I'm hungry.
I haven't been hungry in 3 weeks.
I got my hair cut today. It's been over 6 months. Embarrassing. My hairdresser, Shirin, went overboard, because she knows she won't see me for another season. I hate it. She gave me bangs. I told her that I just wanted little wispy tendrils to escape from my braid and soften my features, and she gave me these full-on bangs that I hate. I look like a wrinkly seventh grader. That's probably why I'm hungry--I need to eat to take away the pain. Maybe I'll drink instead.
Shirin is getting married. It's been a long haul.
I met Shirin 9 years ago. At that time, I had a beautiful little 3 color process blonde bob that needed care about every six weeks. This Japanese girl was cutting my hair--sort of. I never thought she was that great, but in this town she was the best I could find. I had to cancel appointments occasionally--something was always coming up--my kids were young and and I was newly single. One day, as I was making my next appointment, she came up to me and said that if I canceled this appointment she would charge me the full amount and she would never schedule another appointment with me again. I thought this was a little grandiose--I just laughed "what are you, a shrink?" I handed her $150 (a lot for a haircut in Little Dixie) and said, "please consider my next cut and color canceled. Here's some cash in advance for your trouble. " Then I looked at the receptionist, a fat queen staring at me open-mouthed, and said "Harold, please make an appointment for me with someone who understands single-motherhood."
He gave me to Shirin. Harold, by the way, became a good friend--he ended up working at the nursing school. He still talks about that incident. "Oh my god, it was like a movie or something. You just slapped that cash down. You should have seen her face. She was so arrogant..."
So I got Shirin who was a single mom herself. Of course, I have been left in the chair with foils half in and wet hair as she ran out of the shop to go pick up a sick kid--but all in all, the relationship has worked out. And the hair has been generally good--except today. I mean, I guess I suppose it is good, I just haven't learned to appreciate it. Sometimes Shirin takes my appearance into her own hands.
Shirin has been dating her guy 5 years. He's very sweet and boring, but they did have one terrible break-up over a coffee maker. About 3 years ago, she thought the relationship was moving steadily toward marriage. He was staying over at her house 5 nights out of seven and she thought it was just a matter of time. She had a very expensive coffee maker--some sort of beautiful $1000 brass Italian thingy. He just loved it.
Well, around Christmastime, they were shopping in St. Louis, and he bought the exact same coffee-maker. "Why are you buying a coffee maker?" she asked. "We already have one."
"You have one." He told her. "I don't. I want my own."
Oops.
She thought that was a bad sign and dumped him.
They got back together.
I'm glad. She has had kind of a nose for bad guys--like future denizens of the federal penitentiary.
One guy turned out to be a bank robber. A very charming bank robber, one who had had leads in all the high school plays around here. "I kept wondering why he kept all his money in cash in a gym bag!" she said.
Ah. Bad sign.
He was dating another friend of mine at the same time, Lark, a former beauty queen. Lark and Shirin would both tell me stories about this terrific new guy they were seeing--and I'd think--'wow, that sounds exactly like something Shirin's guy would do' or vice versa--and I was even kind of jealous. They were both dating this terrific, charming guy. Then they told me his name and I realized they were seeing the same person. I didn't know what to do.
So one day, I just casually said, "Wow, that sounds exactly like the guy Lark is dating. Does he have a brother or something?"
Shirin stopped cutting my hair. "Lark is obsessed with him. She calls him constantly and follows him around. You can't believe anything she says. She's crazy."
And then Lark would say, "Shirin is so desperate. He wants to break up with her, but she calls him all the time and follows him around. She's crazy. He doesn't want to hurt her feelings, so he hasn't officially broken it off--but they're not having sex."
Women. We're all so desperate.
But they got wise eventually. Sometimes I'm glad I'm kind of plain--I escape the notice of these lotharios.
"I don't understand how you could have fallen for him..." I said to Shirin, once.
She shrugged.
Then to change the subject, I started talking about movies. The Royal Tennenbaums was just out, and we started talking about that.
"I like Rushmore better, "I offered. If you recall, Rushmore is my favorite movie. I've watched it probably 200 times.
Shirin got sad. "That was his favorite movie. He had it on tape. He would watch it over and over again."
I gasped. "I do that."
Shirin put my head between her hands, leaned over me, face next to mine, side by side in the mirror. "You would have fallen in love with him, too, Haley Patton."
Near miss, I guess.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Christmas Shopping
2nd snow day in a row. I was supposed to go in to work but got called off. It's funny, I like the extra money, but I like the time more. So of course, I stayed home, locked in with the kids and spent money. One of the night shift nurses gave me the Vermont Country Store catalog and I decided for once to buy everything in it that I wanted. It came to 163 dollars, which is pretty good I guess. I got no-slip thingies for my mom to put on her shoes, a bunch of embroidered handkerchiefs, those little chocolate candies from Holland shaped like wooden shoes, a reproduction vintage Nancy Drew for my mom, some Nurse books--I forget the name--Army Nurse! Student Nurse! Cherry Hanes? Is that it? I'm too lazy to go into the dining room and get the catalog--and a flannel nightie. With a square neck. I hate buttons. I'm always intrigued by the perfumes they have in that catalog--"Evening in Paris" etc. I want to try them--I have the deep inner conviction that every single problem in my life can be solved by finding the right perfume and moisturizer.
I finally have a wrinkle. 2. One on each eye. They're real They're small, but they stretch to my hairline, as if I've drawn the line on. It's the convertible, I guess. I wasn't as rigorous about wearing a big hat this summer, and I drove around in the Saab a lot. Since I turned forty, I've gotten a lot less rigorous about the sunscreen. I also finally took off the last five pounds I've been trying to lose, and with it went my wrinkle padding. What an ugly dilemma--do I want a fat ass or wrinkles? Choose!
Wiz has been making a big deal of this at work. "Better watch that pie, Patton, you don't want to put that weight back on."
Sunday he brought baklava for everyone--in specimen cups--except me. He handed me a small baggie with a tea bag in it.
"It's mate. No calories. La Maja was thin."
"La Maja threw herself into the river!"
