To be continued....
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Fardels
Things hurt all out of proportion.
It's because I'm so stressed out I guess.
I'm going to talk about everything that's wrong today.
Yesterday, I went to the gym to do my 20 minutes of aerobic exercise as prescribed by the Body for Life program. I had skipped Thursday and Friday. And somehow, I've managed to gain two pounds since last week. Normally, I walk around my neighborhood, but it was 13 degrees, so I decided to go to the gym and use the elliptical trainer. I picked the one at the end of the row and started up. Next to me was a really buff black guy. He had his I-Pod plugged into the machine (these are really nice machines) and I saw his playlist. The song he was listening to was "Let's all get drunk as fuck." He had his earphones in and was just trucking along, while I was stuck with the gym's music videos of Rihanna and Nickelback. I wondered what the song sounded like. It looked like it was really helping his workout.
He finished, and suddenly I realized that next to me was our vascular Fellow, Karina Smythe. Who didn't make eye contact with or bother to greet me. It bothered me to an almost irrational degree. Why don't the doctors treat the nurses like people? This happens all the time. The only person who regularly acknowledges me in public is Pierre Juneau--the orthopedic surgeon who used to be a trapeze artist with Cirque du Soleil. "'Allo 'Aley! You are good, yes?" Then, today, in Ernie's, I ran into two of the plastic surgery residents. Neither of whom made eye contact or acknowledged me. They were out with Jan, a social worker--girlfriend to one--and she said something, but the other two kept looking at their plates. I guess this happens as you get older--you become invisible. But it made me want to cry. I mean, even ordinary people acknowledge the people they work with, right? On the street, or in the grocery store? Is it so important to maintain the ranking? Are they that insecure? Or do they just not even recognize me? Are we that invisible to them. You know, that's probably it. I'm very quiet. I probably am pretty invisible at work. I'm pretty sure I am, actually. I work for that.
Okay. So that's one fardel.
What else.
Oh. Okay. I'm so stressed that I'm having my second period this month. Fantastic! And I've gained two pounds, despite working out like a fiend--or like a semi-fiend, to be truthful. And I have a paper due. And I have no money. Because I just paid Lilly's winter tuition to St. Xavier's and I gave all my cash to the stinky screamy cat lady so she could buy a bus ticket to the rehab center in Iowa to be near her daughter. Compassion opens like a flower, sometimes. But sometimes it hits you like a frying pan as well. Before I knew what I was doing I was thrusting the cash in her hand. She's been just awful. She smells, for one thing, bad--like old beer and cat piss. And she has no teeth. And she's done nothing but sit by the bedside of her daughter and pick on the nurses. But then, I was nice to her, and she brought in pictures of all her cats and of her crack addict daughter before the accident. She even brought in photographs of cats that had died several years before and told me their stories. We had told her that she couldn't ride along with her daughter in the ambulance (because she's so stinky and annoying, basically) but then the ambulance driver showed up and told her she could. Then our trauma nurse clinician stepped in and, without acknowledging her or making eye contact, said, no she couldn't. So the driver retracted it, making up a bunch of baloney. And I know she's a problem, but she's a person, too, and this girl is all she has. This girl and the trailer and the cats and the booze--and I know people make their own choices, blah blah blah, which seems to be the excuse the devil has given all of us for not helping someone out. "Well, it's their own fault!" So, ouch, down came the frying pan and out went the cash.
Hope she got there okay.
But then the rest of the day I was impossibly cranky. I was ecstatic for about 10 minutes. Then I was a BITCH.
You know, one thing I really know about is being poor. Not any more. But I've been there. I guess not really, not totally, because I've always had a safety I could have drawn on--I can't imagine what it would have been like without the safety. Without knowing that there was always some relative who could get me a plane ticket out of whatever hell I'd made for myself. But there are people who work without a net, the people who have it don't have any right to judge them. Because you do whatever you have to to hold onto that wire.
Who would these fardels bear?
That's my 1/2 hour.
It's because I'm so stressed out I guess.
I'm going to talk about everything that's wrong today.
Yesterday, I went to the gym to do my 20 minutes of aerobic exercise as prescribed by the Body for Life program. I had skipped Thursday and Friday. And somehow, I've managed to gain two pounds since last week. Normally, I walk around my neighborhood, but it was 13 degrees, so I decided to go to the gym and use the elliptical trainer. I picked the one at the end of the row and started up. Next to me was a really buff black guy. He had his I-Pod plugged into the machine (these are really nice machines) and I saw his playlist. The song he was listening to was "Let's all get drunk as fuck." He had his earphones in and was just trucking along, while I was stuck with the gym's music videos of Rihanna and Nickelback. I wondered what the song sounded like. It looked like it was really helping his workout.
He finished, and suddenly I realized that next to me was our vascular Fellow, Karina Smythe. Who didn't make eye contact with or bother to greet me. It bothered me to an almost irrational degree. Why don't the doctors treat the nurses like people? This happens all the time. The only person who regularly acknowledges me in public is Pierre Juneau--the orthopedic surgeon who used to be a trapeze artist with Cirque du Soleil. "'Allo 'Aley! You are good, yes?" Then, today, in Ernie's, I ran into two of the plastic surgery residents. Neither of whom made eye contact or acknowledged me. They were out with Jan, a social worker--girlfriend to one--and she said something, but the other two kept looking at their plates. I guess this happens as you get older--you become invisible. But it made me want to cry. I mean, even ordinary people acknowledge the people they work with, right? On the street, or in the grocery store? Is it so important to maintain the ranking? Are they that insecure? Or do they just not even recognize me? Are we that invisible to them. You know, that's probably it. I'm very quiet. I probably am pretty invisible at work. I'm pretty sure I am, actually. I work for that.
Okay. So that's one fardel.
What else.
Oh. Okay. I'm so stressed that I'm having my second period this month. Fantastic! And I've gained two pounds, despite working out like a fiend--or like a semi-fiend, to be truthful. And I have a paper due. And I have no money. Because I just paid Lilly's winter tuition to St. Xavier's and I gave all my cash to the stinky screamy cat lady so she could buy a bus ticket to the rehab center in Iowa to be near her daughter. Compassion opens like a flower, sometimes. But sometimes it hits you like a frying pan as well. Before I knew what I was doing I was thrusting the cash in her hand. She's been just awful. She smells, for one thing, bad--like old beer and cat piss. And she has no teeth. And she's done nothing but sit by the bedside of her daughter and pick on the nurses. But then, I was nice to her, and she brought in pictures of all her cats and of her crack addict daughter before the accident. She even brought in photographs of cats that had died several years before and told me their stories. We had told her that she couldn't ride along with her daughter in the ambulance (because she's so stinky and annoying, basically) but then the ambulance driver showed up and told her she could. Then our trauma nurse clinician stepped in and, without acknowledging her or making eye contact, said, no she couldn't. So the driver retracted it, making up a bunch of baloney. And I know she's a problem, but she's a person, too, and this girl is all she has. This girl and the trailer and the cats and the booze--and I know people make their own choices, blah blah blah, which seems to be the excuse the devil has given all of us for not helping someone out. "Well, it's their own fault!" So, ouch, down came the frying pan and out went the cash.
Hope she got there okay.
But then the rest of the day I was impossibly cranky. I was ecstatic for about 10 minutes. Then I was a BITCH.
You know, one thing I really know about is being poor. Not any more. But I've been there. I guess not really, not totally, because I've always had a safety I could have drawn on--I can't imagine what it would have been like without the safety. Without knowing that there was always some relative who could get me a plane ticket out of whatever hell I'd made for myself. But there are people who work without a net, the people who have it don't have any right to judge them. Because you do whatever you have to to hold onto that wire.
Who would these fardels bear?
That's my 1/2 hour.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Bargains
Nick's home from New Orleans. The heat's on in the house. He has a cold. Amazing how quickly things resume in families. He's back on the couch, and the living room looks like a bedroom once again. I'm getting to the end of the term and really feeling the stress. I need to take a step back and plan, but I'm too stressed out to make myself do that. All my neurons are firing in different directions (ping ping ping). I'm dealing with the immense load of work on my plate by skipping meetings, sleeping in, and going to movies and out to dinner with the kids. Lilly and I are sitting in the cafe of our independent movie house playing a lot of scrabble. Well, darn it, I just kind of want to revel in them.
The big signal is my deteriorating chess game. And my level of irritation. I played chess with Jay yesterday in the Dakota. He was trying to figure out how to upload something on YouTube. 37 minutes, and it still didn't work. But we got in a nice chess game, which I lost.
Chess is weird with Jay. Mohammed and I used to play every day. He usually beat me, but we took a lot of pleasure in our games. Jay and I played once, 3 weeks into our relationship. He beat me. Then he wouldn't play with me any more: "You're not really a satisfying chess partner for me." He informed me. I couldn't get another game out of him for 3 years. Then I took extra special care to kick his ass. Then he wouldn't play with me because he was intimidated. "You let me win that first time." So I have to judge my game carefully--it has to good enough so that he feels challenged, but poor enough to let him win. What a pain in the ass. Why can't we just fucking play chess? The problem with this relationship is that so many simple things are conditional.
As I'm writing this, Lilly's rooting through the refrigerator. "What are you doing?" she asks.
"Writing."
"Do you have a blog?"
"Yes," I say tersely. Then I feel guilty. Here I've been writing about reveling in my children. But it's only a 1/2 hour. I only allow myself a 1/2 hour. Set the timer. Stop. It's like the chess game. I have to gauge my pleasures carefully.
She pulls out a chinese food container. "Is this still good?"
"I don't know. Have you decided it's time to clean out the refrigerator?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. You're writing. I'll leave you alone."
Lilly puts the chinese food back in the fridge, pulls out a 1/2 empty yoplait whipped yogurt container, starts to eat it. Sticks it back into the fridge. Pulls out another one, and using the same spoon, starts to eat that one.
Note to self: don't eat open yogurt in fridge. She's hanging on the door, in the way that breaks the door. I'm just trying to stay focused.
"You want a piece of toast?"
"No thank you."
We went to get Indian food at Patel's Palace yesterday. My old junior high frenemy, Rita called, leaving an enthusiastic message on my answering machine. "Haley Patton!" She yells, in her friendly Texas drawl (she lives in Texas now), "I can't believe you're still in town. I'm visiting my mom--give me a call." I call her on the way to the restaurant. I've picked Lilly up from voice lessons, snuck in a quick glass of wine with Jay during the lesson, and am driving in the freezing rain. She arrives in blue sparkly cashmere. Her ass is a lot bigger, but she's still beautiful. She must be happy. Girls' butts get bigger when they're happy. Her hair is long and blonde now. Her eyes are still the same sapphire blue (they have always been the most astounding color--since the age of 8). She was the blankest, most boy obsessed thing in junior high and high school. And then she went away to Texas and became a prosecuting attorney. I mean, from what I heard, she was just a barracuda. Who knew?
She's rich now, she married some older oil lawyer. She's sporting a huge sapphire and diamond affair on her left hand, the precise color of her eyes. 10 years ago, I remember having coffee with Rita on Christmas Eve, listening to her sob over same older oil lawyer.
She gives me a hug. All perfume and pokey hair. "Oh," she gushes. "Just look at you! I love your hair. It's so soft and lush. I want my hair to look just like yours! And these are your kids--oh my gosh, they're so big."
"That's quite a ring." I say. I know she wants me to. She wants junior high adulation. She wants the no holds barred envy that only a 13 year old can deliver.
"I know! You never know what life is going to give you! Think about how miserable we were ten years ago!"
We have a nice dinner. We eat everything in sight, and Rita joins in. She tells us about her trips and her life--it's not too bad.
"I've been to Italy, too," Lilly chimes in.
"You have? Oh that's wonderful! Where did you go?"
Lilly rattles off the list. The two of them talk Italy, which is sort of thrilling to Lilly, I think, to have something in common with this beautiful, rich creature perching at our table. Lilly brings up the leather gloves she bought me in Florence.
"Oh!" Rita says. "I know just where you got them. " She describes it. Describes the alley off the square, the little hole-in-the wall shop. Lilly nods, glowing.
"I hate to tell you, "Rita goes on, "but that place is such a rip-off--" and she launches into a whole story, oblivious to the sort of polite tension that has formed around Lilly's mouth. Lilly paid 80 euros for the gloves (on my credit card) but she really felt she was giving me something beautiful and precious.
Dinner winds up. Nick dips early to see his girlfriend. I pick up the tab, after a brief tussle. We say our goodbyes and leave. I put on my ugly hat, the one Jay got me for our first Valentine's day from Mexico and my beautiful, buttery leather gloves.
Lilly rubs them a second. "They're so soft."
"They feel like skin," I agree--"and they're warm."
"I've never seen anything like them here..."Lilly says.
"No, I haven't either. Maybe she was talking about a different shop."
"It sounded like the same shop."
"Maybe she's wrong about the shop. Have you ever seen anything like these anywhere over in this country?"
"No."
"Me either."
Lilly rubs my hands in the gloves again. Smiles. "They're so soft."
"They're beautiful."
We walk back to our car in the freezing drizzle, arms around each other's waists.
The big signal is my deteriorating chess game. And my level of irritation. I played chess with Jay yesterday in the Dakota. He was trying to figure out how to upload something on YouTube. 37 minutes, and it still didn't work. But we got in a nice chess game, which I lost.
Chess is weird with Jay. Mohammed and I used to play every day. He usually beat me, but we took a lot of pleasure in our games. Jay and I played once, 3 weeks into our relationship. He beat me. Then he wouldn't play with me any more: "You're not really a satisfying chess partner for me." He informed me. I couldn't get another game out of him for 3 years. Then I took extra special care to kick his ass. Then he wouldn't play with me because he was intimidated. "You let me win that first time." So I have to judge my game carefully--it has to good enough so that he feels challenged, but poor enough to let him win. What a pain in the ass. Why can't we just fucking play chess? The problem with this relationship is that so many simple things are conditional.
As I'm writing this, Lilly's rooting through the refrigerator. "What are you doing?" she asks.
"Writing."
"Do you have a blog?"
"Yes," I say tersely. Then I feel guilty. Here I've been writing about reveling in my children. But it's only a 1/2 hour. I only allow myself a 1/2 hour. Set the timer. Stop. It's like the chess game. I have to gauge my pleasures carefully.
She pulls out a chinese food container. "Is this still good?"
"I don't know. Have you decided it's time to clean out the refrigerator?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. You're writing. I'll leave you alone."
Lilly puts the chinese food back in the fridge, pulls out a 1/2 empty yoplait whipped yogurt container, starts to eat it. Sticks it back into the fridge. Pulls out another one, and using the same spoon, starts to eat that one.
Note to self: don't eat open yogurt in fridge. She's hanging on the door, in the way that breaks the door. I'm just trying to stay focused.
"You want a piece of toast?"
"No thank you."
We went to get Indian food at Patel's Palace yesterday. My old junior high frenemy, Rita called, leaving an enthusiastic message on my answering machine. "Haley Patton!" She yells, in her friendly Texas drawl (she lives in Texas now), "I can't believe you're still in town. I'm visiting my mom--give me a call." I call her on the way to the restaurant. I've picked Lilly up from voice lessons, snuck in a quick glass of wine with Jay during the lesson, and am driving in the freezing rain. She arrives in blue sparkly cashmere. Her ass is a lot bigger, but she's still beautiful. She must be happy. Girls' butts get bigger when they're happy. Her hair is long and blonde now. Her eyes are still the same sapphire blue (they have always been the most astounding color--since the age of 8). She was the blankest, most boy obsessed thing in junior high and high school. And then she went away to Texas and became a prosecuting attorney. I mean, from what I heard, she was just a barracuda. Who knew?
She's rich now, she married some older oil lawyer. She's sporting a huge sapphire and diamond affair on her left hand, the precise color of her eyes. 10 years ago, I remember having coffee with Rita on Christmas Eve, listening to her sob over same older oil lawyer.
She gives me a hug. All perfume and pokey hair. "Oh," she gushes. "Just look at you! I love your hair. It's so soft and lush. I want my hair to look just like yours! And these are your kids--oh my gosh, they're so big."
"That's quite a ring." I say. I know she wants me to. She wants junior high adulation. She wants the no holds barred envy that only a 13 year old can deliver.
"I know! You never know what life is going to give you! Think about how miserable we were ten years ago!"
We have a nice dinner. We eat everything in sight, and Rita joins in. She tells us about her trips and her life--it's not too bad.
"I've been to Italy, too," Lilly chimes in.
"You have? Oh that's wonderful! Where did you go?"
Lilly rattles off the list. The two of them talk Italy, which is sort of thrilling to Lilly, I think, to have something in common with this beautiful, rich creature perching at our table. Lilly brings up the leather gloves she bought me in Florence.
"Oh!" Rita says. "I know just where you got them. " She describes it. Describes the alley off the square, the little hole-in-the wall shop. Lilly nods, glowing.
"I hate to tell you, "Rita goes on, "but that place is such a rip-off--" and she launches into a whole story, oblivious to the sort of polite tension that has formed around Lilly's mouth. Lilly paid 80 euros for the gloves (on my credit card) but she really felt she was giving me something beautiful and precious.
Dinner winds up. Nick dips early to see his girlfriend. I pick up the tab, after a brief tussle. We say our goodbyes and leave. I put on my ugly hat, the one Jay got me for our first Valentine's day from Mexico and my beautiful, buttery leather gloves.
Lilly rubs them a second. "They're so soft."
"They feel like skin," I agree--"and they're warm."
"I've never seen anything like them here..."Lilly says.
"No, I haven't either. Maybe she was talking about a different shop."
"It sounded like the same shop."
"Maybe she's wrong about the shop. Have you ever seen anything like these anywhere over in this country?"
"No."
"Me either."
Lilly rubs my hands in the gloves again. Smiles. "They're so soft."
"They're beautiful."
We walk back to our car in the freezing drizzle, arms around each other's waists.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Socks and Parties
We're trying to go as long as we can without turning on the heat. We only had the heat on a few days last month, and our bill jumped to $120. So Lilly and I are wearing long underwear and heavy sweaters and spending most of our time in the library. Jay bought me three pairs of Smart Wool Socks, unexpectedly. He dropped them by the house while I was at work. "Why socks?" I asked on the phone.
"I can't stand your socks. You need good socks. Socks are important."
Well, okay.
I love them. They're so beautiful and thick and cushy. They make me feel rich. I like them so much, I safety-pin them together when I wash them keep them from getting separated. I never do things like that.
Maybe socks are important. I like wearing them at work, except they don't really do anything for my legs, which are swelling up more and more. Bilateral pitting edema. +2-3. Why? It used to resolve during the week. Now it just hangs around, swelling my trim little ankles. Breaking my heart.
