Bargains

Nick's home from New Orleans. The heat's on in the house. He has a cold. Amazing how quickly things resume in families. He's back on the couch, and the living room looks like a bedroom once again. I'm getting to the end of the term and really feeling the stress. I need to take a step back and plan, but I'm too stressed out to make myself do that. All my neurons are firing in different directions (ping ping ping). I'm dealing with the immense load of work on my plate by skipping meetings, sleeping in, and going to movies and out to dinner with the kids. Lilly and I are sitting in the cafe of our independent movie house playing a lot of scrabble. Well, darn it, I just kind of want to revel in them.
The big signal is my deteriorating chess game. And my level of irritation. I played chess with Jay yesterday in the Dakota. He was trying to figure out how to upload something on YouTube. 37 minutes, and it still didn't work. But we got in a nice chess game, which I lost.
Chess is weird with Jay. Mohammed and I used to play every day. He usually beat me, but we took a lot of pleasure in our games. Jay and I played once, 3 weeks into our relationship. He beat me. Then he wouldn't play with me any more: "You're not really a satisfying chess partner for me." He informed me. I couldn't get another game out of him for 3 years. Then I took extra special care to kick his ass. Then he wouldn't play with me because he was intimidated. "You let me win that first time." So I have to judge my game carefully--it has to good enough so that he feels challenged, but poor enough to let him win. What a pain in the ass. Why can't we just fucking play chess? The problem with this relationship is that so many simple things are conditional.
As I'm writing this, Lilly's rooting through the refrigerator. "What are you doing?" she asks.
"Writing."
"Do you have a blog?"
"Yes," I say tersely. Then I feel guilty. Here I've been writing about reveling in my children. But it's only a 1/2 hour. I only allow myself a 1/2 hour. Set the timer. Stop. It's like the chess game. I have to gauge my pleasures carefully.
She pulls out a chinese food container. "Is this still good?"
"I don't know. Have you decided it's time to clean out the refrigerator?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. You're writing. I'll leave you alone."
Lilly puts the chinese food back in the fridge, pulls out a 1/2 empty yoplait whipped yogurt container, starts to eat it. Sticks it back into the fridge. Pulls out another one, and using the same spoon, starts to eat that one.
Note to self: don't eat open yogurt in fridge. She's hanging on the door, in the way that breaks the door. I'm just trying to stay focused.
"You want a piece of toast?"
"No thank you."
We went to get Indian food at Patel's Palace yesterday. My old junior high frenemy, Rita called, leaving an enthusiastic message on my answering machine. "Haley Patton!" She yells, in her friendly Texas drawl (she lives in Texas now), "I can't believe you're still in town. I'm visiting my mom--give me a call." I call her on the way to the restaurant. I've picked Lilly up from voice lessons, snuck in a quick glass of wine with Jay during the lesson, and am driving in the freezing rain. She arrives in blue sparkly cashmere. Her ass is a lot bigger, but she's still beautiful. She must be happy. Girls' butts get bigger when they're happy. Her hair is long and blonde now. Her eyes are still the same sapphire blue (they have always been the most astounding color--since the age of 8). She was the blankest, most boy obsessed thing in junior high and high school. And then she went away to Texas and became a prosecuting attorney. I mean, from what I heard, she was just a barracuda. Who knew?
She's rich now, she married some older oil lawyer. She's sporting a huge sapphire and diamond affair on her left hand, the precise color of her eyes. 10 years ago, I remember having coffee with Rita on Christmas Eve, listening to her sob over same older oil lawyer.
She gives me a hug. All perfume and pokey hair. "Oh," she gushes. "Just look at you! I love your hair. It's so soft and lush. I want my hair to look just like yours! And these are your kids--oh my gosh, they're so big."
"That's quite a ring." I say. I know she wants me to. She wants junior high adulation. She wants the no holds barred envy that only a 13 year old can deliver.
"I know! You never know what life is going to give you! Think about how miserable we were ten years ago!"
We have a nice dinner. We eat everything in sight, and Rita joins in. She tells us about her trips and her life--it's not too bad.
"I've been to Italy, too," Lilly chimes in.
"You have? Oh that's wonderful! Where did you go?"
Lilly rattles off the list. The two of them talk Italy, which is sort of thrilling to Lilly, I think, to have something in common with this beautiful, rich creature perching at our table. Lilly brings up the leather gloves she bought me in Florence.
"Oh!" Rita says. "I know just where you got them. " She describes it. Describes the alley off the square, the little hole-in-the wall shop. Lilly nods, glowing.
"I hate to tell you, "Rita goes on, "but that place is such a rip-off--" and she launches into a whole story, oblivious to the sort of polite tension that has formed around Lilly's mouth. Lilly paid 80 euros for the gloves (on my credit card) but she really felt she was giving me something beautiful and precious.
Dinner winds up. Nick dips early to see his girlfriend. I pick up the tab, after a brief tussle. We say our goodbyes and leave. I put on my ugly hat, the one Jay got me for our first Valentine's day from Mexico and my beautiful, buttery leather gloves.
Lilly rubs them a second. "They're so soft."
"They feel like skin," I agree--"and they're warm."
"I've never seen anything like them here..."Lilly says.
"No, I haven't either. Maybe she was talking about a different shop."
"It sounded like the same shop."
"Maybe she's wrong about the shop. Have you ever seen anything like these anywhere over in this country?"
"No."
"Me either."
Lilly rubs my hands in the gloves again. Smiles. "They're so soft."
"They're beautiful."
We walk back to our car in the freezing drizzle, arms around each other's waists.