One of the greatest blessings in life is to have someone in it who has read as much as you have. Most of the hours of my life, I feel sort of locked in. I don't have anyone to really talk to about things I like to talk about. My best friend from college, Myrtle, can do it, but she's also crazy now, so it's kind of off and on. My kids are getting there--especially Lilly--but I have to do a lot of arbitration still (no, you need to get out of the bathroom NOW) and Jay I have to "manage" which is exhausting in it's own way--is he getting emotionally hemmed in? am I distant enough? am I close enough? There are a lot of things I see very plainly about him that he is simply not ready to face, and, really, at 52, he may not ever cop to them. People don't change. And I worry about him. Jay's in the circle of worry--along with kids, pets and parents and close friends. So I like working with Wiz. He'll just say one word or name. "Comte de Guise" and I'll mostly know what he's talking about. Cultural references both high and low. It's like swimming to shore, sometimes. Ahhh.
I think I'll go back to Creme de la Mer. I quit using it because I decided it was all hype, but my skin's gotten worse. I hate to spend the money.
Jay and I are going to Cozumel over Christmas. We had a big fight. Big for us. We never fight. He had brought up the trip a few weeks ago, and I found cheap tickets. He was supposed to order them but when I got home from work he hadn't.
"Why not?"
"Well, I couldn't find a room, and I couldn't reach the hotel I usually stay at..."
So I'm thinking, okay, he doesn't really want to go. There may be too many memories of Hali there or maybe his money situation is worse than I thought, or, I don't know, he's just not that in to me--so the only thing to do when you sense that is to BACK OFF AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE.
"Oh, okay. That's cool. No worries. We'll have fun here."
But I was disappointed, and I guess it showed. And he got mad at me for it. And then he told me he was mad at me for a bunch of other things--"I'm 87 per cent mad at everything else, but I'm 13 per cent mad at you--your job schedule sucks, you can never spend enough time with me, and you had a bad reaction to the cozumel thing."
Here's what I think: people who get mad at you because they feel guilty for treating you poorly suck. Men who are mad at you for earning a living but offer you no alternative are cads. I know, my heart is like a piece of old, chewed hide. It is my best friend in that it now shuts down whenever I am fed this kind of crap by a guy. Even one I adore. And anyone who serves you anything but milk and honey after you have been out in the snow and ice, working for 14 hours needs to be left alone.
So I got up, put on my shoes, hat and coat and headed out the door.
"don't you want a burrito to take with you? You've been working 14 hours."
We made up.
And the next day I got a message:"I've got tickets to Cozumel."
So good. What precipitated this, I guess, is that Jay showed up at Hali's house yesterday evening. Our town does something this time of year called "Living Windows" which is kind of fun. Downtown is lit up and the shop windows have tableaus featuring living mannequins. He had the bright idea of taking her daughter to see the windows, so that Hali and Carlos could go out by themselves, or something. But Carlos was like, "No. I'm taking my daughter and my wife downtown."
This upset Jay. Imagine that.
"You mean, the fact that her father wanted to do something christmassy with her upset you?"
Silence.
Weirdness.
That's my 1/2 hour.
I finally have a wrinkle. 2. One on each eye. They're real They're small, but they stretch to my hairline, as if I've drawn the line on. It's the convertible, I guess. I wasn't as rigorous about wearing a big hat this summer, and I drove around in the Saab a lot. Since I turned forty, I've gotten a lot less rigorous about the sunscreen. I also finally took off the last five pounds I've been trying to lose, and with it went my wrinkle padding. What an ugly dilemma--do I want a fat ass or wrinkles? Choose!
Wiz has been making a big deal of this at work. "Better watch that pie, Patton, you don't want to put that weight back on."
Sunday he brought baklava for everyone--in specimen cups--except me. He handed me a small baggie with a tea bag in it.
"It's mate. No calories. La Maja was thin."
"La Maja threw herself into the river!"
One of the greatest blessings in life is to have someone in it who has read as much as you have. Most of the hours of my life, I feel sort of locked in. I don't have anyone to really talk to about things I like to talk about. My best friend from college, Myrtle, can do it, but she's also crazy now, so it's kind of off and on. My kids are getting there--especially Lilly--but I have to do a lot of arbitration still (no, you need to get out of the bathroom NOW) and Jay I have to "manage" which is exhausting in it's own way--is he getting emotionally hemmed in? am I distant enough? am I close enough? There are a lot of things I see very plainly about him that he is simply not ready to face, and, really, at 52, he may not ever cop to them. People don't change. And I worry about him. Jay's in the circle of worry--along with kids, pets and parents and close friends. So I like working with Wiz. He'll just say one word or name. "Comte de Guise" and I'll mostly know what he's talking about. Cultural references both high and low. It's like swimming to shore, sometimes. Ahhh.
I think I'll go back to Creme de la Mer. I quit using it because I decided it was all hype, but my skin's gotten worse. I hate to spend the money.
Jay and I are going to Cozumel over Christmas. We had a big fight. Big for us. We never fight. He had brought up the trip a few weeks ago, and I found cheap tickets. He was supposed to order them but when I got home from work he hadn't.
"Why not?"
"Well, I couldn't find a room, and I couldn't reach the hotel I usually stay at..."
So I'm thinking, okay, he doesn't really want to go. There may be too many memories of Hali there or maybe his money situation is worse than I thought, or, I don't know, he's just not that in to me--so the only thing to do when you sense that is to BACK OFF AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE.
"Oh, okay. That's cool. No worries. We'll have fun here."
But I was disappointed, and I guess it showed. And he got mad at me for it. And then he told me he was mad at me for a bunch of other things--"I'm 87 per cent mad at everything else, but I'm 13 per cent mad at you--your job schedule sucks, you can never spend enough time with me, and you had a bad reaction to the cozumel thing."
Here's what I think: people who get mad at you because they feel guilty for treating you poorly suck. Men who are mad at you for earning a living but offer you no alternative are cads. I know, my heart is like a piece of old, chewed hide. It is my best friend in that it now shuts down whenever I am fed this kind of crap by a guy. Even one I adore. And anyone who serves you anything but milk and honey after you have been out in the snow and ice, working for 14 hours needs to be left alone.
So I got up, put on my shoes, hat and coat and headed out the door.
"don't you want a burrito to take with you? You've been working 14 hours."