"What do you think this is all about?" I ask Wiz.
"Right sided heart failure." He says dispassionately, and moves on.
Wonderful.
Drunken Disaster and I had two codes together over the weekend. During the first one, as we were desperately slamming fluids into our triple A, who was exsanguinating in front of us, I said "Get the plasma up," and she said, "It wouldn't hurt you to say please once in awhile."
Several retorts came to mind. 1) "Please--kiss my ass" 2)Only if you stop drinking! But I said neither. I said, "Oh, Morgan, I'm so sorry." Then afterwards, she told me that she thought I was a little bossy.
"Really?" I secretly felt sort of proud. It's taken me so long to be bossy. I mean, in my life, I've never been bossy. I can't believe I've become bossy enough to have people complain to me about it! But I didn't say that. I said, "I'm sorry you feel that way, Morgan. Sometimes in a crisis situation I do become a little terse. I'll tell you what, I'll work on softening up if you work on not taking personally."
"Done." She said. And I started to like her a little bit.
I asked Marcy later, "Am I bossy?"
She just started laughing. "Oh my God. Are you kidding?"
"I am?"
"You are SO bossy."
I asked Wiz. Who also started laughing. "Oh no, not you. Never you."
Hmm.
After work, I dragged Lilly and Marcy and her kid out to a party at Hunter's in Deerville, where he owns a building in their tiny downtown. There was an R&B band, made up of middle-aged white people that was pretty good, and lots of food. Everyone we know is there. Sybil, dressed in velvet and cowboy boots, hair long blonde and flowing, overly made-up eyes glazed and wild--she looks like she's done a lot of acid at some time in the distant past--smiles ecstatically at me as I come in, kisses me on both cheeks. Then she kisses the redheaded woman behind me square on the mouth. Guess I got off easy. "Oh, my God, Mom," Lilly hisses, "She just kissed that woman on the mouth. " "Act casual," I tell Lilly, who starts giggling. There are other kids there, hanging out upstairs, playing games and reading. Lilly joins them.
Sybil and Hunter dance in front of the band, Sybil moving like a snake and Hunter sort of stumbling his bulk in rhythm, his bald head gleaming, in the dim light. He clearly has an erection, his khakis stretched across his groin. The band's playing "Werewolves of London" Jay and I are outside on the porch watching the scene through the window.
"Acck." Jay says. "there's something really wrong with this picture."
Marcy comes up beside us. I think Marcy's life would be better if she had a little lovin, so that's been my project lately: the Marcy Lovin Project. She's wearing a bowler hat made out of ostrich feathers. She looks exactly like a muppet. "I think she's a witch." She says, watching Sybil slithering around the floor.
"It's bad when hillbillies get experimental."
"It's so....french."
"Those french people have a word for everything." We all start laughing. A guy comes up, asks Marcy to dance. She bobs off, feathers flouncing.
"Let's do some Crocket County Woman Flinging," Jay says, and pulls me close. We dance on the porch, by ourselves. It's nice, because neither of us are very good dancers, but we do like dancing with each other. The band starts playing "Take Me to the River"
That's my 1/2 hour.
"I can't stand your socks. You need good socks. Socks are important."
Well, okay.
I love them. They're so beautiful and thick and cushy. They make me feel rich. I like them so much, I safety-pin them together when I wash them keep them from getting separated. I never do things like that.
Maybe socks are important. I like wearing them at work, except they don't really do anything for my legs, which are swelling up more and more. Bilateral pitting edema. +2-3. Why? It used to resolve during the week. Now it just hangs around, swelling my trim little ankles. Breaking my heart.
"What do you think this is all about?" I ask Wiz.
"Right sided heart failure." He says dispassionately, and moves on.
Wonderful.
Drunken Disaster and I had two codes together over the weekend. During the first one, as we were desperately slamming fluids into our triple A, who was exsanguinating in front of us, I said "Get the plasma up," and she said, "It wouldn't hurt you to say please once in awhile."
Several retorts came to mind. 1) "Please--kiss my ass" 2)Only if you stop drinking! But I said neither. I said, "Oh, Morgan, I'm so sorry." Then afterwards, she told me that she thought I was a little bossy.
"Really?" I secretly felt sort of proud. It's taken me so long to be bossy. I mean, in my life, I've never been bossy. I can't believe I've become bossy enough to have people complain to me about it! But I didn't say that. I said, "I'm sorry you feel that way, Morgan. Sometimes in a crisis situation I do become a little terse. I'll tell you what, I'll work on softening up if you work on not taking personally."
"Done." She said. And I started to like her a little bit.
I asked Marcy later, "Am I bossy?"
She just started laughing. "Oh my God. Are you kidding?"
"I am?"
"You are SO bossy."
I asked Wiz. Who also started laughing. "Oh no, not you. Never you."
Hmm.
After work, I dragged Lilly and Marcy and her kid out to a party at Hunter's in Deerville, where he owns a building in their tiny downtown. There was an R&B band, made up of middle-aged white people that was pretty good, and lots of food. Everyone we know is there. Sybil, dressed in velvet and cowboy boots, hair long blonde and flowing, overly made-up eyes glazed and wild--she looks like she's done a lot of acid at some time in the distant past--smiles ecstatically at me as I come in, kisses me on both cheeks. Then she kisses the redheaded woman behind me square on the mouth. Guess I got off easy. "Oh, my God, Mom," Lilly hisses, "She just kissed that woman on the mouth. " "Act casual," I tell Lilly, who starts giggling. There are other kids there, hanging out upstairs, playing games and reading. Lilly joins them.
Sybil and Hunter dance in front of the band, Sybil moving like a snake and Hunter sort of stumbling his bulk in rhythm, his bald head gleaming, in the dim light. He clearly has an erection, his khakis stretched across his groin. The band's playing "Werewolves of London" Jay and I are outside on the porch watching the scene through the window.
"Acck." Jay says. "there's something really wrong with this picture."
Marcy comes up beside us. I think Marcy's life would be better if she had a little lovin, so that's been my project lately: the Marcy Lovin Project. She's wearing a bowler hat made out of ostrich feathers. She looks exactly like a muppet. "I think she's a witch." She says, watching Sybil slithering around the floor.
"It's bad when hillbillies get experimental."
"It's so....french."
"Those french people have a word for everything." We all start laughing. A guy comes up, asks Marcy to dance. She bobs off, feathers flouncing.
"Let's do some Crocket County Woman Flinging," Jay says, and pulls me close. We dance on the porch, by ourselves. It's nice, because neither of us are very good dancers, but we do like dancing with each other. The band starts playing "Take Me to the River"
That's my 1/2 hour.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Bless. Their. Hearts.
Trying to write a paper on class mobility for my community health class. Does it exist?
No.
Stuck in the library, spent my time scouting Brooks Brothers deals on ebay and resolving an unpaid item strike. Not all my time. Halie in the cat suit has made me angry. Which she does on purpose. Met with the director of pharmacy in the morning. I got lost. In my own hospital. I ran into the Assistant director, Charles, whom I know well.
"How can you possibly be lost?" He asks me incredulously. "You come down here all the time!" I'm on a Quality Assurance team. We're trying to get the hospital to vaccinate family members of newborns with TdaP. The pharmacy director was very pleasant. I liked his messy desk and his neat files. He looked like he got things done. He was the kind of regular guy I believe there used to be a lot of in the 50's, but have since disappeared in this land of raging ego. Small unstylish glasses, nice shoes not overly shined, grey flannel pants, dress shirt and tie. Hair cut short, no particular style. He reminded me of my grandfather. A picture of him with his plump grey-haired unpretentious looking wife under a palm tree somewhere warm. Friendly. Just the kind of person who should be in charge of the pharmacy. No status symbols around--gold pens, things like that.
"Any chance of getting this for free?" I ask him.
"Not a chance." He tells me pleasantly. "Solvent altruism--those are my watchwords."
Our team leader is this little elderly physician named Dr. Barrelman. He's a little full of himself.
"Dr. Barrelman, bless his heart, would give all the medicine away to everyone for free. But last time I checked, the public health option hadn't passed." He smiles. I change my appraisal. "bless their hearts" is hospital code for "asshole"
"Bless his heart."I repeat.
"Bless. His. Heart."
So, no free vaccine.
I run into Dr. Barrelman in the Thai restaurant, where Lilly and I are splitting coconut curry and dumplings, extra hot. He's sitting in the corner with a blissfully beautiful young blonde woman. There are only 4 parties in the restaurant tonight--the mayor's son-in-law is getting progressively soused with the editor of the paper, both are arguing passionately and loudly over the new bicycle ordinance, a bunch of Chinese kids giggling and flirting with each other, Dr. Barrelman and the mystery blonde, and us. It's Lilly's therapy day, and we always go out to eat afterwards. Well, the sequence goes like this: Lilly and I have therapy. Lilly goes to the Dakota to chill out and I go grab a glass of wine with Jay. Lilly and I always fight after therapy. But we discovered if we take a break for a little bit, right afterwards, we don't. Then we eat dinner and study downtown. For some reason, these days are really difficult for us. Lilly is getting more depressed. We can both see it happening, but we don't know what to do. I don't know what to do! Maybe Italy again? She cries a lot. She wants to be perfect at everything. She wants a boyfriend. She wants life to be different. She says she only feels alive when she's in a movie theater. "Do you want to go see a movie?" I suggest.
"No! You don't get it!"
Dr. Barrelman and the luminous blonde come over to our table. "Hello, there!" he says. "Rebecca, right?"
"Haley."
"Oh, right."
"Medical school...4th year, right?
"Trauma Surgical Intensive Care Unit. Nurse."
"Oh! Right! This is my wife, Kyrie."
"As in, Kyrie eleison?"
"Yes," she breathes, extending a warm, pretty hand, "That is my chosen name." She smiles. "I think you're in my yoga class."
"I believe I am."
"Namaste."
Lilly's eyes are bright and amused.
"I just started teaching." She says. "My first class, tonight!"
"I just went to my first class," Dr. Barrelman says, beaming through his elfin wrinkles. "It was marvelous! How did your meeting with Stanley go?"
"He's not giving it to us for free."
"Bless his heart." Dr. Barrelman says.
"Bless his heart." I repeat.
Kyrie smiles benevolently. "Bless us all." she says sincerely.
That's my 1/2 hour.
No.
Stuck in the library, spent my time scouting Brooks Brothers deals on ebay and resolving an unpaid item strike. Not all my time. Halie in the cat suit has made me angry. Which she does on purpose. Met with the director of pharmacy in the morning. I got lost. In my own hospital. I ran into the Assistant director, Charles, whom I know well.
"How can you possibly be lost?" He asks me incredulously. "You come down here all the time!" I'm on a Quality Assurance team. We're trying to get the hospital to vaccinate family members of newborns with TdaP. The pharmacy director was very pleasant. I liked his messy desk and his neat files. He looked like he got things done. He was the kind of regular guy I believe there used to be a lot of in the 50's, but have since disappeared in this land of raging ego. Small unstylish glasses, nice shoes not overly shined, grey flannel pants, dress shirt and tie. Hair cut short, no particular style. He reminded me of my grandfather. A picture of him with his plump grey-haired unpretentious looking wife under a palm tree somewhere warm. Friendly. Just the kind of person who should be in charge of the pharmacy. No status symbols around--gold pens, things like that.
"Any chance of getting this for free?" I ask him.
"Not a chance." He tells me pleasantly. "Solvent altruism--those are my watchwords."
Our team leader is this little elderly physician named Dr. Barrelman. He's a little full of himself.
"Dr. Barrelman, bless his heart, would give all the medicine away to everyone for free. But last time I checked, the public health option hadn't passed." He smiles. I change my appraisal. "bless their hearts" is hospital code for "asshole"
"Bless his heart."I repeat.
"Bless. His. Heart."
So, no free vaccine.
I run into Dr. Barrelman in the Thai restaurant, where Lilly and I are splitting coconut curry and dumplings, extra hot. He's sitting in the corner with a blissfully beautiful young blonde woman. There are only 4 parties in the restaurant tonight--the mayor's son-in-law is getting progressively soused with the editor of the paper, both are arguing passionately and loudly over the new bicycle ordinance, a bunch of Chinese kids giggling and flirting with each other, Dr. Barrelman and the mystery blonde, and us. It's Lilly's therapy day, and we always go out to eat afterwards. Well, the sequence goes like this: Lilly and I have therapy. Lilly goes to the Dakota to chill out and I go grab a glass of wine with Jay. Lilly and I always fight after therapy. But we discovered if we take a break for a little bit, right afterwards, we don't. Then we eat dinner and study downtown. For some reason, these days are really difficult for us. Lilly is getting more depressed. We can both see it happening, but we don't know what to do. I don't know what to do! Maybe Italy again? She cries a lot. She wants to be perfect at everything. She wants a boyfriend. She wants life to be different. She says she only feels alive when she's in a movie theater. "Do you want to go see a movie?" I suggest.
"No! You don't get it!"
Dr. Barrelman and the luminous blonde come over to our table. "Hello, there!" he says. "Rebecca, right?"
"Haley."
"Oh, right."
"Medical school...4th year, right?
"Trauma Surgical Intensive Care Unit. Nurse."
"Oh! Right! This is my wife, Kyrie."
"As in, Kyrie eleison?"
"Yes," she breathes, extending a warm, pretty hand, "That is my chosen name." She smiles. "I think you're in my yoga class."
"I believe I am."
"Namaste."
Lilly's eyes are bright and amused.
"I just started teaching." She says. "My first class, tonight!"
"I just went to my first class," Dr. Barrelman says, beaming through his elfin wrinkles. "It was marvelous! How did your meeting with Stanley go?"
"He's not giving it to us for free."
"Bless his heart." Dr. Barrelman says.
"Bless his heart." I repeat.
Kyrie smiles benevolently. "Bless us all." she says sincerely.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Invisible Nurses
Dressed in my ebay Brooks Brothers dotted navy silk skirt and rust-colored silk sweater for clinicals, sitting quietly in xray rounds at the back of the room, two floors up with the medicine docs. Code pager goes off. Everyone goes for the pagers.
"It's the code pager," one snorts, a little guy with gel spiked hair and a chiva. "Probably SI."
"5 codes yesterday."
"Yeah, and every time they called us the damn nurse told us we weren't needed."
Narrow faced blonde resident: "Then they shouldn't fucking page us if they don't need us."
I think back to yesterday afternoon, and remember her (suprisingly, given my facility with faces) leaning against the sink during the code, as we tripped over her trying to get to the med box. Interesting that no one recognized me as the damn nurse. No one looks at nurses.
5 codes. On the same patient. Wiz covered with blood and shit. We'd get her back, then we'd lose her. Then we'd get her back. The family was in the room the whole time. Came suddenly, with no warning. Sweet little old lady, squeezing my hand and smiling, waking up from surgery. Started to give her a unit of blood, making pleasant conversation with the family, who were just chatting, chatting, I watched her blood pressure plummet after a few minutes--20 points systolic--not awful, but not good
"Excuse me," I say, politely, and feel that weird slow calm coming that always happens when things are about to get really bad.
Finally, after 4 hours of this, the family had had enough.
"I can't stand this," her husband says. "I just can't stand this."
Death takes hours. It takes more paperwork to die than it does to get a student loan. There's a checklist and a certificate and the medical examiner, and all the signatures, and washing and bagging the body, and the funeral home, and people flying in who want to see the body, and calling in the social worker on call, because the VA won't let them in on their own into the morgue--you wouldn't believe the amount of detail work that goes into coding someone 5 times and then closing their chart. Our new nurse, Patricia, who is a little inept, but tries really hard, is doggedly HELPING me each step of the way. "Sit down. Eat some yogurt. I have organic. You need to take care of you." Helps me wash and bag the body. As we're about to zip the bag up, I reflexively feel her carotid. Is that a pulse?
It's happened to me once. A 17 year old girl. Blue line pulsing in her neck as we were about to bag her. Coded her again. Lost her.
"Patty, do you feel a pulse?"
Patty places her hand on her neck, then her femoral artery. "No, no pulse."
I suddenly feel as if I'm going to start crying.
"I think I feel a pulse. Excuse me."
Sometimes, after these things, I think I go a little crazy. Not in a way I can immediately perceive. But I know that I'm not right.
I go get Wiz.
Wiz has been weird since he came back. He's very quiet. He hasn't made eye contact with me or spoken to me personally at all. He doesn't even return my 'good morning.' When he tells me things, it's in short, polite, informational sentences. It's been a little strange and lonely. He's a lot thinner and paler and his hair is too fuzzy. I don't know what's up.
I walk into the patient's room where Wiz is on the other side of the unit. He turns around right away and holds my hand, like I'm a little kid.
"What is it?"
"Please come tell me my patient's dead."
"Ok."
We walk back to the room holding hands. He checks the pulses, carotid, femoral.
"I felt a pulse." I explain.
"I know. But she doesn't have one."
"She's dead?"
He checks her all over, like my dad would do, going through the closets and under the bed when I was little.
"She's dead."
"It's ok to put her in the shroud?"
"Yes. It's ok, Haley. She's not here anymore. No, you're not crazy."
Then he goes out of the room.
Patty looks at me. "I just love you," she says. "Please don't ever stop working here. Because I really like you as a person, and I really like working with you."
"Thank you for the yogurt."
We bag her. I clean the blood on the floor with H2O2.
We're there late, going over the code sheets, putting the code carts back together (we went through 7 drug boxes) catching up on charting. Marcy helps me. We walk out together and find Wiz lying on the couch in the break room, head back over the arm rest, singing Uriah Heap.
"You ok?"I ask.
"I'm covered in shit and blood. My legs are all gritty when I walk, and they rub together in this weird way."
"Should remind you of your club days in Minneapolis" I say
"That's why they call me 'boy.'"
"That is not why they call you 'boy.'"
"Call no man a fool." He says.
"Call no man raca. But can you call them a fucking idiot?"
"Your halloween ok?"
"No. "
"Figured. What'd she pull?"
Halie.
"Costume problems?"
He nods and smiles. "Did it involve spandex?"
"How did you know? Cat suit unitard. No bra. Little fluffy tail."
"You know, this is just about them--it's still their fight and you're just in the middle, right? They don't even see you."
"I know."
"People are viciously self-centered. Rapaciously attached to their own self-interest."
Marcy and I are both standing over him. Tired blood little Wiz.
"What are you guys talking about?" Marcy asks.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Marcy
"It's the code pager," one snorts, a little guy with gel spiked hair and a chiva. "Probably SI."
"5 codes yesterday."