Socks and Parties

We're trying to go as long as we can without turning on the heat. We only had the heat on a few days last month, and our bill jumped to $120. So Lilly and I are wearing long underwear and heavy sweaters and spending most of our time in the library. Jay bought me three pairs of Smart Wool Socks, unexpectedly. He dropped them by the house while I was at work. "Why socks?" I asked on the phone.
"I can't stand your socks. You need good socks. Socks are important."
Well, okay.
I love them. They're so beautiful and thick and cushy. They make me feel rich. I like them so much, I safety-pin them together when I wash them keep them from getting separated. I never do things like that.
Maybe socks are important. I like wearing them at work, except they don't really do anything for my legs, which are swelling up more and more. Bilateral pitting edema. +2-3. Why? It used to resolve during the week. Now it just hangs around, swelling my trim little ankles. Breaking my heart.
"What do you think this is all about?" I ask Wiz.
"Right sided heart failure." He says dispassionately, and moves on.
Wonderful.
Drunken Disaster and I had two codes together over the weekend. During the first one, as we were desperately slamming fluids into our triple A, who was exsanguinating in front of us, I said "Get the plasma up," and she said, "It wouldn't hurt you to say please once in awhile."
Several retorts came to mind. 1) "Please--kiss my ass" 2)Only if you stop drinking! But I said neither. I said, "Oh, Morgan, I'm so sorry." Then afterwards, she told me that she thought I was a little bossy.
"Really?" I secretly felt sort of proud. It's taken me so long to be bossy. I mean, in my life, I've never been bossy. I can't believe I've become bossy enough to have people complain to me about it! But I didn't say that. I said, "I'm sorry you feel that way, Morgan. Sometimes in a crisis situation I do become a little terse. I'll tell you what, I'll work on softening up if you work on not taking personally."
"Done." She said. And I started to like her a little bit.
I asked Marcy later, "Am I bossy?"
She just started laughing. "Oh my God. Are you kidding?"
"I am?"
"You are SO bossy."
I asked Wiz. Who also started laughing. "Oh no, not you. Never you."
Hmm.
After work, I dragged Lilly and Marcy and her kid out to a party at Hunter's in Deerville, where he owns a building in their tiny downtown. There was an R&B band, made up of middle-aged white people that was pretty good, and lots of food. Everyone we know is there. Sybil, dressed in velvet and cowboy boots, hair long blonde and flowing, overly made-up eyes glazed and wild--she looks like she's done a lot of acid at some time in the distant past--smiles ecstatically at me as I come in, kisses me on both cheeks. Then she kisses the redheaded woman behind me square on the mouth. Guess I got off easy. "Oh, my God, Mom," Lilly hisses, "She just kissed that woman on the mouth. " "Act casual," I tell Lilly, who starts giggling. There are other kids there, hanging out upstairs, playing games and reading. Lilly joins them.