We made up.
And the next day I got a message:"I've got tickets to Cozumel."
So good. What precipitated this, I guess, is that Jay showed up at Hali's house yesterday evening. Our town does something this time of year called "Living Windows" which is kind of fun. Downtown is lit up and the shop windows have tableaus featuring living mannequins. He had the bright idea of taking her daughter to see the windows, so that Hali and Carlos could go out by themselves, or something. But Carlos was like, "No. I'm taking my daughter and my wife downtown."
This upset Jay. Imagine that.
"You mean, the fact that her father wanted to do something christmassy with her upset you?"
Silence.
Weirdness.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Neuro Checks
3 days. I'm off today--it was supposed to be my overtime shift. We are encased in ice. I walk on it and don't even dent it, it forms a plastic, samsonite luggage like dome over everything--my yard, the cars, the parkinglots. The dogs go skidding on it. Winter is here.
I've parked illegally every day, pulling into the CEO's spot in the parking garage--they haven't even ticketed me. I guess they're just glad staff made it in. Inside the ICU is a feeling of cold quiet, like we're in hibernation. I feel cool inside, and far away from things. There's a lot less flirting and joking, and the residents seem cranky, more inclined to blame nurses. I had to bark at Baggins the other day for it.
The only person who seems lit by this weather is Wiz, of course, who never works the way other people do. He's walking around singing.."you can hedge a bet on a clean corvette" His meds must be working.
I had good patients this weekend--patients who actually got better. My patient last weekend died. Not on me, thank goodness, but the next day. His family withdrew care. But this week, I had 2 head injuries--one an old man with alzheimers, and the other a woman. Head injuries require neuro checks every hour, which can be disturbing for family members--both patients started off vented, but my little old man was extubated the first day. My woman stayed intubated throughout the weekend. Every hour, you go in and you shout at the patient, and ask them to follow commands--"Squeeze my hand!" I say in my loudest, most shrewish tone. If they can't do that, I rub their sternum or pinch their toes with hemostats to get them to respond. You watch how they respond--do they try to fight you off? Do they curl their hands and toes in? (posturing-bad sign) I run a q-tip on the lower lid of their eyes to see if they have a blink reflex. And I deal with the neuro docs. Who are awful. Peremptory, demeaning. "We need you in here." the medical student accompanying them tells me. The neuros-I call them the neros--are in with the woman. The neuro attending is from Africa, with skin as black as wet bustelo espresso grounds. I have never seen skin so dark. He always wears a double breasted suit and he expresses all his opinions in a heavily accented shrill voice and all his opinions are expressed as commands. One time he told me, "Patients should never be intubated unless they have trouble breathing."
"That is very true!" I told him. "You are absolutely right!"
So he is standing in the room with his residents, all equally unpleasant.
"Why is this patient intubated!" he says. Like it's my decision.
"I believe because she has a paO2 of 66%. "
"She should not be intubated."
"Well," I say patiently, "the primary team is in the conference room. Dr. Spratz is attending on call this weekend. Would you like to discuss options with them?"
"That will not be necessary."
He proceeds to do a neuro check.
With the propofol running. Propofol, otherwise known as the "milk of dreams" is a very heavy sedative.
"She is not responsive! Has she been responsive for you?"
"Well, it is seven in the morning, and I have just walked into the room, so this is the first time I've seen her---so I can't answer that. The night nurse did get her to localize pain,(localizing pain is the nice way of saying the patient tries to hit you when you hurt them)"
"She is not doing anything."
"Would you like me to turn the propofol off?" I ask pleasantly.
"That will not be necessary!"
His Fellow, a stringy miserable looking polish guy tries his hand at an examination. I decide to shut the propofol off anyways. Instead of a sternal rub, he opts to twist her right nipple. Hard and nasty.
Fucker.
But she reaches for him. I hope she knocks his teeth out.
"Localizes pain,"he says triumphantly.
"What an innovative approach, doctor." I say.
The attending turns to me. "She needs to be extubated!"
"Dr Spratz is just down the hall...I can go get him..."
"Never mind!" He turns on his heel and walks out.
"they are all like that up here," I overhear him say to his Fellow as walks out.
Yep.
But at 1800 on Sunday, I got her to squeeze my hand in response. Then I got her to squeeze her daughter's, too. Lots of tears. She's going to be okay.
That's my 1/2 hour.
I've parked illegally every day, pulling into the CEO's spot in the parking garage--they haven't even ticketed me. I guess they're just glad staff made it in. Inside the ICU is a feeling of cold quiet, like we're in hibernation. I feel cool inside, and far away from things. There's a lot less flirting and joking, and the residents seem cranky, more inclined to blame nurses. I had to bark at Baggins the other day for it.
The only person who seems lit by this weather is Wiz, of course, who never works the way other people do. He's walking around singing.."you can hedge a bet on a clean corvette" His meds must be working.
I had good patients this weekend--patients who actually got better. My patient last weekend died. Not on me, thank goodness, but the next day. His family withdrew care. But this week, I had 2 head injuries--one an old man with alzheimers, and the other a woman. Head injuries require neuro checks every hour, which can be disturbing for family members--both patients started off vented, but my little old man was extubated the first day. My woman stayed intubated throughout the weekend. Every hour, you go in and you shout at the patient, and ask them to follow commands--"Squeeze my hand!" I say in my loudest, most shrewish tone. If they can't do that, I rub their sternum or pinch their toes with hemostats to get them to respond. You watch how they respond--do they try to fight you off? Do they curl their hands and toes in? (posturing-bad sign) I run a q-tip on the lower lid of their eyes to see if they have a blink reflex. And I deal with the neuro docs. Who are awful. Peremptory, demeaning. "We need you in here." the medical student accompanying them tells me. The neuros-I call them the neros--are in with the woman. The neuro attending is from Africa, with skin as black as wet bustelo espresso grounds. I have never seen skin so dark. He always wears a double breasted suit and he expresses all his opinions in a heavily accented shrill voice and all his opinions are expressed as commands. One time he told me, "Patients should never be intubated unless they have trouble breathing."
"That is very true!" I told him. "You are absolutely right!"
So he is standing in the room with his residents, all equally unpleasant.
