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.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
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.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Accidental Companions
You never know what you're going to wake up to.
I woke up to the sound of a helicopter, flying low. I wasn't even aware at first that it had woken me up, you know how you just weave things into your dreams. Jay and I had gone back to his house after going to my friend, Lucy's wedding. It was nice. I got there at the last minute, rushed straight from work in my blood spattered scrubs. She had called me earlier in the week--"Just rush over. Don't change. At least you'll get to some of the mass." We arrived as Lucy and her groom (one of our city's aldermen) were facing the audience and the priest was pronouncing them man and wife. Lucy chose adulthood and stability. She's the youngest child of an Italian conductor. I've known her since we were five. She had long golden curls then, and was plump. A plump, bossy, pink and white and yellow little girl. Tossing her hair. "I'll tell! I get to be the mommy! You have to be my slave." She had bright, close set blue eyes. Still does. Sometimes you grow up with people with whom you are not entirely friendly, but who are more than friends and less than family. That's Lucy. She still has golden curls, and she's kind of plump. And she's the boss of her own ad agency. So I guess that it's good she was bossy when young. Everyone who was anyone in town was there. Jay traded flirty quips with this married local artist who always tries to pick him up, two of my old high school boyfriends were there. I had changed into a dress by the time we got to the reception. Everyone seemed so darn...old. Oh well. Nice night. We went back to his place, slightly tipsy from all the champagne. The farm has a lot of wild chamomile growing in the fields for some reason, and it smelled wonderful. We made slow, meandering, love and fell asleep listening to the frogs and smelling the rain and chamomile and honeysuckle.
And were woken up by the helicopter.
"Aren't there FAA rules about this?" grumbled Jay.
I stood out on the lawn in front of the house, watching the chopper. It circled, almost brushing the tops of the trees. It was a medivac. From my hospital. "They must be looking for someone." I said. I think I see someone wave.
We made some coffee, the chopper kept circling. We got into the saab for the drive back to town.
The road that leads from Jay's place to the blacktop county road to Route L into town is gravel. One lane in places, like over the little bridge that crosses La Belle creek. There are few houses on it. As we got into the valley, near the postmaster's house on the creek, we had to slow down. Crockett County Fire and Rescue. A university hospital ambulance. And Courtney. One of the nurses I work with.
Courtney used to be a supervisor. She's about 27. Very east coast. Not really pretty--but she doesn't need to be. Narrow aristocratic nose, dirty blonde hair. Slender to fault. Great nurse. One of the popular girls. Dated a lot of doctors. Dumped them. Fearless in a way. A little selfish. Always has a $2000 purse. She's getting married now. To a contractor named Mike with a daughter from a previous marriage. Quit her job to stay home and be a mom.
And here she is. By the side of the road, looking like a wet cat.
I roll down the window. "What are you doing here? You working?"
"That's Mike's truck," she says reasonably, pointing at the vehicle almost completely submerged in the water. The place is crawling with search and rescue people, sheriff's deputies, dogs and horses.
"Where's Mike?" I ask.
"We're trying to find that out. It doesn't look good. They're dragging the creek." She says this in the most conversational, pleasant way imaginable. Like how we all talk at work. "They've brought in the cadaver dogs. Don't worry. I can't believe how well I'm handling this. You must be Jay."
"Hello..." says Jay doubtfully. We look at each other. Jay pulls the car into the postmaster's driveway. We look around. Courtney is shrunken into her coat. Her face is all bony nose, hair skinned back.
"We heard the helicopter," I offer.
"Brad's on it!" As if on cue. Brad comes walking across the yard in his little flight suit. He puts his arm around me.
"Have you told him about us?" he asks, "Or should I?"
"It's over. When will you let it go?"
Courtney goes off to make a phone call.
"Is there anyone else here?" I ask.
"No. Just me. And she won't call any family. You live close--could you make us a pot of coffee?"