Sybil and Hunter dance in front of the band, Sybil moving like a snake and Hunter sort of stumbling his bulk in rhythm, his bald head gleaming, in the dim light. He clearly has an erection, his khakis stretched across his groin. The band's playing "Werewolves of London" Jay and I are outside on the porch watching the scene through the window.
"Acck." Jay says. "there's something really wrong with this picture."
Marcy comes up beside us. I think Marcy's life would be better if she had a little lovin, so that's been my project lately: the Marcy Lovin Project. She's wearing a bowler hat made out of ostrich feathers. She looks exactly like a muppet. "I think she's a witch." She says, watching Sybil slithering around the floor.
"It's bad when hillbillies get experimental."
"It's so....french."
"Those french people have a word for everything." We all start laughing. A guy comes up, asks Marcy to dance. She bobs off, feathers flouncing.
"Let's do some Crocket County Woman Flinging," Jay says, and pulls me close. We dance on the porch, by ourselves. It's nice, because neither of us are very good dancers, but we do like dancing with each other. The band starts playing "Take Me to the River"
That's my 1/2 hour.

Bless. Their. Hearts.

Trying to write a paper on class mobility for my community health class. Does it exist?
No.
Stuck in the library, spent my time scouting Brooks Brothers deals on ebay and resolving an unpaid item strike. Not all my time. Halie in the cat suit has made me angry. Which she does on purpose. Met with the director of pharmacy in the morning. I got lost. In my own hospital. I ran into the Assistant director, Charles, whom I know well.
"How can you possibly be lost?" He asks me incredulously. "You come down here all the time!" I'm on a Quality Assurance team. We're trying to get the hospital to vaccinate family members of newborns with TdaP. The pharmacy director was very pleasant. I liked his messy desk and his neat files. He looked like he got things done. He was the kind of regular guy I believe there used to be a lot of in the 50's, but have since disappeared in this land of raging ego. Small unstylish glasses, nice shoes not overly shined, grey flannel pants, dress shirt and tie. Hair cut short, no particular style. He reminded me of my grandfather. A picture of him with his plump grey-haired unpretentious looking wife under a palm tree somewhere warm. Friendly. Just the kind of person who should be in charge of the pharmacy. No status symbols around--gold pens, things like that.
"Any chance of getting this for free?" I ask him.
"Not a chance." He tells me pleasantly. "Solvent altruism--those are my watchwords."
Our team leader is this little elderly physician named Dr. Barrelman. He's a little full of himself.
"Dr. Barrelman, bless his heart, would give all the medicine away to everyone for free. But last time I checked, the public health option hadn't passed." He smiles. I change my appraisal. "bless their hearts" is hospital code for "asshole"
"Bless his heart."I repeat.
"Bless. His. Heart."
So, no free vaccine.
I run into Dr. Barrelman in the Thai restaurant, where Lilly and I are splitting coconut curry and dumplings, extra hot. He's sitting in the corner with a blissfully beautiful young blonde woman. There are only 4 parties in the restaurant tonight--the mayor's son-in-law is getting progressively soused with the editor of the paper, both are arguing passionately and loudly over the new bicycle ordinance, a bunch of Chinese kids giggling and flirting with each other, Dr. Barrelman and the mystery blonde, and us. It's Lilly's therapy day, and we always go out to eat afterwards. Well, the sequence goes like this: Lilly and I have therapy. Lilly goes to the Dakota to chill out and I go grab a glass of wine with Jay. Lilly and I always fight after therapy. But we discovered if we take a break for a little bit, right afterwards, we don't. Then we eat dinner and study downtown. For some reason, these days are really difficult for us. Lilly is getting more depressed. We can both see it happening, but we don't know what to do. I don't know what to do! Maybe Italy again? She cries a lot. She wants to be perfect at everything. She wants a boyfriend. She wants life to be different. She says she only feels alive when she's in a movie theater. "Do you want to go see a movie?" I suggest.
"No! You don't get it!"
Dr. Barrelman and the luminous blonde come over to our table. "Hello, there!" he says. "Rebecca, right?"
"Haley."
"Oh, right."
"Medical school...4th year, right?
"Trauma Surgical Intensive Care Unit. Nurse."
"Oh! Right! This is my wife, Kyrie."
"As in, Kyrie eleison?"
"Yes," she breathes, extending a warm, pretty hand, "That is my chosen name." She smiles. "I think you're in my yoga class."
"I believe I am."
"Namaste."
Lilly's eyes are bright and amused.
"I just started teaching." She says. "My first class, tonight!"
"I just went to my first class," Dr. Barrelman says, beaming through his elfin wrinkles. "It was marvelous! How did your meeting with Stanley go?"
"He's not giving it to us for free."
"Bless his heart." Dr. Barrelman says.
"Bless his heart." I repeat.
Kyrie smiles benevolently. "Bless us all." she says sincerely.
That's my 1/2 hour.