"Why is this patient intubated!" he says. Like it's my decision.
"I believe because she has a paO2 of 66%. "
"She should not be intubated."
"Well," I say patiently, "the primary team is in the conference room. Dr. Spratz is attending on call this weekend. Would you like to discuss options with them?"
"That will not be necessary."
He proceeds to do a neuro check.
With the propofol running. Propofol, otherwise known as the "milk of dreams" is a very heavy sedative.
"She is not responsive! Has she been responsive for you?"
"Well, it is seven in the morning, and I have just walked into the room, so this is the first time I've seen her---so I can't answer that. The night nurse did get her to localize pain,(localizing pain is the nice way of saying the patient tries to hit you when you hurt them)"
"She is not doing anything."
"Would you like me to turn the propofol off?" I ask pleasantly.
"That will not be necessary!"
His Fellow, a stringy miserable looking polish guy tries his hand at an examination. I decide to shut the propofol off anyways. Instead of a sternal rub, he opts to twist her right nipple. Hard and nasty.
Fucker.
But she reaches for him. I hope she knocks his teeth out.
"Localizes pain,"he says triumphantly.
"What an innovative approach, doctor." I say.
The attending turns to me. "She needs to be extubated!"
"Dr Spratz is just down the hall...I can go get him..."
"Never mind!" He turns on his heel and walks out.
"they are all like that up here," I overhear him say to his Fellow as walks out.
Yep.
But at 1800 on Sunday, I got her to squeeze my hand in response. Then I got her to squeeze her daughter's, too. Lots of tears. She's going to be okay.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Cast of Characters-again
Cast of Characters-- revised
Me--Haley Patton. trauma nurse, single mom, confused episcopalian, zen buddhist (sort of...), liberal arts casualty, former party-girl searching for redemption and relevance
Wiz--Clinical Supervisor. One fucking great nurse. My partner on the floor. 50's. Polish. mysterious past, short, bald and carp-like, with an obsession for music and french literature.
Nick--my 16 year old son, dear and dorky
Lilly--my 15 year-old daughter, busy being 15, 5'9" and built like Miss October, whom I'm trying to get through her teen years without incident and who generally fills me with panic on a daily basis. They both fill me with panic on a daily basis. I am filled with panic on a daily basis. Enough.
Jay--my boyfriend, documentary filmmaker and legendary rock climber with the sweet simple soul of an eleven year old boy. And the tact. ahem.
Soupy--the local medical examiner and favorite rumpled pet of a friend, 70, terrible dresser, looks like Albert Einstein
Talen--the tattooed, butt groping waiter at Ernie'sErnie's--the diner
Hunter--Jay's frog-like best friend, local pitt bull lawyer and casino owner.(In Monte Carlo! Can you believe anyone around here in Little Dixie actually owns a casino in Monte Carlo?)
Sybil--Hunter's beautiful grifter girlfriend--used to be Jay's girlfriend 20 years ago.
Baggins--our short, hairy ICU Fellow (that's an MD, top of the residents) Former nurse and army medic, gulf war veteran (the first one). Only dates teenagers.
Mark--hipster night shift supervisor
Alice--one of my best friends, an MD, missed a diagnosis on a child who ended up a vegetable as a result, now wanders the woods communing with plants. ("I talk to the trees..but they don't listen to me..." She does not find this amusing when I sing it to her.)
Staci Roberts--the best musican I know, but a little 'Jerry Springer' if you know what I mean...
Elizabeth--Another clinical supervisor, late thirties, 5 kids, a husband dying of leukemia
Lois--her Core.
Tonks-the lhasa apso at the center of all our lives.
Heather-my best friend from high school, who never speaks to me, except when she's in crisis
Xavier-my crazy rich Cuban artist/party promoter, etc. ex, who was institutionalized with schizophrenia
Madonna--Nick's heart's desire, xylophone player, charming chubby 16 year-old girl
Hali Cordoba--Jay's ex of 15 years who left him for and married a professional salsa dancer is weirdly enmeshed in our lives and never shaves her armpits (or wears a bra) and calls us at 10:30 at night.
The Hennessy's--Frances, Big Frances, Linda, Catherine, etc--the Irish-Catholic family who took me into their home and hearts in mean ol Miami
Dartmouth--the college on the hill
Me--Haley Patton. trauma nurse, single mom, confused episcopalian, zen buddhist (sort of...), liberal arts casualty, former party-girl searching for redemption and relevance
Wiz--Clinical Supervisor. One fucking great nurse. My partner on the floor. 50's. Polish. mysterious past, short, bald and carp-like, with an obsession for music and french literature.
Nick--my 16 year old son, dear and dorky
Lilly--my 15 year-old daughter, busy being 15, 5'9" and built like Miss October, whom I'm trying to get through her teen years without incident and who generally fills me with panic on a daily basis. They both fill me with panic on a daily basis. I am filled with panic on a daily basis. Enough.
Jay--my boyfriend, documentary filmmaker and legendary rock climber with the sweet simple soul of an eleven year old boy. And the tact. ahem.
Soupy--the local medical examiner and favorite rumpled pet of a friend, 70, terrible dresser, looks like Albert Einstein
Talen--the tattooed, butt groping waiter at Ernie'sErnie's--the diner
Hunter--Jay's frog-like best friend, local pitt bull lawyer and casino owner.(In Monte Carlo! Can you believe anyone around here in Little Dixie actually owns a casino in Monte Carlo?)
Sybil--Hunter's beautiful grifter girlfriend--used to be Jay's girlfriend 20 years ago.
Baggins--our short, hairy ICU Fellow (that's an MD, top of the residents) Former nurse and army medic, gulf war veteran (the first one). Only dates teenagers.
Mark--hipster night shift supervisor
Alice--one of my best friends, an MD, missed a diagnosis on a child who ended up a vegetable as a result, now wanders the woods communing with plants. ("I talk to the trees..but they don't listen to me..." She does not find this amusing when I sing it to her.)
Staci Roberts--the best musican I know, but a little 'Jerry Springer' if you know what I mean...
Elizabeth--Another clinical supervisor, late thirties, 5 kids, a husband dying of leukemia
Lois--her Core.