Jay and I turn around, drive back to his house and make a pot of coffee. It takes two hundred years. 1st because Jay has to grind the beans. Then because he has this stinky little walmart pot that takes forever. We make two pots, pour them in the Stanley and head back to the site. Jay drops me off and heads into town to his babysitting date with Elena.
"Jesus," Courtney says, "that took forever. What were you doing?"
"Well, we had to grind the beans..."
Courtney and Brad both start cackling. "I told you so." Brad says. "I told you Haley was grinding the beans."
Brad goes off, and Courtney and I lean against the car, talking about nothing important. Every time one of the dogs bark, she stops talking and turns white. After a few hours of this, I start thinking that there's no way anyone's coming out of this situation alive. I want to gently encourage her to get some family involved, or closer friends, but she's adamant. I give up.
"Do you want to come back to the house? I'll cook you some breakfast."
"I can't leave." She says. "Could you bring me something? I don't eat eggs."
I take Brad's car back to Jay's house. There's nothing there. Old moldy bagels, an almost empty box of stale triscuits, a can of cranberry sauce. One dubious looking egg. But in the freezer, there's pizza dough! What a find! I dig up a can of tomato sauce, a lump of queso fresco, capers, an onion, tomatoes, fresh garlic, some parmesan cheese--stick it in the oven. Then I go down to the garden and pick some greens. I can't tell which is arugula and which is poison ivy. I hope I'm not making a mistake. The whole thing's ready in ten minutes. I take it back down to the site.
"Let me guess, you had to pick the food out of the garden."
"Only partly correct."
She takes a piece of the pizza, then a few more. "Oh my God, this pizza is amazing." I take a slice. It is amazing. I kid you not, it's just about the best pizza I have ever had in my life. Brad takes a slice. "This is unbelievable." We sit together, leaning against the truck, scarfing pizza.
The radio crackles. Reception's bad in the bottom. "...white male....barefoot......walking Jones Hatchery Road..."
We stop eating.
Brad gets on the radio. Walks away.
Comes back. "It's him, Court." 2 miles away. Confused. Courtney, who's shown almost nothing all these hours, looks like she might possibly cry. "They're bringing him here."
My cue to go. I take the empty pizza pan, kiss her on the forehead, and walk back to Jay's. The sky is crystal and blue, the sun came up. The world smells like early summer. I think, I feel like a buddha. I feel transparent, and endless.
Jay's back with Elena.
"You look awful," he tells me.
"Thank you."
Elena and I paint watercolor portraits of the cat for the rest of the afternoon.
You never know what's going to happen, do you?
That's my 1/2 hour.
I woke up to the sound of a helicopter, flying low. I wasn't even aware at first that it had woken me up, you know how you just weave things into your dreams. Jay and I had gone back to his house after going to my friend, Lucy's wedding. It was nice. I got there at the last minute, rushed straight from work in my blood spattered scrubs. She had called me earlier in the week--"Just rush over. Don't change. At least you'll get to some of the mass." We arrived as Lucy and her groom (one of our city's aldermen) were facing the audience and the priest was pronouncing them man and wife. Lucy chose adulthood and stability. She's the youngest child of an Italian conductor. I've known her since we were five. She had long golden curls then, and was plump. A plump, bossy, pink and white and yellow little girl. Tossing her hair. "I'll tell! I get to be the mommy! You have to be my slave." She had bright, close set blue eyes. Still does. Sometimes you grow up with people with whom you are not entirely friendly, but who are more than friends and less than family. That's Lucy. She still has golden curls, and she's kind of plump. And she's the boss of her own ad agency. So I guess that it's good she was bossy when young. Everyone who was anyone in town was there. Jay traded flirty quips with this married local artist who always tries to pick him up, two of my old high school boyfriends were there. I had changed into a dress by the time we got to the reception. Everyone seemed so darn...old. Oh well. Nice night. We went back to his place, slightly tipsy from all the champagne. The farm has a lot of wild chamomile growing in the fields for some reason, and it smelled wonderful. We made slow, meandering, love and fell asleep listening to the frogs and smelling the rain and chamomile and honeysuckle.