Invisible Nurses

Dressed in my ebay Brooks Brothers dotted navy silk skirt and rust-colored silk sweater for clinicals, sitting quietly in xray rounds at the back of the room, two floors up with the medicine docs. Code pager goes off. Everyone goes for the pagers.
"It's the code pager," one snorts, a little guy with gel spiked hair and a chiva. "Probably SI."
"5 codes yesterday."
"Yeah, and every time they called us the damn nurse told us we weren't needed."
Narrow faced blonde resident: "Then they shouldn't fucking page us if they don't need us."
I think back to yesterday afternoon, and remember her (suprisingly, given my facility with faces) leaning against the sink during the code, as we tripped over her trying to get to the med box. Interesting that no one recognized me as the damn nurse. No one looks at nurses.
5 codes. On the same patient. Wiz covered with blood and shit. We'd get her back, then we'd lose her. Then we'd get her back. The family was in the room the whole time. Came suddenly, with no warning. Sweet little old lady, squeezing my hand and smiling, waking up from surgery. Started to give her a unit of blood, making pleasant conversation with the family, who were just chatting, chatting, I watched her blood pressure plummet after a few minutes--20 points systolic--not awful, but not good
"Excuse me," I say, politely, and feel that weird slow calm coming that always happens when things are about to get really bad.
Finally, after 4 hours of this, the family had had enough.
"I can't stand this," her husband says. "I just can't stand this."
Death takes hours. It takes more paperwork to die than it does to get a student loan. There's a checklist and a certificate and the medical examiner, and all the signatures, and washing and bagging the body, and the funeral home, and people flying in who want to see the body, and calling in the social worker on call, because the VA won't let them in on their own into the morgue--you wouldn't believe the amount of detail work that goes into coding someone 5 times and then closing their chart. Our new nurse, Patricia, who is a little inept, but tries really hard, is doggedly HELPING me each step of the way. "Sit down. Eat some yogurt. I have organic. You need to take care of you." Helps me wash and bag the body. As we're about to zip the bag up, I reflexively feel her carotid. Is that a pulse?
It's happened to me once. A 17 year old girl. Blue line pulsing in her neck as we were about to bag her. Coded her again. Lost her.
"Patty, do you feel a pulse?"
Patty places her hand on her neck, then her femoral artery. "No, no pulse."
I suddenly feel as if I'm going to start crying.
"I think I feel a pulse. Excuse me."
Sometimes, after these things, I think I go a little crazy. Not in a way I can immediately perceive. But I know that I'm not right.
I go get Wiz.
Wiz has been weird since he came back. He's very quiet. He hasn't made eye contact with me or spoken to me personally at all. He doesn't even return my 'good morning.' When he tells me things, it's in short, polite, informational sentences. It's been a little strange and lonely. He's a lot thinner and paler and his hair is too fuzzy. I don't know what's up.
I walk into the patient's room where Wiz is on the other side of the unit. He turns around right away and holds my hand, like I'm a little kid.
"What is it?"
"Please come tell me my patient's dead."
"Ok."
We walk back to the room holding hands. He checks the pulses, carotid, femoral.
"I felt a pulse." I explain.
"I know. But she doesn't have one."
"She's dead?"
He checks her all over, like my dad would do, going through the closets and under the bed when I was little.
"She's dead."
"It's ok to put her in the shroud?"
"Yes. It's ok, Haley. She's not here anymore. No, you're not crazy."
Then he goes out of the room.
Patty looks at me. "I just love you," she says. "Please don't ever stop working here. Because I really like you as a person, and I really like working with you."
"Thank you for the yogurt."
We bag her. I clean the blood on the floor with H2O2.
We're there late, going over the code sheets, putting the code carts back together (we went through 7 drug boxes) catching up on charting. Marcy helps me. We walk out together and find Wiz lying on the couch in the break room, head back over the arm rest, singing Uriah Heap.
"You ok?"I ask.
"I'm covered in shit and blood. My legs are all gritty when I walk, and they rub together in this weird way."
"Should remind you of your club days in Minneapolis" I say
"That's why they call me 'boy.'"
"That is not why they call you 'boy.'"
"Call no man a fool." He says.
"Call no man raca. But can you call them a fucking idiot?"
"Your halloween ok?"
"No. "
"Figured. What'd she pull?"
Halie.
"Costume problems?"
He nods and smiles. "Did it involve spandex?"
"How did you know? Cat suit unitard. No bra. Little fluffy tail."
"You know, this is just about them--it's still their fight and you're just in the middle, right? They don't even see you."
"I know."
"People are viciously self-centered. Rapaciously attached to their own self-interest."
Marcy and I are both standing over him. Tired blood little Wiz.
"What are you guys talking about?" Marcy asks.
That's my 1/2 hour.