"Yeah, and every time they called us the damn nurse told us we weren't needed."
Narrow faced blonde resident: "Then they shouldn't fucking page us if they don't need us."
I think back to yesterday afternoon, and remember her (suprisingly, given my facility with faces) leaning against the sink during the code, as we tripped over her trying to get to the med box. Interesting that no one recognized me as the damn nurse. No one looks at nurses.
5 codes. On the same patient. Wiz covered with blood and shit. We'd get her back, then we'd lose her. Then we'd get her back. The family was in the room the whole time. Came suddenly, with no warning. Sweet little old lady, squeezing my hand and smiling, waking up from surgery. Started to give her a unit of blood, making pleasant conversation with the family, who were just chatting, chatting, I watched her blood pressure plummet after a few minutes--20 points systolic--not awful, but not good
"Excuse me," I say, politely, and feel that weird slow calm coming that always happens when things are about to get really bad.
Finally, after 4 hours of this, the family had had enough.
"I can't stand this," her husband says. "I just can't stand this."
Death takes hours. It takes more paperwork to die than it does to get a student loan. There's a checklist and a certificate and the medical examiner, and all the signatures, and washing and bagging the body, and the funeral home, and people flying in who want to see the body, and calling in the social worker on call, because the VA won't let them in on their own into the morgue--you wouldn't believe the amount of detail work that goes into coding someone 5 times and then closing their chart. Our new nurse, Patricia, who is a little inept, but tries really hard, is doggedly HELPING me each step of the way. "Sit down. Eat some yogurt. I have organic. You need to take care of you." Helps me wash and bag the body. As we're about to zip the bag up, I reflexively feel her carotid. Is that a pulse?
It's happened to me once. A 17 year old girl. Blue line pulsing in her neck as we were about to bag her. Coded her again. Lost her.
"Patty, do you feel a pulse?"
Patty places her hand on her neck, then her femoral artery. "No, no pulse."
I suddenly feel as if I'm going to start crying.
"I think I feel a pulse. Excuse me."
Sometimes, after these things, I think I go a little crazy. Not in a way I can immediately perceive. But I know that I'm not right.
I go get Wiz.
Wiz has been weird since he came back. He's very quiet. He hasn't made eye contact with me or spoken to me personally at all. He doesn't even return my 'good morning.' When he tells me things, it's in short, polite, informational sentences. It's been a little strange and lonely. He's a lot thinner and paler and his hair is too fuzzy. I don't know what's up.
I walk into the patient's room where Wiz is on the other side of the unit. He turns around right away and holds my hand, like I'm a little kid.
"What is it?"
"Please come tell me my patient's dead."
"Ok."
We walk back to the room holding hands. He checks the pulses, carotid, femoral.
"I felt a pulse." I explain.
"I know. But she doesn't have one."
"She's dead?"
He checks her all over, like my dad would do, going through the closets and under the bed when I was little.
"She's dead."
"It's ok to put her in the shroud?"
"Yes. It's ok, Haley. She's not here anymore. No, you're not crazy."
Then he goes out of the room.
Patty looks at me. "I just love you," she says. "Please don't ever stop working here. Because I really like you as a person, and I really like working with you."
"Thank you for the yogurt."
We bag her. I clean the blood on the floor with H2O2.
We're there late, going over the code sheets, putting the code carts back together (we went through 7 drug boxes) catching up on charting. Marcy helps me. We walk out together and find Wiz lying on the couch in the break room, head back over the arm rest, singing Uriah Heap.
"You ok?"I ask.
"I'm covered in shit and blood. My legs are all gritty when I walk, and they rub together in this weird way."
"Should remind you of your club days in Minneapolis" I say
"That's why they call me 'boy.'"
"That is not why they call you 'boy.'"
"Call no man a fool." He says.
"Call no man raca. But can you call them a fucking idiot?"
"Your halloween ok?"
"No. "
"Figured. What'd she pull?"
Halie.
"Costume problems?"
He nods and smiles. "Did it involve spandex?"
"How did you know? Cat suit unitard. No bra. Little fluffy tail."
"You know, this is just about them--it's still their fight and you're just in the middle, right? They don't even see you."
"I know."
"People are viciously self-centered. Rapaciously attached to their own self-interest."
Marcy and I are both standing over him. Tired blood little Wiz.
"What are you guys talking about?" Marcy asks.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Marcy
Monday, October 26, 2009
They Can't Take That Away
I know this is probably my imagination, but sometimes my brain just feels tired--like I'm squeezing it too hard. Does your brain ever feel this way? I mean, my brain actually hurts. Not a headache. My brain. Like it's pumping iron and not doing very well.
I was so tired after work yesterday that I forgot where I was in the grocery store. Lilly and I went grocery shopping and in the candle aisle, Lilly showed me an article in one of the celebrity glossies about Glee--a show we've both become addicted to (I have to say--I don't really check men out physically--other than butts--I kind of notice butts--BUT!--other than that, I'm really a smell and snuggle girl--but what's his face in Glee--the teacher guy has a really awesome body. Not that I'm buying into this whole celebrity culture thing, but, you know, the truth's the truth!)--we were there late after work buying milk and lightbulbs, in the freezing rain. With the dog--and when I looked up from the magazine, I suddenly couldn't remember which direction the cash registers were. It was so scary. I had to close my eyes and re-orient myself. I think I'm going to start making myself play chess online.
I worry about my brain a lot. I think I'm just doing too much. This happened to me when I was getting a divorce, 15 years ago. I had everyone's phone number memorized and I just forgot them one day. Every single one. I went to a doctor about it, who told me I was just stressed and that when my life improved, the phone numbers would come back. She was right. They did. I just think about my grandfather and all his little post-it notes all over the house--sort of a flowchart on how to conduct a daily existence ('the faucet turns to the right'--that sort of thing) and I get worried. Of course, he was almost 90, so maybe that's ok.
Some of the things I'm forgetting worry me. For example, on my 18th birthday, my friend Evan Marquit took me to New York for the first time. It was really a beautiful night. First we went to Cafe Un Deux Trois with his older brother, a stockbroker, and his wife. They were prototypical screaming 80's successes. Both stockbrokers, both funny and sharp and kind and unapologetically capitalist. They had a little machine with an antennae that they put on the table during drinks that showed them the world markets, and they kept an eye on it. The table cloths were paper and you could draw on them. Which was really cool, then. (Now it's everywhere, I know) We had some sort of clear, awful tasting liqueur with coffee beans floating in it. About half-way through, Evan's brother noticed I wasn't drinking, smiled and ordered me vodka tonic. My first one. "Trust me." He said. Then we went to his apartment for dinner. I don't remember what we had, but I do remember that it was all black and white and had a Baldwin baby grand. Which is the best piano. Screw Steinway. And there were two godiva chocolates at each plate. And I'd never had those either. Then we went to see La Cage--and I recognized someone from my high school in the chorus line--so we went backstage and talked to him. Evan tried to argue me out of it. "No, you don't recognize anyone--you don't know anyone in this show." But I did! Dennis Callahan. He was dressed all in leather--some sort of jumpsuit with lots of zippers. Oh, New York! What it does to county boys.....ok. So then we went to Rick's on 86th (after a stop at a fortune teller who told me I would have three children, die at 82, and marry Evan), a piano bar, and Evan told the pianist that I could sing. So they called me up there. And I sang. I was wearing a green velvet drop waist dress that my mother had made for me.
It was my birthday a few days ago, and I was thinking all about this evening. Because I was Lilly's age. But then I got to the song part--and I couldn't remember what I sang! I could remember that the chocolates at my dinner plate had rasberry liqueur in them and the beans floating on the clear liqueur--I can remember Evan's sister-in-law's beautiful red suit--but I couldn't remember the song. I went through all the songs I would have known at that time--God Bless the Child? No. Ghost of yesterday? No. Cry me a River? probably not. And a funny thing happened with that memory, every time I thought of a song, I could almost convince myself that that was the song I'd sung. Ok. I'd think. That's it. And I could almost see and hear myself, sitting next to the pianist with my eyes clenched shut, facing away from the audience, singing into the mike.
So--the present. My birthday. I go to the alumni club with my parents and Lilly. It's raining. I've been at clinicals all day. I decided to invite Jay at the last minute, because I figured then he'd get the hint to refuse and he wouldn't have to deal with my mother at some interminable, horrible family event. Which unfolds predictably, with my mother saying, "Where's Jay? Couldn't be bothered to celebrate your birthday after 4 years?" And then I'm mad at Jay and at them all--my parents for being too crazy to introduce to boys and my boyfriend for not EVER sucking it up and dealing with them, and my mother for being mean. "She's on High Crazy Mean--"Lilly mutters to me as we edge up to the buffet. We're put in an almost empty dining room--the bar, actually, which has been converted into tables to handle the overflow from the main room--it's homecoming. There is one other couple--a romantic couple--mixed--sitting in a corner by the window. This compels my mother to make comments about black people throughout the meal which Lilly and I and my father ignore. It's just pretty much unabated awful.
"Do you want a brick?" my mother asks me. "We bought a commemorative brick." After dinner, she shows me the brick on the walkway outside the center. "We'll buy you one after you get your Masters--and even if you don't. I really don't see how you're going to do it. I didn't get through law school--there's no shame in not finishing."
We're waiting under the awning for my father to bring the van so he can drive me to where I've parked--all the way in East Jesus behind the hospital. About a 20 minute walk.
"Let's walk," Lilly suddenly suggests.
"You don't want to walk. You're anorexic. You can't afford the calories." Mom says.
"Let's walk." I concur. I kiss everyone. My father arrives. "Bye!"
And off we go.
Thank god.
No one's out. The rain's falling softly, and it's really not that cold. Lilly and I walk with our arms around each other under the umbrella, smelling the sweet rain smells of the gardens on campus and the turning trees. Even at night, you can still see the trees are golden as you walk under them.
Dinner disappears.
"Do you want your present?" Lilly asks.
"Sure! You have it with you?"
"I do." She pulls out a little box.
"Little boxes always have the best presents." I say. I open it up. It's a tiny little cloissonne elephant box. "It's beautiful!"
"thank you. See you can put your fuzzies in it."
"Thank you."
We're standing under a gingko tree. The wet leaves are all over the steps. We start to walk and Lilly starts to hum a song, then sing softly, "The way you hold your hat...the way you sip your tea..."
I join in..."the memory of all that.."and it suddenly floods back to me. That was the song I sang at Rick's on 86th. 25 years ago. We sing it all the way back to the car. No one's around, just my red-haired daughter and me, walking across the dark campus, arm and arm.
I was so tired after work yesterday that I forgot where I was in the grocery store. Lilly and I went grocery shopping and in the candle aisle, Lilly showed me an article in one of the celebrity glossies about Glee--a show we've both become addicted to (I have to say--I don't really check men out physically--other than butts--I kind of notice butts--BUT!--other than that, I'm really a smell and snuggle girl--but what's his face in Glee--the teacher guy has a really awesome body. Not that I'm buying into this whole celebrity culture thing, but, you know, the truth's the truth!)--we were there late after work buying milk and lightbulbs, in the freezing rain. With the dog--and when I looked up from the magazine, I suddenly couldn't remember which direction the cash registers were. It was so scary. I had to close my eyes and re-orient myself. I think I'm going to start making myself play chess online.
I worry about my brain a lot. I think I'm just doing too much. This happened to me when I was getting a divorce, 15 years ago. I had everyone's phone number memorized and I just forgot them one day. Every single one. I went to a doctor about it, who told me I was just stressed and that when my life improved, the phone numbers would come back. She was right. They did. I just think about my grandfather and all his little post-it notes all over the house--sort of a flowchart on how to conduct a daily existence ('the faucet turns to the right'--that sort of thing) and I get worried. Of course, he was almost 90, so maybe that's ok.
Some of the things I'm forgetting worry me. For example, on my 18th birthday, my friend Evan Marquit took me to New York for the first time. It was really a beautiful night. First we went to Cafe Un Deux Trois with his older brother, a stockbroker, and his wife. They were prototypical screaming 80's successes. Both stockbrokers, both funny and sharp and kind and unapologetically capitalist. They had a little machine with an antennae that they put on the table during drinks that showed them the world markets, and they kept an eye on it. The table cloths were paper and you could draw on them. Which was really cool, then. (Now it's everywhere, I know) We had some sort of clear, awful tasting liqueur with coffee beans floating in it. About half-way through, Evan's brother noticed I wasn't drinking, smiled and ordered me vodka tonic. My first one. "Trust me." He said. Then we went to his apartment for dinner. I don't remember what we had, but I do remember that it was all black and white and had a Baldwin baby grand. Which is the best piano. Screw Steinway. And there were two godiva chocolates at each plate. And I'd never had those either. Then we went to see La Cage--and I recognized someone from my high school in the chorus line--so we went backstage and talked to him. Evan tried to argue me out of it. "No, you don't recognize anyone--you don't know anyone in this show." But I did! Dennis Callahan. He was dressed all in leather--some sort of jumpsuit with lots of zippers. Oh, New York! What it does to county boys.....ok. So then we went to Rick's on 86th (after a stop at a fortune teller who told me I would have three children, die at 82, and marry Evan), a piano bar, and Evan told the pianist that I could sing. So they called me up there. And I sang. I was wearing a green velvet drop waist dress that my mother had made for me.
It was my birthday a few days ago, and I was thinking all about this evening. Because I was Lilly's age. But then I got to the song part--and I couldn't remember what I sang! I could remember that the chocolates at my dinner plate had rasberry liqueur in them and the beans floating on the clear liqueur--I can remember Evan's sister-in-law's beautiful red suit--but I couldn't remember the song. I went through all the songs I would have known at that time--God Bless the Child? No. Ghost of yesterday? No. Cry me a River? probably not. And a funny thing happened with that memory, every time I thought of a song, I could almost convince myself that that was the song I'd sung. Ok. I'd think. That's it. And I could almost see and hear myself, sitting next to the pianist with my eyes clenched shut, facing away from the audience, singing into the mike.
So--the present. My birthday. I go to the alumni club with my parents and Lilly. It's raining. I've been at clinicals all day. I decided to invite Jay at the last minute, because I figured then he'd get the hint to refuse and he wouldn't have to deal with my mother at some interminable, horrible family event. Which unfolds predictably, with my mother saying, "Where's Jay? Couldn't be bothered to celebrate your birthday after 4 years?" And then I'm mad at Jay and at them all--my parents for being too crazy to introduce to boys and my boyfriend for not EVER sucking it up and dealing with them, and my mother for being mean. "She's on High Crazy Mean--"Lilly mutters to me as we edge up to the buffet. We're put in an almost empty dining room--the bar, actually, which has been converted into tables to handle the overflow from the main room--it's homecoming. There is one other couple--a romantic couple--mixed--sitting in a corner by the window. This compels my mother to make comments about black people throughout the meal which Lilly and I and my father ignore. It's just pretty much unabated awful.
"Do you want a brick?" my mother asks me. "We bought a commemorative brick." After dinner, she shows me the brick on the walkway outside the center. "We'll buy you one after you get your Masters--and even if you don't. I really don't see how you're going to do it. I didn't get through law school--there's no shame in not finishing."
We're waiting under the awning for my father to bring the van so he can drive me to where I've parked--all the way in East Jesus behind the hospital. About a 20 minute walk.
"Let's walk," Lilly suddenly suggests.
"You don't want to walk. You're anorexic. You can't afford the calories." Mom says.
"Let's walk." I concur. I kiss everyone. My father arrives. "Bye!"
And off we go.
Thank god.
No one's out. The rain's falling softly, and it's really not that cold. Lilly and I walk with our arms around each other under the umbrella, smelling the sweet rain smells of the gardens on campus and the turning trees. Even at night, you can still see the trees are golden as you walk under them.
Dinner disappears.
"Do you want your present?" Lilly asks.
"Sure! You have it with you?"
"I do." She pulls out a little box.
"Little boxes always have the best presents." I say. I open it up. It's a tiny little cloissonne elephant box. "It's beautiful!"
"thank you. See you can put your fuzzies in it."
"Thank you."
We're standing under a gingko tree. The wet leaves are all over the steps. We start to walk and Lilly starts to hum a song, then sing softly, "The way you hold your hat...the way you sip your tea..."
I join in..."the memory of all that.."and it suddenly floods back to me. That was the song I sang at Rick's on 86th. 25 years ago. We sing it all the way back to the car. No one's around, just my red-haired daughter and me, walking across the dark campus, arm and arm.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Happy Families
Nick left yesterday. He'd come home on the City of New Orleans to visit. He spent most of his time with his girlfriend, Katy. Which was fine. But I got a few nice hours with him yesterday. We've had rain and rain and rain, but the weekend was beautiful. 4 crystal October days. The leaves are in full glory. We met my folks at Ernie's for breakfast, and decided to walk there instead of drive. So we took the long walk along Broadway and I got to hear about every class. I've decided that I really like walking. I think it works a kind of magic. If we had driven, Nick and I would have shuffled around the house, lost in our own parallel worlds until it was time to leave. Then we would have gotten into the car and listened to the radio on the way there. This way, we were forced into proximity. He's such a nice kid.
I read this review of a new french film, I forget which one, in which the reviewer talks about the "tenderness and support" of families. And he's so right. When families are working the right way, that's what's happening: tenderness and support. It's hard to talk about and it isn't very interesting or dramatic, but it's the common ingredient in all happy families. And, despite everything, I think that Nick and Lilly and I are basically a happy family. Lilly's hovering at a very consistent 126.8 pounds, which, her doctor points out, is a little odd. "It's interesting to me that you are able to maintain your weight at the same value. It's almost as if it's on purpose." She was saying that we're not out of the woods yet. 126.8 pounds is exactly the amount Lilly needs to weigh in order to cross the threshold into normal BMI range. So she's still anorexic. She's still controlling every bite. I'm just relieved she's not an anorexic with liver and heart failure. Now if we could just get her to unclench. But how does she do that? I don't know how to do that. I'm obsessive compulsive (personality, not disorder). When I'm unhappy it gets worse. I used to write down everything I did during the day. I still sort of do that, but not to the extent I used to--where I couldn't ever do anything because I was too busy writing it down. I wrote things down because I felt guilty. I felt that I wasn't worth anything, and so I wrote down what I did to prove that I was doing something. This reached a fever pitch when I was married because my husband would accuse me of not doing anything. Taking care of young children is formless--it's so hard to pinpoint exactly what you do. The "mommy ghetto"--isn't that what it's called? The days would just be gone before I knew it. And I was really trapped inside the house. But my minute managing has really served me well, I think. I'm very productive. But I'm not very free. I think it's probably harmed Lilly. I think Lilly has received, by ongoing unrelieved example, my mindset. She probably received it in the womb. So is our family really happy? If we have problems, are we really happy?