And were woken up by the helicopter.
"Aren't there FAA rules about this?" grumbled Jay.
I stood out on the lawn in front of the house, watching the chopper. It circled, almost brushing the tops of the trees. It was a medivac. From my hospital. "They must be looking for someone." I said. I think I see someone wave.
We made some coffee, the chopper kept circling. We got into the saab for the drive back to town.
The road that leads from Jay's place to the blacktop county road to Route L into town is gravel. One lane in places, like over the little bridge that crosses La Belle creek. There are few houses on it. As we got into the valley, near the postmaster's house on the creek, we had to slow down. Crockett County Fire and Rescue. A university hospital ambulance. And Courtney. One of the nurses I work with.
Courtney used to be a supervisor. She's about 27. Very east coast. Not really pretty--but she doesn't need to be. Narrow aristocratic nose, dirty blonde hair. Slender to fault. Great nurse. One of the popular girls. Dated a lot of doctors. Dumped them. Fearless in a way. A little selfish. Always has a $2000 purse. She's getting married now. To a contractor named Mike with a daughter from a previous marriage. Quit her job to stay home and be a mom.
And here she is. By the side of the road, looking like a wet cat.
I roll down the window. "What are you doing here? You working?"
"That's Mike's truck," she says reasonably, pointing at the vehicle almost completely submerged in the water. The place is crawling with search and rescue people, sheriff's deputies, dogs and horses.
"Where's Mike?" I ask.
"We're trying to find that out. It doesn't look good. They're dragging the creek." She says this in the most conversational, pleasant way imaginable. Like how we all talk at work. "They've brought in the cadaver dogs. Don't worry. I can't believe how well I'm handling this. You must be Jay."
"Hello..." says Jay doubtfully. We look at each other. Jay pulls the car into the postmaster's driveway. We look around. Courtney is shrunken into her coat. Her face is all bony nose, hair skinned back.
"We heard the helicopter," I offer.
"Brad's on it!" As if on cue. Brad comes walking across the yard in his little flight suit. He puts his arm around me.
"Have you told him about us?" he asks, "Or should I?"
"It's over. When will you let it go?"
Courtney goes off to make a phone call.
"Is there anyone else here?" I ask.
"No. Just me. And she won't call any family. You live close--could you make us a pot of coffee?"
Jay and I turn around, drive back to his house and make a pot of coffee. It takes two hundred years. 1st because Jay has to grind the beans. Then because he has this stinky little walmart pot that takes forever. We make two pots, pour them in the Stanley and head back to the site. Jay drops me off and heads into town to his babysitting date with Elena.
"Jesus," Courtney says, "that took forever. What were you doing?"
"Well, we had to grind the beans..."
Courtney and Brad both start cackling. "I told you so." Brad says. "I told you Haley was grinding the beans."
Brad goes off, and Courtney and I lean against the car, talking about nothing important. Every time one of the dogs bark, she stops talking and turns white. After a few hours of this, I start thinking that there's no way anyone's coming out of this situation alive. I want to gently encourage her to get some family involved, or closer friends, but she's adamant. I give up.
"Do you want to come back to the house? I'll cook you some breakfast."
"I can't leave." She says. "Could you bring me something? I don't eat eggs."
I take Brad's car back to Jay's house. There's nothing there. Old moldy bagels, an almost empty box of stale triscuits, a can of cranberry sauce. One dubious looking egg. But in the freezer, there's pizza dough! What a find! I dig up a can of tomato sauce, a lump of queso fresco, capers, an onion, tomatoes, fresh garlic, some parmesan cheese--stick it in the oven. Then I go down to the garden and pick some greens. I can't tell which is arugula and which is poison ivy. I hope I'm not making a mistake. The whole thing's ready in ten minutes. I take it back down to the site.