Tonks-the lhasa apso at the center of all our lives.
Heather-my best friend from high school, who never speaks to me, except when she's in crisis
Xavier-my crazy rich Cuban artist/party promoter, etc. ex, who was institutionalized with schizophrenia
Madonna--Nick's heart's desire, xylophone player, charming chubby 16 year-old girl
Hali Cordoba--Jay's ex of 15 years who left him for and married a professional salsa dancer is weirdly enmeshed in our lives and never shaves her armpits (or wears a bra) and calls us at 10:30 at night.
The Hennessy's--Frances, Big Frances, Linda, Catherine, etc--the Irish-Catholic family who took me into their home and hearts in mean ol Miami
Dartmouth--the college on the hill
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Snow
It's snowing. Big thick splats of it. We were supposed to go out to Jay's farm to cut down the tree, but Nick got nervous.
"I don't think we should go out in this." he said. "I have a bad feeling about this."
So, I'm all about honoring caution, and we stayed put. I tried to drive downtown to go to yoga, but after nearly losing control of the car twice, turned around and came home. It was Nick's first time driving in the snow, and I think it made him really nervous. Good.
I was really pushing to go--I thought it would be a fun family thing to do and I want to involve Jay in more of our family stuff, but as I was watching Lilly put her boots on, suddenly the image of the girl we lost on the unit popped in my mind and seemed to me I could see Lilly in her place, her limbs bloated and pale, face expressionless as we worked hopelessly over her. I had to sit down.
I saw the picture of Hawkins, the teenager who murdered all the people in Omaha yesterday, and he looked so much like Nick, or any of Nick's friends. Bespectacled and pimply, hair too long. How do we lose people? How do they fall out of our hands? There were people around him who loved him and who tried for him--Sometimes I think there is this undercurrent of hopelessness in America and it geisers forth in violence in some of our weaker members. We seem to take everything so lightly--all the obsession with celebrities, all the reality shows. My grandmother used to say "you can sell your family once, but then you can't sell them twice." Everything's for sale, these days. Our privacy, our souls, our children. We're slathering to let the cameras in--it's like you don't exist until you get press. And our attention is so scattered that we don't come together as a people to address the things that need solving. We split into factions--Red and Blue. I know the blues will blame the lack of gun control ('If guns were outlawed that kid could never have done that much damage') and the reds will probably blame liberal values or whatever, but the fact remains that, over and over again this year, we have had members of our society who were so disenfranchised they took weapons and turned them upon others and then finally upon themselves, as if the blood would make it real. What are we looking for?
I became a nurse because I felt my life wasn't real. I felt that I was just gliding along in a dream, insulated from the realities of the world. Are we all too insulated, maybe? Have we lost our fellow feeling? Do we not teach our children empathy these days? Are there too many of us, maybe? I don't know.
Then I turned the page and read about Guantanamo and how there have been prisoners there who have waited 6 years for a hearing. 6 years! I know they're not citizens, but they're humans. "We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal..."that doesn't specify citizens, right? It says all men. That's the line of thought the constitution sprang from, right? It was a rethinking of humanity. So what's up? Why can't those guys have a hearing? Why are we torturing them?
I don't know, folks. I'm a feminist, but I think everybody's acting like they don't have mothers, and someone has to get back into the home and stop chasing the next big thing and just focus on the babies. I realize I'm rambling, but it all seems connected to me.
Okay, think about this: everyone says, you can't save the whole world. Well, why on earth can't you? I mean, humans aren't so complicated, right? I'm one, you're one. Babies all need the same thing--shelter, food, love. Then you can move on to things like equal opportunities and justice. There's a finite number of beings on the planet--it's not like it's an infinite amount. Surely we can find a way to get everyone what they need somehow.
I think we should all stop what we're doing and just work on that. Get that taken care of. Then worry about the rest.
Well, that's my 1/2 hour. Regina Spector's on the stereo singing her version of John Lennon's Real Love. Hope everyone reading this finds it, and gives it, if they can't find it. Be Brave!
"I don't think we should go out in this." he said. "I have a bad feeling about this."
So, I'm all about honoring caution, and we stayed put. I tried to drive downtown to go to yoga, but after nearly losing control of the car twice, turned around and came home. It was Nick's first time driving in the snow, and I think it made him really nervous. Good.
I was really pushing to go--I thought it would be a fun family thing to do and I want to involve Jay in more of our family stuff, but as I was watching Lilly put her boots on, suddenly the image of the girl we lost on the unit popped in my mind and seemed to me I could see Lilly in her place, her limbs bloated and pale, face expressionless as we worked hopelessly over her. I had to sit down.
I saw the picture of Hawkins, the teenager who murdered all the people in Omaha yesterday, and he looked so much like Nick, or any of Nick's friends. Bespectacled and pimply, hair too long. How do we lose people? How do they fall out of our hands? There were people around him who loved him and who tried for him--Sometimes I think there is this undercurrent of hopelessness in America and it geisers forth in violence in some of our weaker members. We seem to take everything so lightly--all the obsession with celebrities, all the reality shows. My grandmother used to say "you can sell your family once, but then you can't sell them twice." Everything's for sale, these days. Our privacy, our souls, our children. We're slathering to let the cameras in--it's like you don't exist until you get press. And our attention is so scattered that we don't come together as a people to address the things that need solving. We split into factions--Red and Blue. I know the blues will blame the lack of gun control ('If guns were outlawed that kid could never have done that much damage') and the reds will probably blame liberal values or whatever, but the fact remains that, over and over again this year, we have had members of our society who were so disenfranchised they took weapons and turned them upon others and then finally upon themselves, as if the blood would make it real. What are we looking for?
I became a nurse because I felt my life wasn't real. I felt that I was just gliding along in a dream, insulated from the realities of the world. Are we all too insulated, maybe? Have we lost our fellow feeling? Do we not teach our children empathy these days? Are there too many of us, maybe? I don't know.
Then I turned the page and read about Guantanamo and how there have been prisoners there who have waited 6 years for a hearing. 6 years! I know they're not citizens, but they're humans. "We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal..."that doesn't specify citizens, right? It says all men. That's the line of thought the constitution sprang from, right? It was a rethinking of humanity. So what's up? Why can't those guys have a hearing? Why are we torturing them?