Marcy

They Can't Take That Away

I know this is probably my imagination, but sometimes my brain just feels tired--like I'm squeezing it too hard. Does your brain ever feel this way? I mean, my brain actually hurts. Not a headache. My brain. Like it's pumping iron and not doing very well.

I was so tired after work yesterday that I forgot where I was in the grocery store. Lilly and I went grocery shopping and in the candle aisle, Lilly showed me an article in one of the celebrity glossies about Glee--a show we've both become addicted to (I have to say--I don't really check men out physically--other than butts--I kind of notice butts--BUT!--other than that, I'm really a smell and snuggle girl--but what's his face in Glee--the teacher guy has a really awesome body. Not that I'm buying into this whole celebrity culture thing, but, you know, the truth's the truth!)--we were there late after work buying milk and lightbulbs, in the freezing rain. With the dog--and when I looked up from the magazine, I suddenly couldn't remember which direction the cash registers were. It was so scary. I had to close my eyes and re-orient myself. I think I'm going to start making myself play chess online.

I worry about my brain a lot. I think I'm just doing too much. This happened to me when I was getting a divorce, 15 years ago. I had everyone's phone number memorized and I just forgot them one day. Every single one. I went to a doctor about it, who told me I was just stressed and that when my life improved, the phone numbers would come back. She was right. They did. I just think about my grandfather and all his little post-it notes all over the house--sort of a flowchart on how to conduct a daily existence ('the faucet turns to the right'--that sort of thing) and I get worried. Of course, he was almost 90, so maybe that's ok.