"Let me guess, you had to pick the food out of the garden."
"Only partly correct."
She takes a piece of the pizza, then a few more. "Oh my God, this pizza is amazing." I take a slice. It is amazing. I kid you not, it's just about the best pizza I have ever had in my life. Brad takes a slice. "This is unbelievable." We sit together, leaning against the truck, scarfing pizza.
The radio crackles. Reception's bad in the bottom. "...white male....barefoot......walking Jones Hatchery Road..."
We stop eating.
Brad gets on the radio. Walks away.
Comes back. "It's him, Court." 2 miles away. Confused. Courtney, who's shown almost nothing all these hours, looks like she might possibly cry. "They're bringing him here."
My cue to go. I take the empty pizza pan, kiss her on the forehead, and walk back to Jay's. The sky is crystal and blue, the sun came up. The world smells like early summer. I think, I feel like a buddha. I feel transparent, and endless.
Jay's back with Elena.
"You look awful," he tells me.
"Thank you."
Elena and I paint watercolor portraits of the cat for the rest of the afternoon.
You never know what's going to happen, do you?
That's my 1/2 hour.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Rescues
We've been busy. Nick is graduating. I seem to not be able to do anything I'm supposed to do. I've spent the last two days baking cookies, reading Dorothy Dunnett, and cleaning.
I guess it needs to be done. But I still have a textbook to review, a research proposal to finish and a final exam to prepare for. It's like I can't make myself do anything. The only thing I can do is make myself sit zazen and exercise. After that, I just fall to pieces.
My ex is coming, with his teensy weensy little wife. They'll do things like be all smiley and hale-fellow-well met-and pray and shit and look stable and everyone will wonder what all the fuss was about and how I could possible leave such a great guy. rarrrgh.
Jay is doing his part by having a nervous breakdown. The signal pattern in my life with my significant others has been that, when the shit is coming down particularly hard on me, my partners all have nervous breakdowns, so we can all focus on them.
Last week, he took his dog to the pound and had his cat put to sleep.
"You did what?"
"Don't judge me. I just couldn't handle the dog any more. It was too much. I can't handle anything or anyone making demands on me or requiring any sort of commitment at all. I can't do it. Don't worry. I'm not breaking up with you."
I tell Nick about it. Nick shakes his head, and says with surprising cynicism, "Well, if you decide to marry him after we leave, just be sure not to give him power of attorney."
How do you take a four year old lab to a pound? Who adopts an old dog?
I went out to visit her. She was, coincidentally, in a kennel sponsored by a friend of mine. She rubbed up against the chain link when she saw me, ducking her head and whimpering. "It's okay, Ellie bellie," I told her. "I won't let anything bad happen to you." I saw a note taped to the door. It said, "Hi! I'm Ellie! You just saw me on the Sam Salt Show." Sam Salt is a local personality around here. He used to be the weatherman, but they tried to fire him because he was gay (this was back in the seventies). Our town had a letter writing campaign. SAVE SAM SALT! He's very tall and completely hairless, but he's ours. He barely even has eyebrows. He is our gay, hairless weatherman here in Little Dixie, and we love him. Now he has a talk show. And one of the things he does is have the pet plaza, where he features a dog or cat from the humane society. Good, I thought. Sam Salt will save her.
I made the mistake of telling him this while we were sitting in our bar. I tell him I saw her on tv.
He started crying.
I sat there, watching him, sipping my white wine. Well, at least he's not a total bastard, but he still took her there.
I told my dad about it. He was quiet. "I don't think it's a deal breaker, Haley." He said finally. Then he told me about how when everything was falling apart for him when I was a teenager, he took our border collie out into the country and abandoned her. "I just couldn't handle things anymore." Then he went to Pakistan. For three months. "I felt terrible about the dog the whole time I was over there, and when I came back, one of the first things I did was drive out to where I had left her. I got out of the car, left it running and looked around, and she came running out from the woods and jumped into the back seat of the car. As if I'd never been gone."