Maybe I should leave it at this: we mostly function, love each other very much and treat each other well most of the time, and we are sometimes happy. There are problems, and there is tenderness and support. So I think that's ok. That sounds about like everyone else.
Saw Bright Star yesterday with Jay. Wrong movie to see. Good movie, but not the right one to see. During the credits, Keats poetry is read by the actor playing him. Jay leans over to me and whispers, "I think we know too many people in the audience to leave and not be considered philistines." I agreed and we sat gritting our teeth until it was done and we could go get a drink.
That's my 1/2 hour.
I read this review of a new french film, I forget which one, in which the reviewer talks about the "tenderness and support" of families. And he's so right. When families are working the right way, that's what's happening: tenderness and support. It's hard to talk about and it isn't very interesting or dramatic, but it's the common ingredient in all happy families. And, despite everything, I think that Nick and Lilly and I are basically a happy family. Lilly's hovering at a very consistent 126.8 pounds, which, her doctor points out, is a little odd. "It's interesting to me that you are able to maintain your weight at the same value. It's almost as if it's on purpose." She was saying that we're not out of the woods yet. 126.8 pounds is exactly the amount Lilly needs to weigh in order to cross the threshold into normal BMI range. So she's still anorexic. She's still controlling every bite. I'm just relieved she's not an anorexic with liver and heart failure. Now if we could just get her to unclench. But how does she do that? I don't know how to do that. I'm obsessive compulsive (personality, not disorder). When I'm unhappy it gets worse. I used to write down everything I did during the day. I still sort of do that, but not to the extent I used to--where I couldn't ever do anything because I was too busy writing it down. I wrote things down because I felt guilty. I felt that I wasn't worth anything, and so I wrote down what I did to prove that I was doing something. This reached a fever pitch when I was married because my husband would accuse me of not doing anything. Taking care of young children is formless--it's so hard to pinpoint exactly what you do. The "mommy ghetto"--isn't that what it's called? The days would just be gone before I knew it. And I was really trapped inside the house. But my minute managing has really served me well, I think. I'm very productive. But I'm not very free. I think it's probably harmed Lilly. I think Lilly has received, by ongoing unrelieved example, my mindset. She probably received it in the womb. So is our family really happy? If we have problems, are we really happy?
Maybe I should leave it at this: we mostly function, love each other very much and treat each other well most of the time, and we are sometimes happy. There are problems, and there is tenderness and support. So I think that's ok. That sounds about like everyone else.
Saw Bright Star yesterday with Jay. Wrong movie to see. Good movie, but not the right one to see. During the credits, Keats poetry is read by the actor playing him. Jay leans over to me and whispers, "I think we know too many people in the audience to leave and not be considered philistines." I agreed and we sat gritting our teeth until it was done and we could go get a drink.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Monday, October 19, 2009
The Flu
Wiz is still missing. He's just evaporated. Everyone asks me where and how he is. Like I would know? I just shrug. "He's okay." I say. I was certain he'd be back by now. Then they start talking. It's interesting--people rarely talk to each other or with each other; they talk for themselves. I heard about 8 little monologues yesterday--themed "Wiz"--and they were all fictional. Geraldine, our unit clerk, whose sharp goose voice I hear even in my dreams, asks me once, gives me a look when I shrug her off. "I'm very worried about him." She says. "He don't have no flu, do he?"
I told everyone he had the flu. I figured that would explain the extended absence. I told them his whole family had it.
"Sorry."
The problem with Wiz being gone is that people pull things with me they never would dream of with Wiz. Sally, the House Mom sends patients to me and expects me to be able to take them immediately, without staff. "You just need to do this." She tells me.
"Then I need a nurse." I tell her.
Two hours later, after the patient has been wheeled in while I'm still getting report over the phone. I get one. Not ok. This is the third time this has happened, a patient rolling in almost unannounced. Wiz has told me in the past to do whatever Sally asks. "Your job is to make her job easy." I think they have a long friendship. I've seen pictures of her. She was once immense--easily over 300 pounds. She was in a terribly abusive marriage. Now she's thin and dry and wary. I like her, mostly, because she is always honest. But she can't stand being challenged. So this time, I simply printed off the record of every page I'd sent and received from her and handed it to her when the bed came in. "I told you about this." She said. "No, Sally, I'm really sorry," I said, very nicely (not fake nice), "you really didn't." No apology, but I know that in the endless hospital game of tit for tat talleys we all keep, I've earned some points. Maybe she's getting the flu.
Wiz's quote: "She's an oasis." I don't know about that, Wiz.
My staff are like little puppies. They crowd around me over every decision, every conversation. They look over my shoulder when I make notes and figure out staffing or send emails. I guess this is the downside of being accessible. I haven't decided whether this is good or bad. I think it's good.
"That's just bullshit," Marcy says, as the patient rolls in. "You need to call her and tell her we're not the fucking MNICU's dumping ground."
"Yeah, ok, Marcy, I'll delegate that to you. Be sure to use the word 'fuck' a lot."
Then my attending lurches in for rounds, looking just terrible. He hands me a folded paper towell upon which he's written a list of items and instructions. "Please do this for me," he rasps. "I'll be in room 12. Get the residents." He staggers into the room, sits down in the chair.
I look at the paper towell. "Are you serious? You need to go home."
"I need to round" he croaks. "Just do it. Please. Don't commit fraud, of course. Don't tell anyone."
I go to the OR, pilfer some D5LR and zofran. Start an IV on him. "Can't you do it somewhere besides the AC?" he whines.
"Listen," I snap, "starting an IV on my attending is nerve wracking enough. I'm a wretched stick. I'm going for easy here."
"You're getting blood all over everything."
I just focus. And say a prayer to the IV fairy (who really exists). And I get it! Hooray. "You can stand across the room and hit my veins," he croaks."When I was an EMT I used to let people practice on me. No, I'm sorry. You're a saint. I've been throwing up since 3 am this morning. This will get me past that. I mean, you're really a saint. Like Mother Teresa."
"She's not a saint yet. You know, " I tell him, just to make conversation while I sit there and watch the IV go in, and make sure he doesn't pass out or anything, "there's like a whole clinical ladder of sainthood. Takes years."
"Really?"
"Yes. You have to have three miracles--witnessed, and some other stuff. There's all sorts of points you have to earn. Takes centuries. It's very complicated."
"I'm Baptist. We don't go for all that."
"Yep. Leave the catholics to handle all the paperwork. You were an EMT--do you want a basin?"
"No," he urps.
"Do you have a fever?"
"No."
"Mind if I check?"
"Fine."
No fever.
"I told you so. Yes, I was an EMT. 14 years."
"Really? What made you become a doctor?"
"I hated doctors and one day one of them told me to quit my fucking whining and become one if I thought I could do it better. I still fucking hate doctors."
"You should have become a nurse."
"No fucking way. Am I saying fuck too much?" He says this because I have made a habit of handing him a bar of soap every time he says "fuck" I carry them in my pockets during rounds.
"That's going in too fast."
He's opened the clamp all the way.
"No it isn't."
"Yes it is." I tighten the clamp.
"Fine."
"I'll check back on you in 15 minutes."
"Fine."
He's a lot better. Color's better, and he's sitting up straight. "Good. Go get the residents."
He finishes rounds with the IV in his arm. I give him another bag.
That's my 1/2 hour.
I told everyone he had the flu. I figured that would explain the extended absence. I told them his whole family had it.
"Sorry."
The problem with Wiz being gone is that people pull things with me they never would dream of with Wiz. Sally, the House Mom sends patients to me and expects me to be able to take them immediately, without staff. "You just need to do this." She tells me.
"Then I need a nurse." I tell her.
Two hours later, after the patient has been wheeled in while I'm still getting report over the phone. I get one. Not ok. This is the third time this has happened, a patient rolling in almost unannounced. Wiz has told me in the past to do whatever Sally asks. "Your job is to make her job easy." I think they have a long friendship. I've seen pictures of her. She was once immense--easily over 300 pounds. She was in a terribly abusive marriage. Now she's thin and dry and wary. I like her, mostly, because she is always honest. But she can't stand being challenged. So this time, I simply printed off the record of every page I'd sent and received from her and handed it to her when the bed came in. "I told you about this." She said. "No, Sally, I'm really sorry," I said, very nicely (not fake nice), "you really didn't." No apology, but I know that in the endless hospital game of tit for tat talleys we all keep, I've earned some points. Maybe she's getting the flu.
Wiz's quote: "She's an oasis." I don't know about that, Wiz.
My staff are like little puppies. They crowd around me over every decision, every conversation. They look over my shoulder when I make notes and figure out staffing or send emails. I guess this is the downside of being accessible. I haven't decided whether this is good or bad. I think it's good.
"That's just bullshit," Marcy says, as the patient rolls in. "You need to call her and tell her we're not the fucking MNICU's dumping ground."
"Yeah, ok, Marcy, I'll delegate that to you. Be sure to use the word 'fuck' a lot."
Then my attending lurches in for rounds, looking just terrible. He hands me a folded paper towell upon which he's written a list of items and instructions. "Please do this for me," he rasps. "I'll be in room 12. Get the residents." He staggers into the room, sits down in the chair.
I look at the paper towell. "Are you serious? You need to go home."
"I need to round" he croaks. "Just do it. Please. Don't commit fraud, of course. Don't tell anyone."
I go to the OR, pilfer some D5LR and zofran. Start an IV on him. "Can't you do it somewhere besides the AC?" he whines.
"Listen," I snap, "starting an IV on my attending is nerve wracking enough. I'm a wretched stick. I'm going for easy here."
"You're getting blood all over everything."
I just focus. And say a prayer to the IV fairy (who really exists). And I get it! Hooray. "You can stand across the room and hit my veins," he croaks."When I was an EMT I used to let people practice on me. No, I'm sorry. You're a saint. I've been throwing up since 3 am this morning. This will get me past that. I mean, you're really a saint. Like Mother Teresa."
"She's not a saint yet. You know, " I tell him, just to make conversation while I sit there and watch the IV go in, and make sure he doesn't pass out or anything, "there's like a whole clinical ladder of sainthood. Takes years."
"Really?"
"Yes. You have to have three miracles--witnessed, and some other stuff. There's all sorts of points you have to earn. Takes centuries. It's very complicated."
"I'm Baptist. We don't go for all that."
"Yep. Leave the catholics to handle all the paperwork. You were an EMT--do you want a basin?"
"No," he urps.
"Do you have a fever?"
"No."
"Mind if I check?"
"Fine."
No fever.
"I told you so. Yes, I was an EMT. 14 years."
"Really? What made you become a doctor?"
"I hated doctors and one day one of them told me to quit my fucking whining and become one if I thought I could do it better. I still fucking hate doctors."
"You should have become a nurse."
"No fucking way. Am I saying fuck too much?" He says this because I have made a habit of handing him a bar of soap every time he says "fuck" I carry them in my pockets during rounds.
"That's going in too fast."
He's opened the clamp all the way.
"No it isn't."
"Yes it is." I tighten the clamp.
"Fine."
"I'll check back on you in 15 minutes."
"Fine."
He's a lot better. Color's better, and he's sitting up straight. "Good. Go get the residents."
He finishes rounds with the IV in his arm. I give him another bag.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The Lucky Dark
All my good intentions went out the window yesterday. I was absolutely mired in blackness. It came on suddenly, for no good reason. I wandered around the house thinking, "what's the point?" Finally, I just crawled into bed with a novel (Bartimaeus--Ptolemy's Gate. I finished it) until 4:00. Then I roused myself and somehow got to staff meetings. The evening was better. I got some homework done. Went to bed gratefully at 10:11. No call from Jay. Maybe that was part of the problem. My feelings get hurt when he doesn't call. Sometimes we do so well, and I really like him, and sometimes I think he's a jerk. I think boyfriends should call you once a day, and if they don't, they should be punished. I start worrying--I'm getting older, I won't be pretty, I'm too old to find someone else--you know... this could happen. I'm terrified of dying alone. Poor Boo dog, dying by herself, downstairs on her little blue blanket in the bathroom. Which is still there. I look at my chin, checking it for signs of crumbling, checking my jawline for that window dressing valence look we all start getting. Looking askance at women slightly older than me, and younger than me, and my age. Is it happening? Is it catching?
This came on very suddenly. Maybe it's the weather, which is unseasonably cold, rainy and gray. Dreary. And I haven't exercised. Maybe I'll force myself to take a little walk. But yesterday I was just about incapable of action and that really frightens me. I used to be like that, about 10 years ago, and everything fell apart--I lost my job, my relationship. I had an affair with a married cop that made things even worse. I would have dreams about lying in the cold night rain naked on an asphalt street while people stepped on me. It was a terrible time. That was the year I watched Rushmore over 200 times. I couldn't appreciate my children. The cat died. The sewer pipe broke and it flooded my basement. I cried all the time. I still sat zazen. I would sit and sweat and sob.
Depression. I really don't want to get hit again. It was so beyond me. It sank everything.
Ok. Well, I know what I have to do. I just have to keep going through the lists, setting my timer, taking my breaks, and doing what I need to do. I sit, I'm surrounded by thick fog. Everything, even simple, simple things, seem absolutely beyond me. Everybody has blue days. And yesterday was a blue one, for whatever reason. The day before was fine. So I'm sure it will get better. I'll put off the big existential questions. I think those questions are just awful. What is the meaning of life, etc. I'm one of those people who can't think about those things too much. Because I'll just lie down and die.
I'm reading Being With Dying by Joan Halifax. Just something light and distracting before bed and while in the loo. She talks about St. John of the Cross, and how "suffering, pain, dying, failure, loss, and grief" are the "lucky dark"--she states, "[T]hat great Christian saint recognized that suffering can be fortunate because, without, there is no possibility for maturation."
I think that's a lot to put on to suffering.
That's my 1/2 hour. Exactly.
This came on very suddenly. Maybe it's the weather, which is unseasonably cold, rainy and gray. Dreary. And I haven't exercised. Maybe I'll force myself to take a little walk. But yesterday I was just about incapable of action and that really frightens me. I used to be like that, about 10 years ago, and everything fell apart--I lost my job, my relationship. I had an affair with a married cop that made things even worse. I would have dreams about lying in the cold night rain naked on an asphalt street while people stepped on me. It was a terrible time. That was the year I watched Rushmore over 200 times. I couldn't appreciate my children. The cat died. The sewer pipe broke and it flooded my basement. I cried all the time. I still sat zazen. I would sit and sweat and sob.
Depression. I really don't want to get hit again. It was so beyond me. It sank everything.
Ok. Well, I know what I have to do. I just have to keep going through the lists, setting my timer, taking my breaks, and doing what I need to do. I sit, I'm surrounded by thick fog. Everything, even simple, simple things, seem absolutely beyond me. Everybody has blue days. And yesterday was a blue one, for whatever reason. The day before was fine. So I'm sure it will get better. I'll put off the big existential questions. I think those questions are just awful. What is the meaning of life, etc. I'm one of those people who can't think about those things too much. Because I'll just lie down and die.
I'm reading Being With Dying by Joan Halifax. Just something light and distracting before bed and while in the loo. She talks about St. John of the Cross, and how "suffering, pain, dying, failure, loss, and grief" are the "lucky dark"--she states, "[T]hat great Christian saint recognized that suffering can be fortunate because, without, there is no possibility for maturation."
I think that's a lot to put on to suffering.
That's my 1/2 hour. Exactly.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
High Heeled Nurses
I finally started clinicals yesterday. If there's a negative about this master's program, it's that the clinical coordination is very poor. It's a very patched together affair. Frustrating.
I like my preceptor. She's about eight years older than I am. She's from New Hampshire, and She's named Halene. Just to keep things confusing. she's a trekkie. She even has a picture in an enterprise uniform photshopped into a scene with Data, Warf and Deanna. And she's smart---smart, smart, smart. The view from this perspective is interesting. We rounded with the physicians through the ICU's. The bedside nurses in the other ICU's seem to just evaporate--they fade into the woodwork. They're not acknowledged at all. Rumply and worn. The divide between the tellers and the doers was very clear. It was very strange.
Not a lot of work gets done at the administrative level. No one manages their time well. There's a lot of standing around, leisurely conversations about kids and stuff--I'm not saying she doesn't work, because she obviously does, but the time pressure is obviously not so keenly felt. I feel I have to use every minute in my life, this isn't something people really seem to understand at this level. But there are probably subtleties I'm not picking up on. People dress nicely. They have time for lunch and they wear nice shoes. Halene hasn't lost too much touch with the realities of the bedside, which is refreshing. She realizes for example the danger of our task oriented ethic, and she's good at seeing systems as a whole--the larger forces at work in a situation. I also caught the whiff of a lot of blame resting on bedside nursing (not from her, just from the tenor of the conversations I got to sit in on). And I realized something: everything you do gets noticed by someone.
Hmmmm.....Nursing is a self-hating profession. The ones who rise really never, ever, want to go back to their blue collar roots. It's like having poor, obnoxious, immigrant relatives--you want them as far away as possible. And who wouldn't want to be away from it, once you get the chance to, once you realize that your world doesn't have to be comprised of shit and blood and death and blame? Exhausting 14 hour days with no time to eat or rest. Who wouldn't?
In her quiet office, we met with the multidisciplinary team to plan patient care. One of the patients had just had care withdrawn. All the sudden we heard screaming and wailing, sobbing--an endless, endless cacophony. "What's going on out there?" the physical therapist asked.
"they just withdrew care on Mr. Rawalpindi." Halene said. Rawalpindi had been in a coma for two years. He got pneumonia and had too many complications. Then we heard the sound of retching. We sat in the office with the door closed and listened. The screaming and yelling and sobbing and retching sounds continued. We continued on with the meeting, raising our voices a little over the noise from the waiting room.
We went to another meeting. The noise continued.
"I guess it's not as bad as a Klingon funeral." Halene commented.
That's my 1/2 hour.
I like my preceptor. She's about eight years older than I am. She's from New Hampshire, and She's named Halene. Just to keep things confusing. she's a trekkie. She even has a picture in an enterprise uniform photshopped into a scene with Data, Warf and Deanna. And she's smart---smart, smart, smart. The view from this perspective is interesting. We rounded with the physicians through the ICU's. The bedside nurses in the other ICU's seem to just evaporate--they fade into the woodwork. They're not acknowledged at all. Rumply and worn. The divide between the tellers and the doers was very clear. It was very strange.