Some of the things I'm forgetting worry me. For example, on my 18th birthday, my friend Evan Marquit took me to New York for the first time. It was really a beautiful night. First we went to Cafe Un Deux Trois with his older brother, a stockbroker, and his wife. They were prototypical screaming 80's successes. Both stockbrokers, both funny and sharp and kind and unapologetically capitalist. They had a little machine with an antennae that they put on the table during drinks that showed them the world markets, and they kept an eye on it. The table cloths were paper and you could draw on them. Which was really cool, then. (Now it's everywhere, I know) We had some sort of clear, awful tasting liqueur with coffee beans floating in it. About half-way through, Evan's brother noticed I wasn't drinking, smiled and ordered me vodka tonic. My first one. "Trust me." He said. Then we went to his apartment for dinner. I don't remember what we had, but I do remember that it was all black and white and had a Baldwin baby grand. Which is the best piano. Screw Steinway. And there were two godiva chocolates at each plate. And I'd never had those either. Then we went to see La Cage--and I recognized someone from my high school in the chorus line--so we went backstage and talked to him. Evan tried to argue me out of it. "No, you don't recognize anyone--you don't know anyone in this show." But I did! Dennis Callahan. He was dressed all in leather--some sort of jumpsuit with lots of zippers. Oh, New York! What it does to county boys.....ok. So then we went to Rick's on 86th (after a stop at a fortune teller who told me I would have three children, die at 82, and marry Evan), a piano bar, and Evan told the pianist that I could sing. So they called me up there. And I sang. I was wearing a green velvet drop waist dress that my mother had made for me.

It was my birthday a few days ago, and I was thinking all about this evening. Because I was Lilly's age. But then I got to the song part--and I couldn't remember what I sang! I could remember that the chocolates at my dinner plate had rasberry liqueur in them and the beans floating on the clear liqueur--I can remember Evan's sister-in-law's beautiful red suit--but I couldn't remember the song. I went through all the songs I would have known at that time--God Bless the Child? No. Ghost of yesterday? No. Cry me a River? probably not. And a funny thing happened with that memory, every time I thought of a song, I could almost convince myself that that was the song I'd sung. Ok. I'd think. That's it. And I could almost see and hear myself, sitting next to the pianist with my eyes clenched shut, facing away from the audience, singing into the mike.

So--the present. My birthday. I go to the alumni club with my parents and Lilly. It's raining. I've been at clinicals all day. I decided to invite Jay at the last minute, because I figured then he'd get the hint to refuse and he wouldn't have to deal with my mother at some interminable, horrible family event. Which unfolds predictably, with my mother saying, "Where's Jay? Couldn't be bothered to celebrate your birthday after 4 years?" And then I'm mad at Jay and at them all--my parents for being too crazy to introduce to boys and my boyfriend for not EVER sucking it up and dealing with them, and my mother for being mean. "She's on High Crazy Mean--"Lilly mutters to me as we edge up to the buffet. We're put in an almost empty dining room--the bar, actually, which has been converted into tables to handle the overflow from the main room--it's homecoming. There is one other couple--a romantic couple--mixed--sitting in a corner by the window. This compels my mother to make comments about black people throughout the meal which Lilly and I and my father ignore. It's just pretty much unabated awful.
"Do you want a brick?" my mother asks me. "We bought a commemorative brick." After dinner, she shows me the brick on the walkway outside the center. "We'll buy you one after you get your Masters--and even if you don't. I really don't see how you're going to do it. I didn't get through law school--there's no shame in not finishing."
We're waiting under the awning for my father to bring the van so he can drive me to where I've parked--all the way in East Jesus behind the hospital. About a 20 minute walk.
"Let's walk," Lilly suddenly suggests.
"You don't want to walk. You're anorexic. You can't afford the calories." Mom says.
"Let's walk." I concur. I kiss everyone. My father arrives. "Bye!"
And off we go.
Thank god.
No one's out. The rain's falling softly, and it's really not that cold. Lilly and I walk with our arms around each other under the umbrella, smelling the sweet rain smells of the gardens on campus and the turning trees. Even at night, you can still see the trees are golden as you walk under them.
Dinner disappears.
"Do you want your present?" Lilly asks.
"Sure! You have it with you?"
"I do." She pulls out a little box.
"Little boxes always have the best presents." I say. I open it up. It's a tiny little cloissonne elephant box. "It's beautiful!"
"thank you. See you can put your fuzzies in it."
"Thank you."
We're standing under a gingko tree. The wet leaves are all over the steps. We start to walk and Lilly starts to hum a song, then sing softly, "The way you hold your hat...the way you sip your tea..."
I join in..."the memory of all that.."and it suddenly floods back to me. That was the song I sang at Rick's on 86th. 25 years ago. We sing it all the way back to the car. No one's around, just my red-haired daughter and me, walking across the dark campus, arm and arm.

