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.
Monday, September 14, 2009
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.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Red Potato Salad Recipe
Oh, they're all gone...thank goodness. Back to normal old stress. Money worries, boy/girl stuff, school....hooray!
Nick's father and his wife came for the graduation. I didn't let them in the house. It's not as bad as it sounds. I took them out to dinner and stuff, but I couldn't open up my house to them for some reason. Well, for one thing, I hadn't cleaned it, and Joy's a clean freak. One of the big issues in our marriage was my slovenliness, and I just couldn't stand the idea of them being in my little nest exchanging glances with each other. So they never got to come in. I think it's fair: no child support, no entry over the threshhold.
Jay came through like a trooper. He hosted a picnic at his house for EVERYBODY. Ex, Nick's girlfriend, her parents, Lilly's friends and their parents. He stood at the grill, valiantly serving up burgers. We cooked an unbelievable amount of food--and I came up with a wonderful impromptu potato salad recipe:
Here it is:
5 pounds of red potatoes
2 tablespoons of minced garlic
Garlic salt
4 hard boiled eggs
1/4 cup balsamic vinegar
1/4 cup vegetable oil (don't use olive)
1/4 cup mayonnaise
Fresh thyme--generous handful-chopped
Fresh oregano-1/4 cup--chopped
a few leaves of basil.
Cut the potatoes into quarters, leave the skins on. Boil in salted water until cooked but not mushy (10-15 minutes)
Drain the potatoes, put in a big bowl.
Chop the eggs and add to the potatoes, mix together.
Mix the oil and vinegar together with the minced garlic, whisk, pour over potatoes and eggs and toss.
Add the herbs last and toss. Sprinkle with garlic salt. You're done! Every last bit of it was consumed.
It was a little awkward, but I kept everybody liquored up. My yoga teacher, Sierra,showed up, channeling the chaotic righteous and bawdy aspects of the goddess. She's lost a lot of weight, has managed to tan to a dark caramel, and brought her own plastic bottle filled with gin and lemonade. She said "fuck" a lot, which shocked Joy and my ex, but not too much. I think Joy really had a good time. She told me she wants to become a nurse. She's recently had her breasts enlarged. She ran through the fields like a child, picking chamomile and chasing fireflies. She really seemed relaxed and happy to be here. Well, bless her. My ex sat there like the dark little child he is, embattled, controlling himself. Forever controlling himself. Emanating displeasure. I remember when that would make me just quake. Does that happen to Joy? What on earth made him so mad? What on earth has been so bad for him? Jay made only one little dig which I think went unnoticed.
But we started talking, late in the evening, all of us, about our children when they were babies--and we started talking about Nick's first pediatrician, Dr. Chastain. Patrick got up and did a perfect imitation of him, which had the table rocking in their seats with laughter. Dr. Chastain was from New Orleans, class of '35. And a wonderful doctor--hardly ever used antibiotics, believed in enemas and nasal cleansing--had his own patent on something you hooked up to your faucet. Kept Nick well, until Lilly came along and we had to go into the network in order to get the correct referrals for all her surgeries. And I realized something--I think I've mentioned that I've always had trouble remembering my children when they were little. I remember almost nothing from that period of their life, but Sunday night, it all came rushing back to me and I realized that the reason I couldn't remember was because I'd shut off my memories of the pain of my marriage. And I realized that, you know, I think I did love my husband, and losing him wasn't easy. He was mean, and after a lot of therapy, I realized that he was bad for me, and I think I thought that meant that all the warm feelings I felt for him were wrong. But they weren't. They were real. They just were. It's just what it was.
The children ran through the fields, putting fireflies in a jar, and we all sat under the stars telling stories about the children we'd reared to adulthood, linked in love. Love we'd given and made, children conceived, born and raised in love. However fragmented and imperfect. Still the same water.
Nick's father and his wife came for the graduation. I didn't let them in the house. It's not as bad as it sounds. I took them out to dinner and stuff, but I couldn't open up my house to them for some reason. Well, for one thing, I hadn't cleaned it, and Joy's a clean freak. One of the big issues in our marriage was my slovenliness, and I just couldn't stand the idea of them being in my little nest exchanging glances with each other. So they never got to come in. I think it's fair: no child support, no entry over the threshhold.
Jay came through like a trooper. He hosted a picnic at his house for EVERYBODY. Ex, Nick's girlfriend, her parents, Lilly's friends and their parents. He stood at the grill, valiantly serving up burgers. We cooked an unbelievable amount of food--and I came up with a wonderful impromptu potato salad recipe:
Here it is:
5 pounds of red potatoes
2 tablespoons of minced garlic
Garlic salt
4 hard boiled eggs
1/4 cup balsamic vinegar
1/4 cup vegetable oil (don't use olive)
1/4 cup mayonnaise
Fresh thyme--generous handful-chopped
Fresh oregano-1/4 cup--chopped
a few leaves of basil.
Cut the potatoes into quarters, leave the skins on. Boil in salted water until cooked but not mushy (10-15 minutes)
Drain the potatoes, put in a big bowl.
Chop the eggs and add to the potatoes, mix together.
Mix the oil and vinegar together with the minced garlic, whisk, pour over potatoes and eggs and toss.
Add the herbs last and toss. Sprinkle with garlic salt. You're done! Every last bit of it was consumed.
It was a little awkward, but I kept everybody liquored up. My yoga teacher, Sierra,showed up, channeling the chaotic righteous and bawdy aspects of the goddess. She's lost a lot of weight, has managed to tan to a dark caramel, and brought her own plastic bottle filled with gin and lemonade. She said "fuck" a lot, which shocked Joy and my ex, but not too much. I think Joy really had a good time. She told me she wants to become a nurse. She's recently had her breasts enlarged. She ran through the fields like a child, picking chamomile and chasing fireflies. She really seemed relaxed and happy to be here. Well, bless her. My ex sat there like the dark little child he is, embattled, controlling himself. Forever controlling himself. Emanating displeasure. I remember when that would make me just quake. Does that happen to Joy? What on earth made him so mad? What on earth has been so bad for him? Jay made only one little dig which I think went unnoticed.
But we started talking, late in the evening, all of us, about our children when they were babies--and we started talking about Nick's first pediatrician, Dr. Chastain. Patrick got up and did a perfect imitation of him, which had the table rocking in their seats with laughter. Dr. Chastain was from New Orleans, class of '35. And a wonderful doctor--hardly ever used antibiotics, believed in enemas and nasal cleansing--had his own patent on something you hooked up to your faucet. Kept Nick well, until Lilly came along and we had to go into the network in order to get the correct referrals for all her surgeries. And I realized something--I think I've mentioned that I've always had trouble remembering my children when they were little. I remember almost nothing from that period of their life, but Sunday night, it all came rushing back to me and I realized that the reason I couldn't remember was because I'd shut off my memories of the pain of my marriage. And I realized that, you know, I think I did love my husband, and losing him wasn't easy. He was mean, and after a lot of therapy, I realized that he was bad for me, and I think I thought that meant that all the warm feelings I felt for him were wrong. But they weren't. They were real. They just were. It's just what it was.
The children ran through the fields, putting fireflies in a jar, and we all sat under the stars telling stories about the children we'd reared to adulthood, linked in love. Love we'd given and made, children conceived, born and raised in love. However fragmented and imperfect. Still the same water.
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