Not a lot of work gets done at the administrative level. No one manages their time well. There's a lot of standing around, leisurely conversations about kids and stuff--I'm not saying she doesn't work, because she obviously does, but the time pressure is obviously not so keenly felt. I feel I have to use every minute in my life, this isn't something people really seem to understand at this level. But there are probably subtleties I'm not picking up on. People dress nicely. They have time for lunch and they wear nice shoes. Halene hasn't lost too much touch with the realities of the bedside, which is refreshing. She realizes for example the danger of our task oriented ethic, and she's good at seeing systems as a whole--the larger forces at work in a situation. I also caught the whiff of a lot of blame resting on bedside nursing (not from her, just from the tenor of the conversations I got to sit in on). And I realized something: everything you do gets noticed by someone.
Hmmmm.....Nursing is a self-hating profession. The ones who rise really never, ever, want to go back to their blue collar roots. It's like having poor, obnoxious, immigrant relatives--you want them as far away as possible. And who wouldn't want to be away from it, once you get the chance to, once you realize that your world doesn't have to be comprised of shit and blood and death and blame? Exhausting 14 hour days with no time to eat or rest. Who wouldn't?
In her quiet office, we met with the multidisciplinary team to plan patient care. One of the patients had just had care withdrawn. All the sudden we heard screaming and wailing, sobbing--an endless, endless cacophony. "What's going on out there?" the physical therapist asked.
"they just withdrew care on Mr. Rawalpindi." Halene said. Rawalpindi had been in a coma for two years. He got pneumonia and had too many complications. Then we heard the sound of retching. We sat in the office with the door closed and listened. The screaming and yelling and sobbing and retching sounds continued. We continued on with the meeting, raising our voices a little over the noise from the waiting room.
We went to another meeting. The noise continued.
"I guess it's not as bad as a Klingon funeral." Halene commented.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Rules
Oh, it's so hard to sit sometimes. Especially on Mondays after 3 days straight at work. I feel like work is this weird hiatus from my real life, which is waiting for me, tapping its foot on Monday morning. The ICU is this strange twilight ship that takes off Friday morning and lands late Sunday night. I sort of have these dream states in between which consist of sleep, sex, and an approximation of dinner. Then 4 days to be sort of normal. Lilly's insight has proven to be a breakthrough in the state of the house. It's been livable for a week now, with not too much effort. Who knew?
I'm always searching for the recipe. The one rule.
I was there until 2130 last night. Charged all weekend. Wiz was gone again. I got a cryptic email from him thanking me for my friendship and asking that I not try to find out what was going on and not talk about him. I emailed him back, gave him my cell, told him if he was in trouble I could have someone there in 15 minutes and that whatever was happening, he had my support.
What a funny little animal. Everyone asked me what was up. I blithely lied and told them his whole family had the swine flu. Every one clucked in sympathy. Hooray for H1N1! Oh,Wyczkoski. I hope you're all right.
Then all weekend, I ran the place. I tried to be Wiz, with limited success. But there is something about just jumping in and doing things that seems to lend itself to success. The whole crew now is brand new--graduate nurses. And they know nothing. They don't even know sort of regular adult things--like don't interrupt,and show up on time and don't call in drunk. Don't talk during report. Drunken Disaster got belligerent during report yesterday morning. She had some questions I asked her to hold til we got through hearing report--
"I'm just asking a question about my pay!"
"Okay, but we need to address that after report.'
"I was just asking. Jesus."
"Yes, but now it's time for report. Please go ahead, Kyle."
I fired off an email to our manager. Which I've never done. Wiz would be disappointed. He hates tattling. But I'm pretty worried about this person. I don't think she belongs here. I feel strongly about this. I worry about people who seem to not notice or care about regular social boundaries, even in small ways. In my experience, this always is a harbinger of deep seeded mental illness, a lack of empathy and disassociation from the rest of humanity. I know that's a lot to ascribe to small discourtesies and I've probably been drinking my own bathwater. There are the rules that are there because of social control--stupid rules--like jaywalking. Our town is so quiet, who cares about jaywalking? Big deal. There are the money rules which seem to be made by people who want to keep other people in their place. But then there are other rules--like drinking and driving, or running red lights--and the unwritten rules we have to have to function--sometimes it's just rudeness, but sometimes it's something much worse. And with a nurse in an ICU, the potential and temptation for worse is huge. Primo Levi (to paraphrase) said that when someone is facedown in the mud, the human temptation is to keep walking over him, not help him up. There are a lot of people face down in the mud on this twilight ship.
Hmmmm.
That's my 1/2 hour.
I'm always searching for the recipe. The one rule.
I was there until 2130 last night. Charged all weekend. Wiz was gone again. I got a cryptic email from him thanking me for my friendship and asking that I not try to find out what was going on and not talk about him. I emailed him back, gave him my cell, told him if he was in trouble I could have someone there in 15 minutes and that whatever was happening, he had my support.
What a funny little animal. Everyone asked me what was up. I blithely lied and told them his whole family had the swine flu. Every one clucked in sympathy. Hooray for H1N1! Oh,Wyczkoski. I hope you're all right.
Then all weekend, I ran the place. I tried to be Wiz, with limited success. But there is something about just jumping in and doing things that seems to lend itself to success. The whole crew now is brand new--graduate nurses. And they know nothing. They don't even know sort of regular adult things--like don't interrupt,and show up on time and don't call in drunk. Don't talk during report. Drunken Disaster got belligerent during report yesterday morning. She had some questions I asked her to hold til we got through hearing report--
"I'm just asking a question about my pay!"
"Okay, but we need to address that after report.'
"I was just asking. Jesus."
"Yes, but now it's time for report. Please go ahead, Kyle."
I fired off an email to our manager. Which I've never done. Wiz would be disappointed. He hates tattling. But I'm pretty worried about this person. I don't think she belongs here. I feel strongly about this. I worry about people who seem to not notice or care about regular social boundaries, even in small ways. In my experience, this always is a harbinger of deep seeded mental illness, a lack of empathy and disassociation from the rest of humanity. I know that's a lot to ascribe to small discourtesies and I've probably been drinking my own bathwater. There are the rules that are there because of social control--stupid rules--like jaywalking. Our town is so quiet, who cares about jaywalking? Big deal. There are the money rules which seem to be made by people who want to keep other people in their place. But then there are other rules--like drinking and driving, or running red lights--and the unwritten rules we have to have to function--sometimes it's just rudeness, but sometimes it's something much worse. And with a nurse in an ICU, the potential and temptation for worse is huge. Primo Levi (to paraphrase) said that when someone is facedown in the mud, the human temptation is to keep walking over him, not help him up. There are a lot of people face down in the mud on this twilight ship.
Hmmmm.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Hark Hark...
The tornado sirens are going off. It is exactly noon in Paloma. The sirens are tested every Wednesday. At the same time, all dogs in the city lose their minds. Mine are no exception, they are howling and whimpering along with every other dog in the neighborhood.
I spent the morning staving off squalor. Lilly, on the way to school, said, "I was thinking--if we could just do the laundry and the dishes and keep the bathroom clean, the rest would probably take care of itself." A lightbulb went off. Cleaning is not something you do, clean is something you are. So I put in about 4 hours achieving laundry, dish, and bathroom stasis--picked up all the clothes in the house, sorted them, started churning them through the machine. Did the same with the dishes, scrubbed down the bathroom. And here I am. Now, though, I'm wondering it was all a way to avoid doing my classwork, which I am two days late with.
I got a pleasant email from the group leader with the subtext--"where the hell are you?"
I don't know...I'll pick up the threads today. Took 2 days off over the weekend--then came back Monday and discovered I was in charge. That keeps happening. Wiz has mysteriously called in for 4 days. "Family trouble." he said curtly. It's well established that whenever I charge, everything goes to hell. Not that I run things poorly (I'm not stellar, but I'm not awful, either) but if anything can go wrong it will. Arteries will start spurting blood, unannounced gunshot wounds will come rolling through the door. Staff will accidentally cut themselves with razors, codes right and left (one day we actually used up all the defibrillator pads on my shift). And everyone, but everyone will get diarrhea at the same time. And then there'll be the weird things that happen when I charge--for example, last week, the TV in room 3 just exploded--on its own. White burst of light, the sound of breaking glass and smoke. We had to move all the patients from that side to the other side--that sort of thing.
Clara, our week-day unit clerk rolled in, saw it was me charging, and sighed. "I'm going to call ahead of time, and if you're charging, I'm going to call in sick." It was 0730.
"That's not fair, Clara. Nothing's happened yet. It was a quiet night."
"I'm giving it 45 minutes before the shit hits the fan." She says pleasantly. Clara is paralyzed from the waist down, is chronically ill with CHF, and is a single mother. She has the most beautiful, soothing voice. She should be on the radio. And she has this sort of even calm--this way of fielding craziness--that is something to see. She also has this folksy way of stating even the most unpleasant contentious things that makes them sound perfectly reasonable. She's magic.
My pager goes off.
"I guess I meant seconds." She says, "Here we go."
She was right. GSW to the head. Suicide. We couldn't get the family to understand how serious it was.
"Is he very sick?" the mother asks Marcy, on the phone.
"He shot himself in the head and he has no responses."
"Well, does that mean he's sick?"
That's my 1/2 hour.
I spent the morning staving off squalor. Lilly, on the way to school, said, "I was thinking--if we could just do the laundry and the dishes and keep the bathroom clean, the rest would probably take care of itself." A lightbulb went off. Cleaning is not something you do, clean is something you are. So I put in about 4 hours achieving laundry, dish, and bathroom stasis--picked up all the clothes in the house, sorted them, started churning them through the machine. Did the same with the dishes, scrubbed down the bathroom. And here I am. Now, though, I'm wondering it was all a way to avoid doing my classwork, which I am two days late with.
I got a pleasant email from the group leader with the subtext--"where the hell are you?"
I don't know...I'll pick up the threads today. Took 2 days off over the weekend--then came back Monday and discovered I was in charge. That keeps happening. Wiz has mysteriously called in for 4 days. "Family trouble." he said curtly. It's well established that whenever I charge, everything goes to hell. Not that I run things poorly (I'm not stellar, but I'm not awful, either) but if anything can go wrong it will. Arteries will start spurting blood, unannounced gunshot wounds will come rolling through the door. Staff will accidentally cut themselves with razors, codes right and left (one day we actually used up all the defibrillator pads on my shift). And everyone, but everyone will get diarrhea at the same time. And then there'll be the weird things that happen when I charge--for example, last week, the TV in room 3 just exploded--on its own. White burst of light, the sound of breaking glass and smoke. We had to move all the patients from that side to the other side--that sort of thing.
Clara, our week-day unit clerk rolled in, saw it was me charging, and sighed. "I'm going to call ahead of time, and if you're charging, I'm going to call in sick." It was 0730.
"That's not fair, Clara. Nothing's happened yet. It was a quiet night."
"I'm giving it 45 minutes before the shit hits the fan." She says pleasantly. Clara is paralyzed from the waist down, is chronically ill with CHF, and is a single mother. She has the most beautiful, soothing voice. She should be on the radio. And she has this sort of even calm--this way of fielding craziness--that is something to see. She also has this folksy way of stating even the most unpleasant contentious things that makes them sound perfectly reasonable. She's magic.
My pager goes off.
"I guess I meant seconds." She says, "Here we go."
She was right. GSW to the head. Suicide. We couldn't get the family to understand how serious it was.
"Is he very sick?" the mother asks Marcy, on the phone.
"He shot himself in the head and he has no responses."
"Well, does that mean he's sick?"
That's my 1/2 hour.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Zen Barbie
My cats were crazy, but they weren't destructive. Now this new cat has come into our lives, and she's corrupted them. Sirocca (my gin swilling, foul-mouthed yoga teacher) left her obese, asthmatic grey tabby with me, her kid with her ex husband, and is living in Bali with her Swiss lover.
The cat has figured out where my bedroom window is. She gets on the roof at 6 am in the morning and meows constantly until I wake up and let her in. She also likes to shred things with her claws and pull curtains down. She has pulled the curtains down on every window. Neither Marlowe nor Pebbles ever showed the slightest inclination towards this sort of behavior--but now they're doing it too. She's just a bad apple. Oh--and she eats. All the time. Constantly. And she's not friendly. She's just fat and demanding. No kissing up, no purring, no leg rubbing. Nothing to endear herself. Just shredding wallpaper, eating nonstop and leading the other two down the road to ruin... She's pretty funny, actually. Her favorite place to sleep is the bathroom sink, or, if that's not available, the laundry basket.
I sat for the first time in two weeks yesterday. Good to sit. Then Seido talked. He's a good talker. I wish I could convey the sense of his talks. I thought about taking notes. He talked about taking care of his brother while he was dying of AIDS, about no-self, and modernism--which focused on answering questions, and postmodernism,which left the questions behind. He talked about Lacan. He talked about no-seeking. And while he was talking, I think I finally listened for the first time to someone. All the sudden. It hadn't been an exemplary sit. My mind raced through all these scenarios. But after, while I was listening to him, with my ass falling asleep the way it always does ever since I broke my tailbone at Wet and Wild on the giant waterslide(I was 12. The most embarassing moment of my life. My bikini fell off, descending the slide a few seconds after I landed, the water acted like an enema, and you guessed it, I pooped. They had to shut down the pool. I was on a church trip. I wanted to die. Fortunately, 3 weeks later, we moved to a different state.) I just dropped away, and his words just hung there. He was the only thing going on. And he looked very frail to me. I could see his shiny skull under his skin, and I had this sudden strange feeling that we were all in this room, bags of bones. No separation. There were actually more women there than men, this time. Then Mirta, the girl who sits with us from Burma, looked at me and smiled. I could see she really had something to tell me--it was just bubbling up inside. She's going home for a month, to visit her family. She's so happy. And I felt her need for connection and acknowledgement as strongly as if it had been my own. This went on the rest of the evening. I dropped away and sort of became everyone else. It's still going on today. Everyone seems really god damn interesting.
What will happen if this happens all the time? Where will I go? Will I remember to get dressed? Who will feed me? Will I get A's? I'm ruled by approval--what if I stop caring about that? Will everything completely fall apart? Will I have to move in with my parents? Will I slouch? Will I remember to suck in my tummy? What if I stop worrying about being pretty? Will the chin hairs grow in? Will Jay still make love to me?
One of the reasons I have backed away from sitting these past two weeks is that I am actually having periods of time where my thoughts do indeed stop. And then I worry that I have alzheimers.
I am always checking my own reflection, posing in different outfits. Like Barbie. Nurse Barbie. Mommie Barbie. Church Barbie. Administrative meeting Barbie. Library Barbie. Date Barbie. Outdoors Barbie. Zen Barbie.
I wonder what happens when everything just falls away...what if I get everything I ever wanted and I don't notice?
The cat has figured out where my bedroom window is. She gets on the roof at 6 am in the morning and meows constantly until I wake up and let her in. She also likes to shred things with her claws and pull curtains down. She has pulled the curtains down on every window. Neither Marlowe nor Pebbles ever showed the slightest inclination towards this sort of behavior--but now they're doing it too. She's just a bad apple. Oh--and she eats. All the time. Constantly. And she's not friendly. She's just fat and demanding. No kissing up, no purring, no leg rubbing. Nothing to endear herself. Just shredding wallpaper, eating nonstop and leading the other two down the road to ruin... She's pretty funny, actually. Her favorite place to sleep is the bathroom sink, or, if that's not available, the laundry basket.
I sat for the first time in two weeks yesterday. Good to sit. Then Seido talked. He's a good talker. I wish I could convey the sense of his talks. I thought about taking notes. He talked about taking care of his brother while he was dying of AIDS, about no-self, and modernism--which focused on answering questions, and postmodernism,which left the questions behind. He talked about Lacan. He talked about no-seeking. And while he was talking, I think I finally listened for the first time to someone. All the sudden. It hadn't been an exemplary sit. My mind raced through all these scenarios. But after, while I was listening to him, with my ass falling asleep the way it always does ever since I broke my tailbone at Wet and Wild on the giant waterslide(I was 12. The most embarassing moment of my life. My bikini fell off, descending the slide a few seconds after I landed, the water acted like an enema, and you guessed it, I pooped. They had to shut down the pool. I was on a church trip. I wanted to die. Fortunately, 3 weeks later, we moved to a different state.) I just dropped away, and his words just hung there. He was the only thing going on. And he looked very frail to me. I could see his shiny skull under his skin, and I had this sudden strange feeling that we were all in this room, bags of bones. No separation. There were actually more women there than men, this time. Then Mirta, the girl who sits with us from Burma, looked at me and smiled. I could see she really had something to tell me--it was just bubbling up inside. She's going home for a month, to visit her family. She's so happy. And I felt her need for connection and acknowledgement as strongly as if it had been my own. This went on the rest of the evening. I dropped away and sort of became everyone else. It's still going on today. Everyone seems really god damn interesting.
What will happen if this happens all the time? Where will I go? Will I remember to get dressed? Who will feed me? Will I get A's? I'm ruled by approval--what if I stop caring about that? Will everything completely fall apart? Will I have to move in with my parents? Will I slouch? Will I remember to suck in my tummy? What if I stop worrying about being pretty? Will the chin hairs grow in? Will Jay still make love to me?
One of the reasons I have backed away from sitting these past two weeks is that I am actually having periods of time where my thoughts do indeed stop. And then I worry that I have alzheimers.
I am always checking my own reflection, posing in different outfits. Like Barbie. Nurse Barbie. Mommie Barbie. Church Barbie. Administrative meeting Barbie. Library Barbie. Date Barbie. Outdoors Barbie. Zen Barbie.
I wonder what happens when everything just falls away...what if I get everything I ever wanted and I don't notice?
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Story partly ended
Well, they found Becky Doisy's killer.
There's a picture of her in the paper this morning. She's 23 years old. She looks pensive, wistful, intelligent, and a little fierce. I never knew what she looked like.
23.
Oh, oh, all you fierce wild girls,with your angel hearts spilling poetry all over, Be careful out there.
Love,
Haley Patton
There's a picture of her in the paper this morning. She's 23 years old. She looks pensive, wistful, intelligent, and a little fierce. I never knew what she looked like.
23.
Oh, oh, all you fierce wild girls,with your angel hearts spilling poetry all over, Be careful out there.
Love,
Haley Patton
Monday, September 28, 2009
Flunking ACLS
Well, the John Prine song I love best is..
You come home late and you come home early
You come on big when you're feeling small
You come home straight and you come home curly
Sometimes you don't come home at all
So what in the world's come over you
And what in heaven's name have you done
You've broken the speed of the sound of loneliness
You're out there running just to be on the run...etc.
The code I was so proud of--something happened and no one will tell me what.