I went back again on Monday, but Ellie was gone. She'd been adopted. So good. I would have taken her, but I really didn't want to. And I was angry. For being put in the position of saving the dog.
"You don't have to rescue me," Jay said.
"You're not the one who needs rescuing."
That night, Jays says--"Guess what. Ellie got adopted. Did you do it?"
"No. I know."
"How do you know?"
"I went out there to see her."
"Me, too. I went out there to get her back."
"Well, good." I said. "All's well that ends well." Maybe he does need to be rescued. I'm still never giving him power of attorney.
I guess it needs to be done. But I still have a textbook to review, a research proposal to finish and a final exam to prepare for. It's like I can't make myself do anything. The only thing I can do is make myself sit zazen and exercise. After that, I just fall to pieces.
My ex is coming, with his teensy weensy little wife. They'll do things like be all smiley and hale-fellow-well met-and pray and shit and look stable and everyone will wonder what all the fuss was about and how I could possible leave such a great guy. rarrrgh.
Jay is doing his part by having a nervous breakdown. The signal pattern in my life with my significant others has been that, when the shit is coming down particularly hard on me, my partners all have nervous breakdowns, so we can all focus on them.
Last week, he took his dog to the pound and had his cat put to sleep.
"You did what?"
"Don't judge me. I just couldn't handle the dog any more. It was too much. I can't handle anything or anyone making demands on me or requiring any sort of commitment at all. I can't do it. Don't worry. I'm not breaking up with you."
I tell Nick about it. Nick shakes his head, and says with surprising cynicism, "Well, if you decide to marry him after we leave, just be sure not to give him power of attorney."
How do you take a four year old lab to a pound? Who adopts an old dog?
I went out to visit her. She was, coincidentally, in a kennel sponsored by a friend of mine. She rubbed up against the chain link when she saw me, ducking her head and whimpering. "It's okay, Ellie bellie," I told her. "I won't let anything bad happen to you." I saw a note taped to the door. It said, "Hi! I'm Ellie! You just saw me on the Sam Salt Show." Sam Salt is a local personality around here. He used to be the weatherman, but they tried to fire him because he was gay (this was back in the seventies). Our town had a letter writing campaign. SAVE SAM SALT! He's very tall and completely hairless, but he's ours. He barely even has eyebrows. He is our gay, hairless weatherman here in Little Dixie, and we love him. Now he has a talk show. And one of the things he does is have the pet plaza, where he features a dog or cat from the humane society. Good, I thought. Sam Salt will save her.
I made the mistake of telling him this while we were sitting in our bar. I tell him I saw her on tv.
He started crying.
I sat there, watching him, sipping my white wine. Well, at least he's not a total bastard, but he still took her there.
I told my dad about it. He was quiet. "I don't think it's a deal breaker, Haley." He said finally. Then he told me about how when everything was falling apart for him when I was a teenager, he took our border collie out into the country and abandoned her. "I just couldn't handle things anymore." Then he went to Pakistan. For three months. "I felt terrible about the dog the whole time I was over there, and when I came back, one of the first things I did was drive out to where I had left her. I got out of the car, left it running and looked around, and she came running out from the woods and jumped into the back seat of the car. As if I'd never been gone."
I went back again on Monday, but Ellie was gone. She'd been adopted. So good. I would have taken her, but I really didn't want to. And I was angry. For being put in the position of saving the dog.
"You don't have to rescue me," Jay said.
"You're not the one who needs rescuing."
That night, Jays says--"Guess what. Ellie got adopted. Did you do it?"
"No. I know."
"How do you know?"
"I went out there to see her."
"Me, too. I went out there to get her back."
"Well, good." I said. "All's well that ends well." Maybe he does need to be rescued. I'm still never giving him power of attorney.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