I don't know, folks. I'm a feminist, but I think everybody's acting like they don't have mothers, and someone has to get back into the home and stop chasing the next big thing and just focus on the babies. I realize I'm rambling, but it all seems connected to me.
Okay, think about this: everyone says, you can't save the whole world. Well, why on earth can't you? I mean, humans aren't so complicated, right? I'm one, you're one. Babies all need the same thing--shelter, food, love. Then you can move on to things like equal opportunities and justice. There's a finite number of beings on the planet--it's not like it's an infinite amount. Surely we can find a way to get everyone what they need somehow.
I think we should all stop what we're doing and just work on that. Get that taken care of. Then worry about the rest.
Well, that's my 1/2 hour. Regina Spector's on the stereo singing her version of John Lennon's Real Love. Hope everyone reading this finds it, and gives it, if they can't find it. Be Brave!
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Sisters
On Sunday, I ran into my preceptor from nursing school, Wanda Grass. At the end of nursing school, they stick you with one nurse in a unit for 3 months and they basically guide you and mentor you and hopefully, at the end of it, drop you out onto the cookie sheet a fully-formed nurse. Wanda was mine. She did a lot for me. She's my age, maybe 60 pounds overweight, fundamentalist and politically conservative. I took one look at her and thought, 'She's going to hate me. Women like this can't stand me.'
I didn't give her enough credit. She guided me every step of the way. She was the most knowledgeable, affirming, kind woman I have ever come across. She drop-kicked me into adulthood, really, resolving issues of self-doubt and esteem I thought were forever lost. I owe a lot to to Wanda. If I'm ever 1/4 of the nurse she is, I'll be happy. She didn't agree or condone any of my political beliefs or way of life, but somehow, she liked me anyways. I love her. We became friends afterwards, even though we're so very different. Everybody needs someone like this: someone who points out your flaws and gives you shelter at the same time. I guess that's what a mother should do.
"You need to wear makeup." Wanda said, without preamble. "You look like hell." Wanda has moved out ot the ER to Stat Nurse--that's a nurse who takes patients to where they need to go--OR, CT, MRI, so the unit nurse can remain with their other patients on the floor.
"No I don't."
"Well, you'd be prettier with makeup. There are doctors around."
"I'm too old for them, and I have a boyfriend."
"Trust me. They're doing all this administrative stuff with you. Put some makeup on."
I put some lipstick on.
"Better?"I ask when I see her later.
"Much better. Here's the name of my foundation. Go get some. Your hair's messy, too."
Wiz hears this, rolls his eyes. "It's better than it used to be."
"I'm wearing it in a braid, now!" I protest. It is much better than it used to be.
"It's all wispy." Wanda says.
Wiz says : "just be happy with the lipstick." Wanda laughs. She has this fresh, generous, unaffected laugh. As if she really does find whatever she's laughing at amusing.
And because it was Wanda, today after my psychiatrist appointment, I find myself in the Merle Norman store handing the clerk a slip of paper with the foundation name on it and asking for help matching it.
I sort of look down on Merle Norman--it seems like hillbilly beauty to me. I was raised on Erno Lazlo and it has served me well, I think. But whatever Wanda suggests, I do. This is an interesting thing about nursing...women like other women in this profession. There's a strong tradition of mentorship and guidance and support. One of my best friends is an actress--was an actress. Now, at 40, she's a voice professor at a midwestern university. A good fate for an aging B movie actress who never quite made it, although she did keep on getting work. She hates younger women. "They're so callow and snotty and self-involved." she tells me. "don't you just hate working with younger women?"
No, actually, I don't. I really like younger women. They're fun and open and remind me not to stop dreaming. Some of them make me want to, to quote Clarissa Pinkola Estes, "put my head between my paws and howl" but I don't find them so bad. I guess I don't feel much resentment towards them because I had as much fun as I think it is probably possible to have when I was young, and I doubt any of them are having a wilder, weirder, more glorious time than I ever did--so I'm cool about them. And I kind of get adopted, like my Nana did. I give good advice and I'm honestly not jealous. I had my time, and I'm still ok. So. There. The kind of relationships nursing engenders between women are the kind that make it possible for Wanda to say--"put some make up on" with the result that instead of being offended, I go straight to the Merle Normal counter on my day off and buy her foundation brand.
The woman behind the counter, as she is putting on my foundation, tells me that she would have an easier time if my skin weren't so rough.
She's trying to sell me exfoliant, of course. But I'm pissed off. What a tactic! There are many things about me that are sub-par in the looks department, but my complexion isn't one of them. I have great skin. My dermatologist once pulled his resident in and said, "look at this skin! This is what skin should be! This is what skin can be!"
"My skin is not rough." I say indignantly.
I look in the mirror and just see shiny, translucent, clear wrinkle-free me. It's the one thing I like about my appearance! How dare she.
She backs down. "Oh, I'm sorry. I guess it was just the cotton from the pad."
Damn straight Jeannie.
And I bought the foundation. And it is a hillbilly brand, but it's a very good match--I can't even tell I have it on--and it's not thick or yucky and Jay didn't notice I had makeup on.
Lesson: Know what's weak about you and know what's strong and take help that's offered, but don't let anyone prey upon you. People assume women are vulnerable about their appearance and they will use it to sell you anything. Stick to your guns.
Maybe I'll get a haircut.
That's my 1/2 hour.
I didn't give her enough credit. She guided me every step of the way. She was the most knowledgeable, affirming, kind woman I have ever come across. She drop-kicked me into adulthood, really, resolving issues of self-doubt and esteem I thought were forever lost. I owe a lot to to Wanda. If I'm ever 1/4 of the nurse she is, I'll be happy. She didn't agree or condone any of my political beliefs or way of life, but somehow, she liked me anyways. I love her. We became friends afterwards, even though we're so very different. Everybody needs someone like this: someone who points out your flaws and gives you shelter at the same time. I guess that's what a mother should do.
"You need to wear makeup." Wanda said, without preamble. "You look like hell." Wanda has moved out ot the ER to Stat Nurse--that's a nurse who takes patients to where they need to go--OR, CT, MRI, so the unit nurse can remain with their other patients on the floor.