"You don't want to know," Wiz said, cutting me short when I asked. "I can't believe it. It's appalling. Just stay well clear of this."
And do I care about the patient? No. All I want to know is "is it me? me? me? Did I do something wrong?" Ego.
Wiz looks agonized. Truly upset. What happened, I wonder? I can't look it up on the computer--because the patient's not on the floor any more and that would be violating HIPPAA. I don't want to ask too many questions, because if Wiz is getting some heat, raising people's awareness of it will just make it worse, and there are a lot of people who don't like Wiz. That goes for everyone involved, actually. Did Drunken Disaster do something wrong?
I'm taking the ACLS refresher this week. No more teachers. Just a computerized dummy and a simulation, which doesn't always record the actions you take. You wear headphones, and they've simulated the sound of breathing and all the beeps and hmms of the monitors, and half of the work is figuring out your way around the computer. I believe I'm becoming stupider with every passing day. And as you make stupid choices, or click on the wrong god damn thing, the patient gets worse, and so your nice day off wearing clean clothes and regular shoes turns into a little flashback of hell. I was in there eight hours. With an hour break to turn in the reimbursement forms for two of the zen students' trip to Mt. Baldy. Of course, there are things left out, because they're Nick and Lilly's age, so I'm sitting arguing pleasantly with the reimbursement czar, and finally in exasperation I end up calling one of them to bring the correct documentation NOW PLEASE, sounding exactly like his mother. "Okay," he says meekly, "I'll be right over."
Hard to keep from being mom...
Then back to the education building--which is way, way, way over on the other side of town, in this terrible building with no right angles It's supposed to stimulate creativity, but it makes me feel as if I have low blood sugar. The whole building trembles slightly with the passing traffic from the highway, and it's always freezing cold. Not just the temperature--but a strange, layered cold that seeps into your very soul. I hate that building.
I pull into the parking lot and almost have a head-on with the only person who has ever written me up--on something stupid--5 years ago--I won--then I go back inside the cramped little simulation room and try to finish up my simulations--and actually don't, I'm ashamed to say.
5:00. I reward myself with chocolate brownie ice cream. Jay buys. We sit out on the sidewalk in the crisp fall air, not saying too much. He looks so good. He smells so good. I wish I could trust the smallest little particle of him. But I don't. I should have paid attention. Mistrust comes back at you like a scorpion's tail. You hang on at first, just wanting things to be okay, but then, whoosh. The sting. And the slow, hard baked anger, that eventually poisons and silences..
I go home. I've got an email saying they made a mistake about my raise, and I'm actually NOT getting one. Then Jay calls. He left his keys inside the bank and wants to know if he can borrow one of my cars tonight. I drive back downtown, park on 9th and walk up the street to the bar.
I've been feeling the strangest way, lately, as if all my pretty is just leaching out of me. As I'm going up the street, I see Hali, Jay's ex, walking in that self contained, complacent, replete way she has. She's a pretty woman. She's walking her bicycle, she has a tiered skirt swinging around her shins and clogs. I think bad thoughts, try not to. But really, why is she such a part of our lives? She senses my glower, gives me a tentative wave. She looks like Elena when she does that, and I give her a real smile and wave back. Elena who's shy, and funny, and who I like most of the time.
I wish I understood anything.
Jay's at the bar with Hunter, who is staggeringly drunk. He lectures us about being positive. "The trick to life is to stay positive."
"Another trick," I say, snarkily, "is to stay sober."
But I'm probably wrong about that, too.
I loan Jay Nick's thunderbird. And Jay drives off. I get hit in the stomach suddenly, watching the taillights disappear, with an ache so hard I want to curl up in the street. For my son, for the past, for this fragmented life. Where is it all going? What was I thinking?
Hohum.
That's my 1/2 hour.
You come home late and you come home early
You come on big when you're feeling small
You come home straight and you come home curly
Sometimes you don't come home at all
So what in the world's come over you
And what in heaven's name have you done
You've broken the speed of the sound of loneliness
You're out there running just to be on the run...etc.
The code I was so proud of--something happened and no one will tell me what.
"You don't want to know," Wiz said, cutting me short when I asked. "I can't believe it. It's appalling. Just stay well clear of this."
And do I care about the patient? No. All I want to know is "is it me? me? me? Did I do something wrong?" Ego.
Wiz looks agonized. Truly upset. What happened, I wonder? I can't look it up on the computer--because the patient's not on the floor any more and that would be violating HIPPAA. I don't want to ask too many questions, because if Wiz is getting some heat, raising people's awareness of it will just make it worse, and there are a lot of people who don't like Wiz. That goes for everyone involved, actually. Did Drunken Disaster do something wrong?
I'm taking the ACLS refresher this week. No more teachers. Just a computerized dummy and a simulation, which doesn't always record the actions you take. You wear headphones, and they've simulated the sound of breathing and all the beeps and hmms of the monitors, and half of the work is figuring out your way around the computer. I believe I'm becoming stupider with every passing day. And as you make stupid choices, or click on the wrong god damn thing, the patient gets worse, and so your nice day off wearing clean clothes and regular shoes turns into a little flashback of hell. I was in there eight hours. With an hour break to turn in the reimbursement forms for two of the zen students' trip to Mt. Baldy. Of course, there are things left out, because they're Nick and Lilly's age, so I'm sitting arguing pleasantly with the reimbursement czar, and finally in exasperation I end up calling one of them to bring the correct documentation NOW PLEASE, sounding exactly like his mother. "Okay," he says meekly, "I'll be right over."
Hard to keep from being mom...
Then back to the education building--which is way, way, way over on the other side of town, in this terrible building with no right angles It's supposed to stimulate creativity, but it makes me feel as if I have low blood sugar. The whole building trembles slightly with the passing traffic from the highway, and it's always freezing cold. Not just the temperature--but a strange, layered cold that seeps into your very soul. I hate that building.
I pull into the parking lot and almost have a head-on with the only person who has ever written me up--on something stupid--5 years ago--I won--then I go back inside the cramped little simulation room and try to finish up my simulations--and actually don't, I'm ashamed to say.
5:00. I reward myself with chocolate brownie ice cream. Jay buys. We sit out on the sidewalk in the crisp fall air, not saying too much. He looks so good. He smells so good. I wish I could trust the smallest little particle of him. But I don't. I should have paid attention. Mistrust comes back at you like a scorpion's tail. You hang on at first, just wanting things to be okay, but then, whoosh. The sting. And the slow, hard baked anger, that eventually poisons and silences..
I go home. I've got an email saying they made a mistake about my raise, and I'm actually NOT getting one. Then Jay calls. He left his keys inside the bank and wants to know if he can borrow one of my cars tonight. I drive back downtown, park on 9th and walk up the street to the bar.
I've been feeling the strangest way, lately, as if all my pretty is just leaching out of me. As I'm going up the street, I see Hali, Jay's ex, walking in that self contained, complacent, replete way she has. She's a pretty woman. She's walking her bicycle, she has a tiered skirt swinging around her shins and clogs. I think bad thoughts, try not to. But really, why is she such a part of our lives? She senses my glower, gives me a tentative wave. She looks like Elena when she does that, and I give her a real smile and wave back. Elena who's shy, and funny, and who I like most of the time.
I wish I understood anything.
Jay's at the bar with Hunter, who is staggeringly drunk. He lectures us about being positive. "The trick to life is to stay positive."
"Another trick," I say, snarkily, "is to stay sober."
But I'm probably wrong about that, too.
I loan Jay Nick's thunderbird. And Jay drives off. I get hit in the stomach suddenly, watching the taillights disappear, with an ache so hard I want to curl up in the street. For my son, for the past, for this fragmented life. Where is it all going? What was I thinking?
Hohum.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Monday, September 21, 2009
12 Hours
I'm tired.
We had two codes in two days. One Saturday and the other on Sunday. We have an almost entirely new staff and no one, apparently, can think very well.
I am normally a pretty scattered, ditsy person. I can never find my keys. My house is a mess, and I always seem to be a day late and a dollar short, but at work, I am weirdly competent. Maybe it's the fact that the environment is so controlled? And when things get really hairy and bad, I hate to say this about myself, because it sounds like bragging (I think it's okay because I'm so miserable about so many other aspects of myself--my hair I can't seem to do anything about, my unfulfilled potential, my flat violin playing. my sloppy mothering), but when things get really hairy and bad, I'm a fucking machine. I am really good at thinking very clearly and taking action when everyone else is freaking out. It's like my competency is inversely proportional to that of the people around me.
Maybe that's how ADD is an adaptation?
But normal situations--like grocery shopping--take me 5 times as long as anyone else.
Well, that's enought about me.
Both patients lived. And one's survival was kind of funny. We had coded this guy for 25 minutes. No pulse. Nothing. We'd gone through three drug boxes. The wife had been in the room during the code, crying, but not interfering.
Mac, who was the code physician, turned to her. "I don't know what else to do." He told her, helplessly. She stood by the bedside, sobbing, stroking her husband's hands.
The little medical students in the room continued to practice chest compressions on the guy, rotating through, so they could get their check-off.
Mac turned to us--"Can you guys think of anything else to do? Is there anything we haven't done?"
I was the recording nurse. In a code, everyone is assigned a role. There's a drug nurse, a code nurse, a recording nurse, and a code physician. Then there are 37 other people who just show up, criticize and generally get in the way.
I looked down at my form, which has a list of all the meds you can give during a code.
"The only thing we haven't given is bicarb."
"He's not acidotic." Mac says.
"You asked."
"Okay. Give him some bicarb. What the hell."
2 meQ of bicarb.
"It's in," says Kim. Kim's one of our new disasters. Here's a sample: Last week she was a no call, no show for her shift. She called in at 10am and blithely explained, "I'm so sorry--I went out drinking the night before and was still too drunk at 6:30 to come to work!" Laughing. Like we would all laugh with her and think this was just fun little shenanigans. Why she's still on our staff is beyond me. That's the nursing shortage, folks.
"Stop compressions. Check pulse."
We wait. Then: beep beep beep beep. P...qrs...t...p...qrs...t. Regular rate and rhythm.
Giovanni, our new fellow--I've talked about him before, right?--"and that, my lovelies is a pulse."
After these, though, I can't do anything. All my meds are late, I seem to move through jello. Two days of this. No wonder I have now been diagnosed with adrenal insufficiency. I have a dim suspicion this is connnected to Adderall.
Oh, well. You gotta have something. Didn't JFK have Addison's?
It's amazing how much the world outside does in 12 hours. Last Thursday, I was on the river.
Jay's organization, River Rescue, held a formal party on one of the sand bars. It was wonderful. 120 people, the environmental aristrocracy of the state, were transported by boat to the island, which had been transformed into paradise--sort of a hippy paradise--but paradise nonetheless. We ate jambalaya and caramel cake on white tablecloths. We wrote our dreams for the river and hung them on a tree constructed out of driftwood on the edge of the island. We sat by the fire afterwards singing John Prine songs and launching fouchees (these are fire balloons made of ingeniously folded newspaper--they look like willow-the-wisps). A generator had been lugged out to the island and the tables and tents were strung with tiny blue lights. Made silent, silent laughing love in the tent. Got miraculously called off the next morning, so I was able to wake up and see the mist coming up off the river in the sunrise.
Good times.
That's my 1/2 hour.
We had two codes in two days. One Saturday and the other on Sunday. We have an almost entirely new staff and no one, apparently, can think very well.
I am normally a pretty scattered, ditsy person. I can never find my keys. My house is a mess, and I always seem to be a day late and a dollar short, but at work, I am weirdly competent. Maybe it's the fact that the environment is so controlled? And when things get really hairy and bad, I hate to say this about myself, because it sounds like bragging (I think it's okay because I'm so miserable about so many other aspects of myself--my hair I can't seem to do anything about, my unfulfilled potential, my flat violin playing. my sloppy mothering), but when things get really hairy and bad, I'm a fucking machine. I am really good at thinking very clearly and taking action when everyone else is freaking out. It's like my competency is inversely proportional to that of the people around me.
Maybe that's how ADD is an adaptation?
But normal situations--like grocery shopping--take me 5 times as long as anyone else.
Well, that's enought about me.
Both patients lived. And one's survival was kind of funny. We had coded this guy for 25 minutes. No pulse. Nothing. We'd gone through three drug boxes. The wife had been in the room during the code, crying, but not interfering.
Mac, who was the code physician, turned to her. "I don't know what else to do." He told her, helplessly. She stood by the bedside, sobbing, stroking her husband's hands.
The little medical students in the room continued to practice chest compressions on the guy, rotating through, so they could get their check-off.
Mac turned to us--"Can you guys think of anything else to do? Is there anything we haven't done?"
I was the recording nurse. In a code, everyone is assigned a role. There's a drug nurse, a code nurse, a recording nurse, and a code physician. Then there are 37 other people who just show up, criticize and generally get in the way.
I looked down at my form, which has a list of all the meds you can give during a code.
"The only thing we haven't given is bicarb."
"He's not acidotic." Mac says.
"You asked."
"Okay. Give him some bicarb. What the hell."
2 meQ of bicarb.
"It's in," says Kim. Kim's one of our new disasters. Here's a sample: Last week she was a no call, no show for her shift. She called in at 10am and blithely explained, "I'm so sorry--I went out drinking the night before and was still too drunk at 6:30 to come to work!" Laughing. Like we would all laugh with her and think this was just fun little shenanigans. Why she's still on our staff is beyond me. That's the nursing shortage, folks.
"Stop compressions. Check pulse."
We wait. Then: beep beep beep beep. P...qrs...t...p...qrs...t. Regular rate and rhythm.
Giovanni, our new fellow--I've talked about him before, right?--"and that, my lovelies is a pulse."
After these, though, I can't do anything. All my meds are late, I seem to move through jello. Two days of this. No wonder I have now been diagnosed with adrenal insufficiency. I have a dim suspicion this is connnected to Adderall.
Oh, well. You gotta have something. Didn't JFK have Addison's?
It's amazing how much the world outside does in 12 hours. Last Thursday, I was on the river.
Jay's organization, River Rescue, held a formal party on one of the sand bars. It was wonderful. 120 people, the environmental aristrocracy of the state, were transported by boat to the island, which had been transformed into paradise--sort of a hippy paradise--but paradise nonetheless. We ate jambalaya and caramel cake on white tablecloths. We wrote our dreams for the river and hung them on a tree constructed out of driftwood on the edge of the island. We sat by the fire afterwards singing John Prine songs and launching fouchees (these are fire balloons made of ingeniously folded newspaper--they look like willow-the-wisps). A generator had been lugged out to the island and the tables and tents were strung with tiny blue lights. Made silent, silent laughing love in the tent. Got miraculously called off the next morning, so I was able to wake up and see the mist coming up off the river in the sunrise.
Good times.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
A letter from Home
I continue reading Raise High the Roof Beam Carpenters and Seymour: an Introduction.
Did you catch the pun on his name?
Seymour. See More. Seymour the mystic. Seymour the prophet.
I read this book last when I was probably Lilly's age. I parcel out Salinger's stories because he hasn't written that many, and I want them to last me my whole life. This is an idea I got from my ex, Charles. Another poet/saint. We lived together my first year at Dartmouth in a little two-hundred year-old house that had been rebuilt and rebuilt, near the velvet rocks. It was painted state park restroom chalk blue, was freezing cold, and had an unhappy and hostile, if ineffective ghost in the attic. When I realize that I was Lilly's age when I was doing this, throwing away my life, I freeze with fear. Oh, well.
The reasons you make the choices you make.
J.D. Salinger is/was my favorite author. Then came Dostoyevsky. And then Murakami. But from 12-16, when I was making all the important life decisions, it was JD. I was a crackerjack 16 year-old. I have to say, in terms of the world, I really peaked at that age. I mean, I've done other things since, good secret things, things that I'm happy with. I like myself better now. But you and I both know I haven't exactly burned a trail to greatness. But at 16, I was a baton twirling, singing, tap-dancing, poetry spouting, national merit finalist. I got into both Duke and Dartmouth. Which should I choose? J.D. Salinger lived near Hanover. I decided that I was going to Dartmouth.
So I'm reading this again at 40-something. And I love him so much more. And dislike him, too. Which I didn't the first time around. But I know more about him, of course. There's so much in it that you miss. That's kind of a wonderful thing, isn't it, about getting older? Finding what you missed? I didn't have a lot of real compassion when I was 16. Compassion has been a long time coming. The lotus is a good image for that. So is the rose. Rose of sharon, abide with me. It unfolds, just like that, when you finally get silent. Many petaled, infinite, fragrant.
Ok. So I went to Dartmouth to seek out JD Salinger. And I wanted to sit down with him and talk to him. But then I read Seymour--the part in which he talks about the students who beat their way to his door. And I realized (surprise!) that I was not the first person who had had this idea. I put my little idea away, ashamed. And, although I did indeed meet J.D. Salinger, twice, it was purely by magical accident. And I didn't talk to him about anything. I said "good morning" the first time, and the next time I showed him where a book on the New Yorker was in the bookstore. And the only things he said to me were, "Good morning" back, early on a sunny October day, and "Wallace Shawn was the ONLY editor the New Yorker has ever had. The magazine doesn't even exist any more."
Back to Seymour. Buddy outlines the types that visit him. But he misses one. He misses the reader, who, reading feels the writer is writing a letter specifically to her, putting into words all the things she suspected but could never really articulate, and that no one around her ever expressed. He misses the one who (crazily?) feels that at last she has always been an orphan, and has now heard from her family. Now that I'm writing and thinking about it, it was my mother who first read me For Esme with Love and Squalor. I think she was giving it to me so I would know her heart.
Call no man Raca. We don't get to know anyone here, do we?
That's my 1/2 hour.
Did you catch the pun on his name?
Seymour. See More. Seymour the mystic. Seymour the prophet.
I read this book last when I was probably Lilly's age. I parcel out Salinger's stories because he hasn't written that many, and I want them to last me my whole life. This is an idea I got from my ex, Charles. Another poet/saint. We lived together my first year at Dartmouth in a little two-hundred year-old house that had been rebuilt and rebuilt, near the velvet rocks. It was painted state park restroom chalk blue, was freezing cold, and had an unhappy and hostile, if ineffective ghost in the attic. When I realize that I was Lilly's age when I was doing this, throwing away my life, I freeze with fear. Oh, well.
The reasons you make the choices you make.