Happy Families

Nick left yesterday. He'd come home on the City of New Orleans to visit. He spent most of his time with his girlfriend, Katy. Which was fine. But I got a few nice hours with him yesterday. We've had rain and rain and rain, but the weekend was beautiful. 4 crystal October days. The leaves are in full glory. We met my folks at Ernie's for breakfast, and decided to walk there instead of drive. So we took the long walk along Broadway and I got to hear about every class. I've decided that I really like walking. I think it works a kind of magic. If we had driven, Nick and I would have shuffled around the house, lost in our own parallel worlds until it was time to leave. Then we would have gotten into the car and listened to the radio on the way there. This way, we were forced into proximity. He's such a nice kid.

I read this review of a new french film, I forget which one, in which the reviewer talks about the "tenderness and support" of families. And he's so right. When families are working the right way, that's what's happening: tenderness and support. It's hard to talk about and it isn't very interesting or dramatic, but it's the common ingredient in all happy families. And, despite everything, I think that Nick and Lilly and I are basically a happy family. Lilly's hovering at a very consistent 126.8 pounds, which, her doctor points out, is a little odd. "It's interesting to me that you are able to maintain your weight at the same value. It's almost as if it's on purpose." She was saying that we're not out of the woods yet. 126.8 pounds is exactly the amount Lilly needs to weigh in order to cross the threshold into normal BMI range. So she's still anorexic. She's still controlling every bite. I'm just relieved she's not an anorexic with liver and heart failure. Now if we could just get her to unclench. But how does she do that? I don't know how to do that. I'm obsessive compulsive (personality, not disorder). When I'm unhappy it gets worse. I used to write down everything I did during the day. I still sort of do that, but not to the extent I used to--where I couldn't ever do anything because I was too busy writing it down. I wrote things down because I felt guilty. I felt that I wasn't worth anything, and so I wrote down what I did to prove that I was doing something. This reached a fever pitch when I was married because my husband would accuse me of not doing anything. Taking care of young children is formless--it's so hard to pinpoint exactly what you do. The "mommy ghetto"--isn't that what it's called? The days would just be gone before I knew it. And I was really trapped inside the house. But my minute managing has really served me well, I think. I'm very productive. But I'm not very free. I think it's probably harmed Lilly. I think Lilly has received, by ongoing unrelieved example, my mindset. She probably received it in the womb. So is our family really happy? If we have problems, are we really happy?

Maybe I should leave it at this: we mostly function, love each other very much and treat each other well most of the time, and we are sometimes happy. There are problems, and there is tenderness and support. So I think that's ok. That sounds about like everyone else.

Saw Bright Star yesterday with Jay. Wrong movie to see. Good movie, but not the right one to see. During the credits, Keats poetry is read by the actor playing him. Jay leans over to me and whispers, "I think we know too many people in the audience to leave and not be considered philistines." I agreed and we sat gritting our teeth until it was done and we could go get a drink.

That's my 1/2 hour.