"No I don't."
"Well, you'd be prettier with makeup. There are doctors around."
"I'm too old for them, and I have a boyfriend."
"Trust me. They're doing all this administrative stuff with you. Put some makeup on."
I put some lipstick on.
"Better?"I ask when I see her later.
"Much better. Here's the name of my foundation. Go get some. Your hair's messy, too."
Wiz hears this, rolls his eyes. "It's better than it used to be."
"I'm wearing it in a braid, now!" I protest. It is much better than it used to be.
"It's all wispy." Wanda says.
Wiz says : "just be happy with the lipstick." Wanda laughs. She has this fresh, generous, unaffected laugh. As if she really does find whatever she's laughing at amusing.
And because it was Wanda, today after my psychiatrist appointment, I find myself in the Merle Norman store handing the clerk a slip of paper with the foundation name on it and asking for help matching it.
I sort of look down on Merle Norman--it seems like hillbilly beauty to me. I was raised on Erno Lazlo and it has served me well, I think. But whatever Wanda suggests, I do. This is an interesting thing about nursing...women like other women in this profession. There's a strong tradition of mentorship and guidance and support. One of my best friends is an actress--was an actress. Now, at 40, she's a voice professor at a midwestern university. A good fate for an aging B movie actress who never quite made it, although she did keep on getting work. She hates younger women. "They're so callow and snotty and self-involved." she tells me. "don't you just hate working with younger women?"
No, actually, I don't. I really like younger women. They're fun and open and remind me not to stop dreaming. Some of them make me want to, to quote Clarissa Pinkola Estes, "put my head between my paws and howl" but I don't find them so bad. I guess I don't feel much resentment towards them because I had as much fun as I think it is probably possible to have when I was young, and I doubt any of them are having a wilder, weirder, more glorious time than I ever did--so I'm cool about them. And I kind of get adopted, like my Nana did. I give good advice and I'm honestly not jealous. I had my time, and I'm still ok. So. There. The kind of relationships nursing engenders between women are the kind that make it possible for Wanda to say--"put some make up on" with the result that instead of being offended, I go straight to the Merle Normal counter on my day off and buy her foundation brand.
The woman behind the counter, as she is putting on my foundation, tells me that she would have an easier time if my skin weren't so rough.
She's trying to sell me exfoliant, of course. But I'm pissed off. What a tactic! There are many things about me that are sub-par in the looks department, but my complexion isn't one of them. I have great skin. My dermatologist once pulled his resident in and said, "look at this skin! This is what skin should be! This is what skin can be!"
"My skin is not rough." I say indignantly.
I look in the mirror and just see shiny, translucent, clear wrinkle-free me. It's the one thing I like about my appearance! How dare she.
She backs down. "Oh, I'm sorry. I guess it was just the cotton from the pad."
Damn straight Jeannie.
And I bought the foundation. And it is a hillbilly brand, but it's a very good match--I can't even tell I have it on--and it's not thick or yucky and Jay didn't notice I had makeup on.
Lesson: Know what's weak about you and know what's strong and take help that's offered, but don't let anyone prey upon you. People assume women are vulnerable about their appearance and they will use it to sell you anything. Stick to your guns.
Maybe I'll get a haircut.
That's my 1/2 hour.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Madurai
Nobody reads my blog!
I try to tell myself I don't really care and that I'm doing this for me and me only, but I guess when I started this I had this sort of very low key fantasy--all my fantasies are so pedestrian--that like,2 or 3 quirky people living in places like Prague or Orford, VT would read it--just pop in occasionally to see what was up and maybe chuckle or something--"oh, that's life--that's right--imagine, all that stuff going on in Little Dixie!" And then I had this other fantasy, that maybe things would start to happen...you know, there would be some romance or mystery that would start unfolding step by step in my blog, instead of it turning into this sort of navel gazing self-indulgent ramble. Oh, well.
I am going to do something exciting, actually--I'm going to India. About 6 months ago, I filled out an information sheet for Smile Train. Then I forgot about it.
Then I got an email from someone named T. Arulmony at Meenakshi Mission Hospital in Madurai, India inviting me to come work there for a week or two.
I forwarded the email to to Jay: 'Want to go to India?' I wrote.
He called me. "Of course I want to go to India!"
I figured we could go in the spring, when the kids went down to visit their dad for spring break.
T. Arulmony and I wrote back and forth a few times, I told him about my experience and exactly what I knew how to do and what I didn't know how to do.
Here is another difference between Jay and me: Next time I saw Jay, he knew everything about Madurai. 'It's called the Athens of India!' he told me excitedly. 'There's a large Tamil presence--you know, in Burma, that's a big issue--but we're not going to Burma.'
I stared at him. I hadn't even thought to look up Madurai! I had gone to the AHA and bought an ACLS manua and a PALS manual, since I figured I woud be working with children and am not that comfortable with peds--and I had gone through my textbooks trying to figure out which ones I should take with me. I started laughing. It hadn't even occurred to me to think about the surroundings--my whole being lives inside a hospital, now, I guess. Wherever it is in the world.
He looks all around him and asks questions--he sees the furniture and the trees and the whole picture--I just anxiously focus on what it is I am going to do and whether or not I will do it in the right way and what I need to learn/change/speed up to do it. He enjoys himself, and feels he has a right to do this. I just hope I don't fuck up.
So I mention this to Lilly, and she gets really mad. "You can't go to India without me! I'm the whole reason you're interested in cleft palates in the first place! You have to take me! I will never, never forgive you if you go without me."
I stare at her.
You know, most of the time, I forget Lilly has a cleft palate and all we went through to get her to where she is now. Of course Lilly has to go.
I tell Jay. "But how will we have sex?" is his first question.
But then later, sitting in the coffee shop, he says, "you know, going with Lilly is perfect. You can't leave Lilly. And I've been thinking, that would be a great documentary--coming full circle--going to India--I'm going to try to sell it and I'm going to film you guys, if it's all right with Lilly."
Of course it's all right with Lilly. I'm suprised at this, given how she feels about Jay.
So he shops the idea around and found a taker--a tv news magazine, I won't tell you which one-but they don't want to give Jay money to do it--they want to come along!