J.D. Salinger is/was my favorite author. Then came Dostoyevsky. And then Murakami. But from 12-16, when I was making all the important life decisions, it was JD. I was a crackerjack 16 year-old. I have to say, in terms of the world, I really peaked at that age. I mean, I've done other things since, good secret things, things that I'm happy with. I like myself better now. But you and I both know I haven't exactly burned a trail to greatness. But at 16, I was a baton twirling, singing, tap-dancing, poetry spouting, national merit finalist. I got into both Duke and Dartmouth. Which should I choose? J.D. Salinger lived near Hanover. I decided that I was going to Dartmouth.
So I'm reading this again at 40-something. And I love him so much more. And dislike him, too. Which I didn't the first time around. But I know more about him, of course. There's so much in it that you miss. That's kind of a wonderful thing, isn't it, about getting older? Finding what you missed? I didn't have a lot of real compassion when I was 16. Compassion has been a long time coming. The lotus is a good image for that. So is the rose. Rose of sharon, abide with me. It unfolds, just like that, when you finally get silent. Many petaled, infinite, fragrant.
Ok. So I went to Dartmouth to seek out JD Salinger. And I wanted to sit down with him and talk to him. But then I read Seymour--the part in which he talks about the students who beat their way to his door. And I realized (surprise!) that I was not the first person who had had this idea. I put my little idea away, ashamed. And, although I did indeed meet J.D. Salinger, twice, it was purely by magical accident. And I didn't talk to him about anything. I said "good morning" the first time, and the next time I showed him where a book on the New Yorker was in the bookstore. And the only things he said to me were, "Good morning" back, early on a sunny October day, and "Wallace Shawn was the ONLY editor the New Yorker has ever had. The magazine doesn't even exist any more."
Back to Seymour. Buddy outlines the types that visit him. But he misses one. He misses the reader, who, reading feels the writer is writing a letter specifically to her, putting into words all the things she suspected but could never really articulate, and that no one around her ever expressed. He misses the one who (crazily?) feels that at last she has always been an orphan, and has now heard from her family. Now that I'm writing and thinking about it, it was my mother who first read me For Esme with Love and Squalor. I think she was giving it to me so I would know her heart.
Call no man Raca. We don't get to know anyone here, do we?
That's my 1/2 hour.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Capitulations
It's hard to think on Monday mornings, after three days on the floor. I can't even type my password in correctly to log on. Then I forget my username. Or, I don't exactly forget it, I remember it but my fingers type the wrong thing.
I had two old men. One had a traumatic brain injury. One had Parkinson's and dementia. His bright black eyes, fringed with beautiful long lashes peered out at me, knowingly. He bristled with white hair. Neither would do anything I asked. At all. The one with Parkinson's couldn't enunciate. "OOOOHAAAAY!" he'd say. "OOOOHHHAAAAAY" He could only hold his head at a 45 degree angle back, staring at the ceiling with his gleaming black eyes. He held his hands close-in, stiff. I couldn't bend them. I wasn't about to force him. His daughter was one of those women who have never been able to be young and is a little put-out about it. Pretty, but burdened. No true laughter. I know just how she feels. Now. I asked her for her contact information. She gave it to me saying, "I'm the only one who didn't run away. You'll always be able to reach me." His wife was like a child. A little lost. She wore the same clothes the entire weekend--all three days--visibly dirty and torn. Grimy. You could see how pretty she'd been. Short buzz cut hair that was falling out. She smelled like the street--like piss and booze and smoke. The daughter kept rolling her eyes when she referred to her. The "wife" she called her. "Oh," I asked, "Is she not your mother?" Exasperated, exhausted sigh. "Yes. She's my mother." At one time, apropos of nothing, the daughter says to me, "I'll say this for our family, we come together in a crisis."
It was true. You could pick up the tension between everyone. But they weren't playing it out too much. They were all focused on the father, on his well-being. Even "the wife"
"We're very dysfunctional." The daughter informed me.
"You're behaving like champs here."
"You have no idea." She and her husband both start to giggle.
At lunch I reread Raise High the Roof Beam Carpenters. I bought it for Lilly, but she wasn't interested. They had fried chicken. Second weekend in a row (it's usually every other Sunday). Our hospital makes some of the best fried chicken I've ever had. I sat on the little cement patio in the sunshine and ate. I have to get outside at least once a shift. Wiz never takes lunch, never goes outside. I used to follow his example--but then I decided that it wasn't a moral failing to take a 1/2 hour break in a 12 hour shift. I know he secretly sees this as a betrayal of the order, but I think a little sanity is called for. I make everyone else take lunch, too. He makes fun of me. "I think I'll go take a break now," he mimics.
"Go. You need one."
He grunts, waves me off.
Back in the room, I discovered that the OR had just absolutely botched my old man's arterial line dressing. They'd used non-sterile skin tape--the catheter was about half out--wonderful. Which meant that changing the dressing would pull the cathether out. The family had left the room. I've gotten into the bad habit of talking to myself in front of my patients--who are mostly gorked--I was working over his art line, the god damn tape sticking to my gloves, trying to save the line. Muttering to myself. "the god damn OR. What the hell. I mean, what the hell." And my patient, who'd been fighting me all day, looks at me and says, "wahheyoo?"
So I told him. "Well, look at this dressing on your arm." He lifted his wrist up and looked at it. "See? It's covered with sticky tape--right on the catheter that's going into your wrist. It's sloppy. It drives me crazy."
"I-orry."
"It's not your fault."
"I-orry." And, for the first time in three days, he relaxes his arm and turns his palm up so I can get to the dressing.
That's my 1/2 hour.
I had two old men. One had a traumatic brain injury. One had Parkinson's and dementia. His bright black eyes, fringed with beautiful long lashes peered out at me, knowingly. He bristled with white hair. Neither would do anything I asked. At all. The one with Parkinson's couldn't enunciate. "OOOOHAAAAY!" he'd say. "OOOOHHHAAAAAY" He could only hold his head at a 45 degree angle back, staring at the ceiling with his gleaming black eyes. He held his hands close-in, stiff. I couldn't bend them. I wasn't about to force him. His daughter was one of those women who have never been able to be young and is a little put-out about it. Pretty, but burdened. No true laughter. I know just how she feels. Now. I asked her for her contact information. She gave it to me saying, "I'm the only one who didn't run away. You'll always be able to reach me." His wife was like a child. A little lost. She wore the same clothes the entire weekend--all three days--visibly dirty and torn. Grimy. You could see how pretty she'd been. Short buzz cut hair that was falling out. She smelled like the street--like piss and booze and smoke. The daughter kept rolling her eyes when she referred to her. The "wife" she called her. "Oh," I asked, "Is she not your mother?" Exasperated, exhausted sigh. "Yes. She's my mother." At one time, apropos of nothing, the daughter says to me, "I'll say this for our family, we come together in a crisis."
It was true. You could pick up the tension between everyone. But they weren't playing it out too much. They were all focused on the father, on his well-being. Even "the wife"
"We're very dysfunctional." The daughter informed me.
"You're behaving like champs here."
"You have no idea." She and her husband both start to giggle.
At lunch I reread Raise High the Roof Beam Carpenters. I bought it for Lilly, but she wasn't interested. They had fried chicken. Second weekend in a row (it's usually every other Sunday). Our hospital makes some of the best fried chicken I've ever had. I sat on the little cement patio in the sunshine and ate. I have to get outside at least once a shift. Wiz never takes lunch, never goes outside. I used to follow his example--but then I decided that it wasn't a moral failing to take a 1/2 hour break in a 12 hour shift. I know he secretly sees this as a betrayal of the order, but I think a little sanity is called for. I make everyone else take lunch, too. He makes fun of me. "I think I'll go take a break now," he mimics.
"Go. You need one."
He grunts, waves me off.
Back in the room, I discovered that the OR had just absolutely botched my old man's arterial line dressing. They'd used non-sterile skin tape--the catheter was about half out--wonderful. Which meant that changing the dressing would pull the cathether out. The family had left the room. I've gotten into the bad habit of talking to myself in front of my patients--who are mostly gorked--I was working over his art line, the god damn tape sticking to my gloves, trying to save the line. Muttering to myself. "the god damn OR. What the hell. I mean, what the hell." And my patient, who'd been fighting me all day, looks at me and says, "wahheyoo?"
So I told him. "Well, look at this dressing on your arm." He lifted his wrist up and looked at it. "See? It's covered with sticky tape--right on the catheter that's going into your wrist. It's sloppy. It drives me crazy."
"I-orry."
"It's not your fault."
"I-orry." And, for the first time in three days, he relaxes his arm and turns his palm up so I can get to the dressing.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Monday, September 7, 2009
City of New Orleans
Went to see District 9. It was really good. At least I think it's good. It held my attention from the first frame. And I liked that the creatures were made to be so repulsive, so that there was a real emotional journey the audience had to make in order to find them sympathetic. Much the same thing happens with my patients. At first they're overwhelmingly horrific, but then I get to know them, and their humanity pokes through--or rather, mine does. I seem to lack a heart. What I mean by this, is that my empathy does not kick in automatically. I am almost always repulsed initially. I have to talk to myself, to make my patients into stories. I describe them to myself as if I were reading about them in a book..."He lay there--the ET tube had twisted and was pulling at his mouth which was covered in herpetic blisters brought on by the stress of his condition" and then I think--"Jesus, I'd better fix the ET tube." This is a constant practice. I "write" every inch of my patients to myself this way--and then I nurse them. But I don't do it automatically, which shames me. Wiz does it automatically. The great nurses do. I have to break it down...I want to be nice, but I'm not nice. I always have to think, "what would a nice person do in this situation?" And then I do it. But I'd mostly rather be reading a book. Lilly and Nick have both told me they feel this way, too. Does everybody, I wonder? I think maybe a lot of people do. Religious practice is exactly that--practice. Church services held once a week, mass every morning. We need to be reminded. We need to renew our vows to each other, every day.
I dropped Nick off at Loyola a week and a half ago. New Orleans. A strangely empty city. But it feels like she's growing. She doesn't feel dead. Loyola is in the Garden District, and I liked its noble, underdog feel. Its gingerbread peeling red brick ramparts next to solid, rich old grey Tulane. The Jesuit ideals of Social Justice embedded in the paving stones outside the library...the flowering trees, Audubon park with its shady live oaks (I guess?) and ibis. Girls in blue plaid skirts and long straight gleaming hair. And the streetcars! I really loved the streetcars. Walked around, thought about my old lost friend Barry Gifford. He was right, it felt a lot like the Grove. I sent him a letter before we went, but it was returned "unable to forward" Probably for the best. Nick and I took the train--the City of New Orleans. Coach. From Carbondale, Il. We sat in a bar waiting for 1:30am, watching two men in french cuffs and a very drunk, plump, red haired girl in an expensive black dress.
"Never trust anyone in french cuffs." I told Nick. "There is no need for any normal American male to ever, ever wear them unless they are planning to take advantage of you." The bar-owner, a man named Tip, dressed entirely in a carhart jumpsuit, first distrusted us (we were carrying all our things, including pillows, in a cart,like homeless people), then liked us (I ordered Bauchant), even walking us down the tracks to the Amtrak station once the bar closed--we knew where it was, but, as my grandmother always said, it is wise to let people be kind to you when they want to. Never know when you'll have to hang out in Carbondale.
Home, I discovered that I suddenly wanted every thing clean. With a toothbrush.
Saturday, Wiz calls me over. He was clerking. We are short staffed, and doing more with less. So the nurses are clerking. Dangerous.
"Sit."
I sat.
He looks at me with his blue-yellow lizard eyes. "Patton, you need to find a way to deal with your children growing up that does not involve disinfectant, a toothbrush, and a green scrubby. You're taking the wax off the floors. Look."
The floor is polka-dotted with white spots. Hundreds. Where I've cleaned, I've left the floor cleaner than the surrounding tiles. And I cleaned the chairs, and the rubber areas around the sink. And the venetian blinds in the patient's rooms. And the computers. And I took care of my patients--exquisitely, I might add.
"No one trusts medical care in a hospital with dirty floors."
"True."
We're silent.
"Ahh, the deafening silence of reality." He says.
"It's not about Nick. I just want every thing clean."
"Passages by Gail Sheehy. That would be a good book for you." He muses.
"Don't go all soft on me."
"I am nothing like you think I am." He tells me.
"Neither am I." I reply.
That's my 1/2 hour.
I dropped Nick off at Loyola a week and a half ago. New Orleans. A strangely empty city. But it feels like she's growing. She doesn't feel dead. Loyola is in the Garden District, and I liked its noble, underdog feel. Its gingerbread peeling red brick ramparts next to solid, rich old grey Tulane. The Jesuit ideals of Social Justice embedded in the paving stones outside the library...the flowering trees, Audubon park with its shady live oaks (I guess?) and ibis. Girls in blue plaid skirts and long straight gleaming hair. And the streetcars! I really loved the streetcars. Walked around, thought about my old lost friend Barry Gifford. He was right, it felt a lot like the Grove. I sent him a letter before we went, but it was returned "unable to forward" Probably for the best. Nick and I took the train--the City of New Orleans. Coach. From Carbondale, Il. We sat in a bar waiting for 1:30am, watching two men in french cuffs and a very drunk, plump, red haired girl in an expensive black dress.
"Never trust anyone in french cuffs." I told Nick. "There is no need for any normal American male to ever, ever wear them unless they are planning to take advantage of you." The bar-owner, a man named Tip, dressed entirely in a carhart jumpsuit, first distrusted us (we were carrying all our things, including pillows, in a cart,like homeless people), then liked us (I ordered Bauchant), even walking us down the tracks to the Amtrak station once the bar closed--we knew where it was, but, as my grandmother always said, it is wise to let people be kind to you when they want to. Never know when you'll have to hang out in Carbondale.
Home, I discovered that I suddenly wanted every thing clean. With a toothbrush.
Saturday, Wiz calls me over. He was clerking. We are short staffed, and doing more with less. So the nurses are clerking. Dangerous.
"Sit."
I sat.
He looks at me with his blue-yellow lizard eyes. "Patton, you need to find a way to deal with your children growing up that does not involve disinfectant, a toothbrush, and a green scrubby. You're taking the wax off the floors. Look."
The floor is polka-dotted with white spots. Hundreds. Where I've cleaned, I've left the floor cleaner than the surrounding tiles. And I cleaned the chairs, and the rubber areas around the sink. And the venetian blinds in the patient's rooms. And the computers. And I took care of my patients--exquisitely, I might add.
"No one trusts medical care in a hospital with dirty floors."
"True."
We're silent.
"Ahh, the deafening silence of reality." He says.
"It's not about Nick. I just want every thing clean."
"Passages by Gail Sheehy. That would be a good book for you." He muses.
"Don't go all soft on me."
"I am nothing like you think I am." He tells me.
"Neither am I." I reply.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
The Insayne roote
Well, I have officially entered the land of the insane.
I am finishing up both my health assessment final projects and my research proposal. I am doing this all by the 21st. I think. I hope. I haven't left the house. I'm living off armour thyroid, b vitamins, cafe con leches and grape nuts. When I sit zazen, all I do is cry. Then I get up and memorize cranial nerves (along with some other stuff, like heart murmurs). I've had three classes prior to this where I had to memorize cranial nerves--I have to rememorize them every time. I wonder if I've actually learned anything. I always have to run through in my mind--"On Old Olympus' Towering Tops" Sometimes however, at work, someone will ask me an academic question, and the answer will just weirdly pop out. Blurp. Like a knowledge lugie. (sp?) And I think: "I didn't even know I knew that!"
So, while I was sitting zazen this morning, feeling guilty for not using the 1/2 hour to study, I started thinking about Joaquin Phoenix.
There's this great line in this Julio Cortazar story The Pursuer, where all the sudden the main character (pretty much exactly based on Bird) is in a recording session and he freaks out and stops the session saying, "I'm playing tomorrow!" or something like that. And I think this has something to do with what Mr. Phoenix is trying to do. What happens when you drop the spin and the plan and just sit there?
It's even worse now. We are never where we are. Our culture is about smoke and mirrors. People don't even get to die. We think we have created immediacy with the internet, etc., but we have just made more shadows. Everything is up for grabs, everything is open for comment. This is why the families in the ICU are so awful. We have nothing that coaches us for finality, because everything now has the illusion of living on and on. As Wiz says, "Hello, Mr. Reality." We are lost in dreams--and mostly, oddly, dreams of being known. We want to be loved and known. And known in our world = recorded and broadcast. Our phrases are canned. We spout movie lines to each other instead of coming up with conversation. All communication is heuristic. Secret handshakes. Are you red or blue.
Well, best of luck, Mr. Phoenix. Remember there are other places, other lives. It's a big world. You can truly step out of your frame, if you want to. What about nursing school?
That's my 1/2 hour.
I am finishing up both my health assessment final projects and my research proposal. I am doing this all by the 21st. I think. I hope. I haven't left the house. I'm living off armour thyroid, b vitamins, cafe con leches and grape nuts. When I sit zazen, all I do is cry. Then I get up and memorize cranial nerves (along with some other stuff, like heart murmurs). I've had three classes prior to this where I had to memorize cranial nerves--I have to rememorize them every time. I wonder if I've actually learned anything. I always have to run through in my mind--"On Old Olympus' Towering Tops" Sometimes however, at work, someone will ask me an academic question, and the answer will just weirdly pop out. Blurp. Like a knowledge lugie. (sp?) And I think: "I didn't even know I knew that!"
So, while I was sitting zazen this morning, feeling guilty for not using the 1/2 hour to study, I started thinking about Joaquin Phoenix.
There's this great line in this Julio Cortazar story The Pursuer, where all the sudden the main character (pretty much exactly based on Bird) is in a recording session and he freaks out and stops the session saying, "I'm playing tomorrow!" or something like that. And I think this has something to do with what Mr. Phoenix is trying to do. What happens when you drop the spin and the plan and just sit there?
It's even worse now. We are never where we are. Our culture is about smoke and mirrors. People don't even get to die. We think we have created immediacy with the internet, etc., but we have just made more shadows. Everything is up for grabs, everything is open for comment. This is why the families in the ICU are so awful. We have nothing that coaches us for finality, because everything now has the illusion of living on and on. As Wiz says, "Hello, Mr. Reality." We are lost in dreams--and mostly, oddly, dreams of being known. We want to be loved and known. And known in our world = recorded and broadcast. Our phrases are canned. We spout movie lines to each other instead of coming up with conversation. All communication is heuristic. Secret handshakes. Are you red or blue.
Well, best of luck, Mr. Phoenix. Remember there are other places, other lives. It's a big world. You can truly step out of your frame, if you want to. What about nursing school?
That's my 1/2 hour.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Surfacing
There is a drowned boy in the unit.
He's from Tibet. He's a physics student.