The Flu

Wiz is still missing. He's just evaporated. Everyone asks me where and how he is. Like I would know? I just shrug. "He's okay." I say. I was certain he'd be back by now. Then they start talking. It's interesting--people rarely talk to each other or with each other; they talk for themselves. I heard about 8 little monologues yesterday--themed "Wiz"--and they were all fictional. Geraldine, our unit clerk, whose sharp goose voice I hear even in my dreams, asks me once, gives me a look when I shrug her off. "I'm very worried about him." She says. "He don't have no flu, do he?"
I told everyone he had the flu. I figured that would explain the extended absence. I told them his whole family had it.
"Sorry."
The problem with Wiz being gone is that people pull things with me they never would dream of with Wiz. Sally, the House Mom sends patients to me and expects me to be able to take them immediately, without staff. "You just need to do this." She tells me.
"Then I need a nurse." I tell her.
Two hours later, after the patient has been wheeled in while I'm still getting report over the phone. I get one. Not ok. This is the third time this has happened, a patient rolling in almost unannounced. Wiz has told me in the past to do whatever Sally asks. "Your job is to make her job easy." I think they have a long friendship. I've seen pictures of her. She was once immense--easily over 300 pounds. She was in a terribly abusive marriage. Now she's thin and dry and wary. I like her, mostly, because she is always honest. But she can't stand being challenged. So this time, I simply printed off the record of every page I'd sent and received from her and handed it to her when the bed came in. "I told you about this." She said. "No, Sally, I'm really sorry," I said, very nicely (not fake nice), "you really didn't." No apology, but I know that in the endless hospital game of tit for tat talleys we all keep, I've earned some points. Maybe she's getting the flu.
Wiz's quote: "She's an oasis." I don't know about that, Wiz.
My staff are like little puppies. They crowd around me over every decision, every conversation. They look over my shoulder when I make notes and figure out staffing or send emails. I guess this is the downside of being accessible. I haven't decided whether this is good or bad. I think it's good.
"That's just bullshit," Marcy says, as the patient rolls in. "You need to call her and tell her we're not the fucking MNICU's dumping ground."
"Yeah, ok, Marcy, I'll delegate that to you. Be sure to use the word 'fuck' a lot."
Then my attending lurches in for rounds, looking just terrible. He hands me a folded paper towell upon which he's written a list of items and instructions. "Please do this for me," he rasps. "I'll be in room 12. Get the residents." He staggers into the room, sits down in the chair.
I look at the paper towell. "Are you serious? You need to go home."
"I need to round" he croaks. "Just do it. Please. Don't commit fraud, of course. Don't tell anyone."
I go to the OR, pilfer some D5LR and zofran. Start an IV on him. "Can't you do it somewhere besides the AC?" he whines.
"Listen," I snap, "starting an IV on my attending is nerve wracking enough. I'm a wretched stick. I'm going for easy here."
"You're getting blood all over everything."
I just focus. And say a prayer to the IV fairy (who really exists). And I get it! Hooray. "You can stand across the room and hit my veins," he croaks."When I was an EMT I used to let people practice on me. No, I'm sorry. You're a saint. I've been throwing up since 3 am this morning. This will get me past that. I mean, you're really a saint. Like Mother Teresa."
"She's not a saint yet. You know, " I tell him, just to make conversation while I sit there and watch the IV go in, and make sure he doesn't pass out or anything, "there's like a whole clinical ladder of sainthood. Takes years."
"Really?"
"Yes. You have to have three miracles--witnessed, and some other stuff. There's all sorts of points you have to earn. Takes centuries. It's very complicated."
"I'm Baptist. We don't go for all that."
"Yep. Leave the catholics to handle all the paperwork. You were an EMT--do you want a basin?"
"No," he urps.
"Do you have a fever?"
"No."
"Mind if I check?"
"Fine."
No fever.
"I told you so. Yes, I was an EMT. 14 years."
"Really? What made you become a doctor?"
"I hated doctors and one day one of them told me to quit my fucking whining and become one if I thought I could do it better. I still fucking hate doctors."
"You should have become a nurse."
"No fucking way. Am I saying fuck too much?" He says this because I have made a habit of handing him a bar of soap every time he says "fuck" I carry them in my pockets during rounds.
"That's going in too fast."
He's opened the clamp all the way.
"No it isn't."
"Yes it is." I tighten the clamp.
"Fine."
"I'll check back on you in 15 minutes."
"Fine."
He's a lot better. Color's better, and he's sitting up straight. "Good. Go get the residents."
He finishes rounds with the IV in his arm. I give him another bag.

That's my 1/2 hour.