So it's just a big cluster now, and I'm going to go traipsing off to Madurai with all these people.
Argh.
I've been asking Indian people I know about Madurai...
The Indian lady who owns our favorite restaurant: "Madurai? I've never heard of it. Are you sure you're pronouncing it correctly?"
The Indian lady who appraised my house for my consolidation loan: "Madurai? Oh my god, why on earth would you want to go there?"
And Dr. Patel, who was in my ACLS class last Thursday. Dr. Patel is very beautiful and very arrogant, but nice, once you get past the bravura. She has a cloud of black, black, curly hair that she wears piled on top of her head. She speaks very fast and never makes eye contact with the nurses When I met her in the SICU, she walked into the room without introducing herself and said shrilly, pointing at me with every order "You will perform EKG and then you will inform me of the results. You will draw Troponin levels immediately and follow them up twice more, 8 hours apart."
I pointed at her and said, " I will do that right away!(point) But you will tell me who you are(point) and stop pointing at me (point, point)"
We got along after that.
So I told her and she got all excited. "Are you going to Meenakshi Mission Hospital?"
"Yes! How did you know?"
"My father worked there as a doctor. That's my name! I'm named for Meenakshi."
"You are?"
"Yes! It means 'punctuality' in Hindi."
I'm nonplussed. "Your father named you 'Punctuality'?" (What kind of a father names their kid "punctuality"? I mean, I guess it's one of the virtues, but still...especially since she had showed up for the class 2 hours late and had to look off my test to pass.)
"Well, it's also the name of a goddess."
"That's a relief."
"Madurai is the Athens of India," she informs me.
Ah.
And that's my 1/2 hour.
I try to tell myself I don't really care and that I'm doing this for me and me only, but I guess when I started this I had this sort of very low key fantasy--all my fantasies are so pedestrian--that like,2 or 3 quirky people living in places like Prague or Orford, VT would read it--just pop in occasionally to see what was up and maybe chuckle or something--"oh, that's life--that's right--imagine, all that stuff going on in Little Dixie!" And then I had this other fantasy, that maybe things would start to happen...you know, there would be some romance or mystery that would start unfolding step by step in my blog, instead of it turning into this sort of navel gazing self-indulgent ramble. Oh, well.
I am going to do something exciting, actually--I'm going to India. About 6 months ago, I filled out an information sheet for Smile Train. Then I forgot about it.
Then I got an email from someone named T. Arulmony at Meenakshi Mission Hospital in Madurai, India inviting me to come work there for a week or two.
I forwarded the email to to Jay: 'Want to go to India?' I wrote.
He called me. "Of course I want to go to India!"
I figured we could go in the spring, when the kids went down to visit their dad for spring break.
T. Arulmony and I wrote back and forth a few times, I told him about my experience and exactly what I knew how to do and what I didn't know how to do.
Here is another difference between Jay and me: Next time I saw Jay, he knew everything about Madurai. 'It's called the Athens of India!' he told me excitedly. 'There's a large Tamil presence--you know, in Burma, that's a big issue--but we're not going to Burma.'
I stared at him. I hadn't even thought to look up Madurai! I had gone to the AHA and bought an ACLS manua and a PALS manual, since I figured I woud be working with children and am not that comfortable with peds--and I had gone through my textbooks trying to figure out which ones I should take with me. I started laughing. It hadn't even occurred to me to think about the surroundings--my whole being lives inside a hospital, now, I guess. Wherever it is in the world.
He looks all around him and asks questions--he sees the furniture and the trees and the whole picture--I just anxiously focus on what it is I am going to do and whether or not I will do it in the right way and what I need to learn/change/speed up to do it. He enjoys himself, and feels he has a right to do this. I just hope I don't fuck up.
So I mention this to Lilly, and she gets really mad. "You can't go to India without me! I'm the whole reason you're interested in cleft palates in the first place! You have to take me! I will never, never forgive you if you go without me."
I stare at her.
You know, most of the time, I forget Lilly has a cleft palate and all we went through to get her to where she is now. Of course Lilly has to go.
I tell Jay. "But how will we have sex?" is his first question.
But then later, sitting in the coffee shop, he says, "you know, going with Lilly is perfect. You can't leave Lilly. And I've been thinking, that would be a great documentary--coming full circle--going to India--I'm going to try to sell it and I'm going to film you guys, if it's all right with Lilly."
Of course it's all right with Lilly. I'm suprised at this, given how she feels about Jay.
So he shops the idea around and found a taker--a tv news magazine, I won't tell you which one-but they don't want to give Jay money to do it--they want to come along!
So it's just a big cluster now, and I'm going to go traipsing off to Madurai with all these people.
Argh.
I've been asking Indian people I know about Madurai...
The Indian lady who owns our favorite restaurant: "Madurai? I've never heard of it. Are you sure you're pronouncing it correctly?"
The Indian lady who appraised my house for my consolidation loan: "Madurai? Oh my god, why on earth would you want to go there?"
And Dr. Patel, who was in my ACLS class last Thursday. Dr. Patel is very beautiful and very arrogant, but nice, once you get past the bravura. She has a cloud of black, black, curly hair that she wears piled on top of her head. She speaks very fast and never makes eye contact with the nurses When I met her in the SICU, she walked into the room without introducing herself and said shrilly, pointing at me with every order "You will perform EKG and then you will inform me of the results. You will draw Troponin levels immediately and follow them up twice more, 8 hours apart."
I pointed at her and said, " I will do that right away!(point) But you will tell me who you are(point) and stop pointing at me (point, point)"
We got along after that.
So I told her and she got all excited. "Are you going to Meenakshi Mission Hospital?"
"Yes! How did you know?"
"My father worked there as a doctor. That's my name! I'm named for Meenakshi."
"You are?"
"Yes! It means 'punctuality' in Hindi."
I'm nonplussed. "Your father named you 'Punctuality'?" (What kind of a father names their kid "punctuality"? I mean, I guess it's one of the virtues, but still...especially since she had showed up for the class 2 hours late and had to look off my test to pass.)
"Well, it's also the name of a goddess."
"That's a relief."
"Madurai is the Athens of India," she informs me.
Ah.
And that's my 1/2 hour.
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