We have this beautiful recreational center at the university--I mean--you've never seen anything like it. It's the most beautiful, uplifting, marvelous gym you can imagine. It has a climbing wall and lounge chairs and computers and lattes and great exercise equipment. It has three pools--an olympic size one with a diving tower, a meandering "water park" sort of pool indoors, and a pool outside. It has fake banyon trees, a teeth whitening salon and tanning beds. All paid for with state tax dollars! (and then we can't get the new cancer center built, or a new nursing school--but that's a different story). So the drowned boy came from freezing Tibet, got into the physics doctoral program here in sunny Little Dixie, and, enticed by our beautiful swimming facility, decided to take swimming lessons--something not routinely offered in Tibetan mountain villages.
He lived in a local apartment complex with a lot of other foreign students, mostly Chinese, and he did something not too terribly crazy. One evening, he and another girl who had also been taking swimming lessons, decided to swim in the pool.
Only he hadn't yet progressed to the deep end, but he decided, since he was with the girl, and he knew in principle how to swim, that he would go ahead and try it.
Then he panicked. And sank. In 8 feet of water.
His friend couldn't get him up. She ran from door to door, rousing the other students. She collected 30 people, but no one could swim! Someone called 911. The paramedics pulled him out, but he'd been under for 10 minutes.
I drowned once, when I was 3. I did the same thing this boy did. I thought I could swim and I went into the deep end. I remember staying afloat for a little bit, feeling proud, but then, somehow the water became bigger--and staying on top of it became harder and harder. I don't remember panicking, in fact, I remember being far below and looking at the sun coming through the blue water and thinking, "I'll get back up," and paddling harder. I was right near the smooth white wall of the pool and I tried grabbing on to that, but I couldn't get a grip. And I remember the bottom of the pool and breathing water in.
I guess what happened after that was that my mother jumped in (she'd been writing a letter and hadn't noticed me go down), pulled me out and gave me CPR. I revived right away. I don't think I even went to the doctor. I remember staying in bed a few days. But you know, come to think of it--I had pneumonia all through my childhood--almost once a year. So maybe it damaged my lungs. I never made the connection until just this moment--but of course, that's probably it. I'm not afraid of water at all.
So the drowned boy came to our unit. And MacLean redeemed himself after the incident in October. Because he may be a materialistic fucker, but he's a genius with ventilator. He understands lungs and trauma like no one else. And the boy, after lying there for weeks, is finally waking up and responding. His physics advisor (academics, man...what planet are they from) asked--as he was laying there, vented, seizing, eyes rolling back in his head, shitting himself, "Do you think he will be able to regain cognitive function?"
"I don't know." I told him. "Maybe, after a few years. He's had a severe anoxic injury."
"Okay, I understand that," the man says impatiently, "But do you think he'll be able to finish his dissertation?"
I just looked at him. I wanted to say,'you know, really, at this point we just want him to be able to breathe by himself and wipe his own ass-that'll be success in this arena."
No clue what they were dealing with.
The parents were brought over from Tibet. I'll say this--the Chinese government got them over here fast.
They are lovely, they stand next to him and pat him and stroke him and murmur to him. When the nurses come in to tend him, they pat and stroke us, too.
Yesterday, we were able to put him into a wheelchair and wheel him into the courtyard. We parked him under the crabapple trees. I think I've written about the courtyard.
There are swallows there, they swooped and dived. The boy lifted his head and watched them...and smiled.
The professor, who, despite his annoying qualities, has been at the boy's side almost constantly, started crying.
Me, too.
He's from Tibet. He's a physics student.
We have this beautiful recreational center at the university--I mean--you've never seen anything like it. It's the most beautiful, uplifting, marvelous gym you can imagine. It has a climbing wall and lounge chairs and computers and lattes and great exercise equipment. It has three pools--an olympic size one with a diving tower, a meandering "water park" sort of pool indoors, and a pool outside. It has fake banyon trees, a teeth whitening salon and tanning beds. All paid for with state tax dollars! (and then we can't get the new cancer center built, or a new nursing school--but that's a different story). So the drowned boy came from freezing Tibet, got into the physics doctoral program here in sunny Little Dixie, and, enticed by our beautiful swimming facility, decided to take swimming lessons--something not routinely offered in Tibetan mountain villages.
He lived in a local apartment complex with a lot of other foreign students, mostly Chinese, and he did something not too terribly crazy. One evening, he and another girl who had also been taking swimming lessons, decided to swim in the pool.
Only he hadn't yet progressed to the deep end, but he decided, since he was with the girl, and he knew in principle how to swim, that he would go ahead and try it.
Then he panicked. And sank. In 8 feet of water.
His friend couldn't get him up. She ran from door to door, rousing the other students. She collected 30 people, but no one could swim! Someone called 911. The paramedics pulled him out, but he'd been under for 10 minutes.
I drowned once, when I was 3. I did the same thing this boy did. I thought I could swim and I went into the deep end. I remember staying afloat for a little bit, feeling proud, but then, somehow the water became bigger--and staying on top of it became harder and harder. I don't remember panicking, in fact, I remember being far below and looking at the sun coming through the blue water and thinking, "I'll get back up," and paddling harder. I was right near the smooth white wall of the pool and I tried grabbing on to that, but I couldn't get a grip. And I remember the bottom of the pool and breathing water in.
I guess what happened after that was that my mother jumped in (she'd been writing a letter and hadn't noticed me go down), pulled me out and gave me CPR. I revived right away. I don't think I even went to the doctor. I remember staying in bed a few days. But you know, come to think of it--I had pneumonia all through my childhood--almost once a year. So maybe it damaged my lungs. I never made the connection until just this moment--but of course, that's probably it. I'm not afraid of water at all.
So the drowned boy came to our unit. And MacLean redeemed himself after the incident in October. Because he may be a materialistic fucker, but he's a genius with ventilator. He understands lungs and trauma like no one else. And the boy, after lying there for weeks, is finally waking up and responding. His physics advisor (academics, man...what planet are they from) asked--as he was laying there, vented, seizing, eyes rolling back in his head, shitting himself, "Do you think he will be able to regain cognitive function?"
"I don't know." I told him. "Maybe, after a few years. He's had a severe anoxic injury."
"Okay, I understand that," the man says impatiently, "But do you think he'll be able to finish his dissertation?"
I just looked at him. I wanted to say,'you know, really, at this point we just want him to be able to breathe by himself and wipe his own ass-that'll be success in this arena."
No clue what they were dealing with.
The parents were brought over from Tibet. I'll say this--the Chinese government got them over here fast.
They are lovely, they stand next to him and pat him and stroke him and murmur to him. When the nurses come in to tend him, they pat and stroke us, too.
Yesterday, we were able to put him into a wheelchair and wheel him into the courtyard. We parked him under the crabapple trees. I think I've written about the courtyard.
There are swallows there, they swooped and dived. The boy lifted his head and watched them...and smiled.
The professor, who, despite his annoying qualities, has been at the boy's side almost constantly, started crying.
Me, too.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
a B
Did you know that naproxen and glyburide are highly protein bound? This can result in increased glyburide levels, as the Aleve competes with protein binding sites, causing hypoglycemia. I didn't know that. It wasn't anywhere in the reading, class notes, lexicomp, or epocrates--but it was on the clinical pharmacology EXAM!!!! And I got it wrong. 88%. I haven't gotten a B on a test in 6 years and I'm pissed off.
Arghhhh.
It's been an almost perfect storm at work the last two weeks, equal elemental forces converging consisting of responsibility--I charged--3 level one trauma admits, short staffed, inexperienced staff (but great attitudes--what a group)--severed limbs, unredeemable patients, severed limbs, constant diarrhea, crazy family members, and leaking rectal tubes (between my two patients I had 17 linen changes on Saturday).
I had weird dreams involving that surgeon I kind of like. I had to insert a rectal tube. He wanted to kiss me, moved a strand of hair out of my eyes. He'd also grown his hair out and looked a little bit like Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall (a really stupid, hokey movie). "I don't have time for that," I snapped (in the dream). "We've got to get a new Zassi in you right now.!"
I'll never forget the look of disappointment and betrayal in his eyes... Then I woke up next to Jay and felt all guilty.
I told Marcy about the dream.
"He deserves a rectal tube." She said. "Maybe it would get that stick out of his ass. And it wasn't like you were having sex with him. I don't think Jay would be jealous of that kind of interaction. Unless he's weirder than you know."
He might be. I caught him lying last week. Maybe that's why I'm having dreams about putting rectal tubes in my coworkers! He did go visit the 28 year old bartender in Summerville when he was on his shoot. He had told me that he didn't even go into town. We went down to visit his son in Summerville last week. "Haley's (her name's Haley, too--can you believe it? another one!) going to think I live down here, now," he said, musingly, as we were driving. "I've been in that bar almost once a week lately."
"I thought you said you didn't get into town."
Silence. Whoops.
"I never said that."
"Yes, you did."
"No, I didn't. You're just looking for trouble."
I let a few minutes pass. Then I said, "You know, you need to accept that, now you're 53, and with the head injury and all, you're probably not cognitively intact enough lie anymore."
We choose our poison, don't we?
I had a patient who had taken to his bed. He'd just decided...that was it. Not getting up anymore. Young guy. Lay in bed. Watched MTV. Those horrible reality shows--the one with that girl with all the tattoos...oh my god, what a waste of a life. Curled up in bed. Smoked two packs of cigarrettes a day. He developed contractures. He could only turn to the right. His organs became compressed, he couldn't breathe. He developed osteopenia. His bones fractured--hips and ribs. Wore a diaper. We couldn't do anything for him. And he chose this. One day at a time. Our bodies and our lives form the shape of our minds and hearts.
Dear Reader. Life is imperfect. Stand in the sunshine. Stand and stretch and move as much as you are able. Move through your pain. Breathe deeply. Love those around you impeccably. Learn as much as you can. Serve and love your world. Forgive yourself and others. I will try if you will.
Love,
Haley
Arghhhh.
It's been an almost perfect storm at work the last two weeks, equal elemental forces converging consisting of responsibility--I charged--3 level one trauma admits, short staffed, inexperienced staff (but great attitudes--what a group)--severed limbs, unredeemable patients, severed limbs, constant diarrhea, crazy family members, and leaking rectal tubes (between my two patients I had 17 linen changes on Saturday).
I had weird dreams involving that surgeon I kind of like. I had to insert a rectal tube. He wanted to kiss me, moved a strand of hair out of my eyes. He'd also grown his hair out and looked a little bit like Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall (a really stupid, hokey movie). "I don't have time for that," I snapped (in the dream). "We've got to get a new Zassi in you right now.!"
I'll never forget the look of disappointment and betrayal in his eyes... Then I woke up next to Jay and felt all guilty.
I told Marcy about the dream.
"He deserves a rectal tube." She said. "Maybe it would get that stick out of his ass. And it wasn't like you were having sex with him. I don't think Jay would be jealous of that kind of interaction. Unless he's weirder than you know."
He might be. I caught him lying last week. Maybe that's why I'm having dreams about putting rectal tubes in my coworkers! He did go visit the 28 year old bartender in Summerville when he was on his shoot. He had told me that he didn't even go into town. We went down to visit his son in Summerville last week. "Haley's (her name's Haley, too--can you believe it? another one!) going to think I live down here, now," he said, musingly, as we were driving. "I've been in that bar almost once a week lately."
"I thought you said you didn't get into town."
Silence. Whoops.
"I never said that."
"Yes, you did."
"No, I didn't. You're just looking for trouble."
I let a few minutes pass. Then I said, "You know, you need to accept that, now you're 53, and with the head injury and all, you're probably not cognitively intact enough lie anymore."
We choose our poison, don't we?
I had a patient who had taken to his bed. He'd just decided...that was it. Not getting up anymore. Young guy. Lay in bed. Watched MTV. Those horrible reality shows--the one with that girl with all the tattoos...oh my god, what a waste of a life. Curled up in bed. Smoked two packs of cigarrettes a day. He developed contractures. He could only turn to the right. His organs became compressed, he couldn't breathe. He developed osteopenia. His bones fractured--hips and ribs. Wore a diaper. We couldn't do anything for him. And he chose this. One day at a time. Our bodies and our lives form the shape of our minds and hearts.
Dear Reader. Life is imperfect. Stand in the sunshine. Stand and stretch and move as much as you are able. Move through your pain. Breathe deeply. Love those around you impeccably. Learn as much as you can. Serve and love your world. Forgive yourself and others. I will try if you will.
Love,
Haley
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Complaints
It's hard to look around this house and think that I can really pull any of this out of the hat.
It rains. The water comes in the basement. The dogs get out of the laundry room, pee on the carpet. They pee on the carpet whether they've been out or not. They need to be bathed. They need to be groomed. Nothing in this house is the way I want it. It's not a shelter, it's a burden.
It rains, the water comes in the basement. We put down towels. We think we've got it, but then we find where we missed it, where something has come through--soaked the christmas wrapping paper I was saving, soaked one of the window curtains. Dirty water. Filtered through the soil. I know there are things I need to do to the house to keep this from happening, but I can't. That's the money for Nick's college.
Money, money, money, money. I wish I could stop minding about it, but I can't.
Money, money, money, money. Time, time, time, time. It's 8:24. The day's lost already. I spent yesterday in the City. I went to see a doctor there about my thyroid. He practices energy medicine. He had me hold two copper wands hooked up to some sort of machine that looked like an old HAM radio and told me from this that I had parasites. Okay, he did more than that. 500 dollars. Which I don't have. I felt like I did when that fortune teller in Phoenix told me there was a shadow on my life, created by someone who should have wished me well, but in actuality didn't (my mother?) and that it would cost $350 for her to go into the mountains and burn candles for me for 10 days. You know you've entered crazy land, but you can't get out in case they're right.
I'm going back in 3 weeks. They wanted to do a hair test and an ELISA, which was actually the only reasonable diagnostic in there. I said, "next time." I'm mad at myself. I was finally getting out of debt.
I also didn't go to my Dartmouth reunion. I went to Jay's video premiere instead--so I couldn't take off two weeks in a row. And now he's probably in Springfield running around with that 28 year-old bartender who gave him her phone number right in front of me. (I love it when women do that. Bitch. What are you supposed to do? They do it all friendly-like. And they fake-include you in the invitation--except they don't give their phone number to you, do they? They give it to your boyfriend! "Hey--good to see you guys--call me next time you guys are down here, we can hang out. Here's my phone number." Amazing. And if you say something like, "umm, did you just give my BOYFRIEND your PHONE NUMBER?" you're like, a jealous bitch.)
So, here's where I'm at: Nick's going to college. I'm paying for it with grad school loans, essentially. It's either that or work overtime. I could just work a shit load of overtime and do it, but then I won't have anything to show for it. I work as hard (though, admittedly, not physically) at school. But if I get my masters, I can get a better, higher paying job (I think, I hope. Probably yes.) Since I'm working so hard, I can't clean the house. Because, literally, I get up in the morning, siz zazen, and then sit at my computer, with a break for yoga or swimming. My children sort of clean the house. But not really.
It might be easier if I could get married. Financially. But Jay is not ready to get married because Jay is all busy regretting his youth and screwed up over his crazy daughter and, too, his ex is too involved in his life. He's abandoning pets and forgetting to pay utility bills and I think he's about maxed.
I'm also worried about getting sick. My thyroid is still doing it's business, but my antibodies have tripled. I'm getting tired more easily. If my energy goes, the whole edifice crumbles. So I have to spend the money to figure this out. Because the regular doctors aren't fixing it.
Oh, well. I guess I'll figure it out somehow. I'm going to go sit zazen now. As you can probably tell from this entry, I skipped it this morning.
It rains. The water comes in the basement. The dogs get out of the laundry room, pee on the carpet. They pee on the carpet whether they've been out or not. They need to be bathed. They need to be groomed. Nothing in this house is the way I want it. It's not a shelter, it's a burden.
It rains, the water comes in the basement. We put down towels. We think we've got it, but then we find where we missed it, where something has come through--soaked the christmas wrapping paper I was saving, soaked one of the window curtains. Dirty water. Filtered through the soil. I know there are things I need to do to the house to keep this from happening, but I can't. That's the money for Nick's college.
Money, money, money, money. I wish I could stop minding about it, but I can't.
Money, money, money, money. Time, time, time, time. It's 8:24. The day's lost already. I spent yesterday in the City. I went to see a doctor there about my thyroid. He practices energy medicine. He had me hold two copper wands hooked up to some sort of machine that looked like an old HAM radio and told me from this that I had parasites. Okay, he did more than that. 500 dollars. Which I don't have. I felt like I did when that fortune teller in Phoenix told me there was a shadow on my life, created by someone who should have wished me well, but in actuality didn't (my mother?) and that it would cost $350 for her to go into the mountains and burn candles for me for 10 days. You know you've entered crazy land, but you can't get out in case they're right.
I'm going back in 3 weeks. They wanted to do a hair test and an ELISA, which was actually the only reasonable diagnostic in there. I said, "next time." I'm mad at myself. I was finally getting out of debt.
I also didn't go to my Dartmouth reunion. I went to Jay's video premiere instead--so I couldn't take off two weeks in a row. And now he's probably in Springfield running around with that 28 year-old bartender who gave him her phone number right in front of me. (I love it when women do that. Bitch. What are you supposed to do? They do it all friendly-like. And they fake-include you in the invitation--except they don't give their phone number to you, do they? They give it to your boyfriend! "Hey--good to see you guys--call me next time you guys are down here, we can hang out. Here's my phone number." Amazing. And if you say something like, "umm, did you just give my BOYFRIEND your PHONE NUMBER?" you're like, a jealous bitch.)
So, here's where I'm at: Nick's going to college. I'm paying for it with grad school loans, essentially. It's either that or work overtime. I could just work a shit load of overtime and do it, but then I won't have anything to show for it. I work as hard (though, admittedly, not physically) at school. But if I get my masters, I can get a better, higher paying job (I think, I hope. Probably yes.) Since I'm working so hard, I can't clean the house. Because, literally, I get up in the morning, siz zazen, and then sit at my computer, with a break for yoga or swimming. My children sort of clean the house. But not really.
It might be easier if I could get married. Financially. But Jay is not ready to get married because Jay is all busy regretting his youth and screwed up over his crazy daughter and, too, his ex is too involved in his life. He's abandoning pets and forgetting to pay utility bills and I think he's about maxed.
I'm also worried about getting sick. My thyroid is still doing it's business, but my antibodies have tripled. I'm getting tired more easily. If my energy goes, the whole edifice crumbles. So I have to spend the money to figure this out. Because the regular doctors aren't fixing it.
Oh, well. I guess I'll figure it out somehow. I'm going to go sit zazen now. As you can probably tell from this entry, I skipped it this morning.
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