I learned to write, and enjoy writing, through letters. Not the examined, graded school reports, self conscious and pointless jumping-jacks of putting one word after the other. I had the joy of telling my tale to a grateful, distant, gentle reader. My oldest brother got my first drawn missive, in all the colors crayons came in, when I was in my first year of school. When Dave was off in the Air Force, in Thailand, Arizona, England, Texas - I wrote of my day and miseries. For Bill, off to college, then to the commune and all over Europe, epistles into the ether.
One cousin became a pen pal, as we vied to outwit each other, writing in folds and circles, codes and mirrors. From Kalkaska, I wrote to an acquaintance who would become my first dysfunctional boyfriend. The Army gave me more stories to tell, and I wrote to everyone with an address. Long rambling streams of consciousness and complaint, as well, I hope, of insight. I sent many more than ever were delivered to me.
Email solved my perpetual problem - if I were not away from home, of writing a letter, not finishing it before it seemed like old news, and never getting it into an envelope, nor sent. One step, no waiting, no voice mail messages awkwardly ended. And Moira and I, on such different schedules, grew to really know each other, not just like, not just work together, by dint of this new media.
And for this same reason, which is to say my dear friend, I began to write my essays. As a way to answer her questions about my fraught life with less of the tedium. Telling my story, without getting sick of the sound of my own voice. I started a little blog. She was my reader.
Writing a book was never more than a passing fantasy when I was small. My love for books lay in reading, as many as I could tuck under my arm or hide in my desk, the three book library limit a frustrating constraint. My respect for the knowledge and experience of a novelist, to create worlds in my mind, meant an ambition packed away. An adult sized dream I vaguely hoped I might grow into, someday.
Hamster ball in the Library.
"Nobody likes a blonde in a hamster ball." - Veronica Mars.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Tag
Somthing different, just 'cuz.
Via
Spacecat Rocketship.
The Rules of this tag game are:
1. Grab the book nearest to you...no cheating!
2. Open to page 123.
3. Scroll down to the fifth sentence.
4. Post text of next 3 sentences on to your blog.
Not the nearest book, because it didn't have 123 pages, but this.
Bill was no upstart with a chip on his shoulder and a pistol in his pocket. He was exactly who he had always sneeringly described himself to be: Church and Spy Establishment, with uncles who sat on Tory Party committees, and a rundown estate in Norfolk with tenant farmers who called him "Mr. William." He was a strand of the finely spun web of English influence of which we had perceived ourselves the centre.
-The Secret Pilgrim, John LeCarre.
If you review or recommend books on your blog, consider yourself tagged.
Via
Spacecat Rocketship.
The Rules of this tag game are:
1. Grab the book nearest to you...no cheating!
2. Open to page 123.
3. Scroll down to the fifth sentence.
4. Post text of next 3 sentences on to your blog.
Not the nearest book, because it didn't have 123 pages, but this.
Bill was no upstart with a chip on his shoulder and a pistol in his pocket. He was exactly who he had always sneeringly described himself to be: Church and Spy Establishment, with uncles who sat on Tory Party committees, and a rundown estate in Norfolk with tenant farmers who called him "Mr. William." He was a strand of the finely spun web of English influence of which we had perceived ourselves the centre.
-The Secret Pilgrim, John LeCarre.
If you review or recommend books on your blog, consider yourself tagged.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Crowd
I got off the train at the wrong stop a while ago. At the wrong time. Living so close to a major league ball park, in a sports mad city, needs an alert mind, and a link to their home game schedule. That day, I had neither. I'd worked a Sunday 7-3 shift, got off hungry and wanting only to be home.
The trains were full, and I was annoyed by the crush, and the bulging woman leaning on me, her crotch rubbing against my knee, her incessant chatter about the movement of the train to anyone who would listen - in this case the accommodating young asian woman next to me - her florid body intruding, her grip on the handrail inadequate. So when she got off at the stop where I should have changed trains for the line that lead away from the ballpark, towards the lovely walk through the grassy park with a stream and little bridge to home, I simply sighed relief, and kept my seat.
My irritation and lack of compassion would manifest two stations on. Everybody on earth with a Red hat or shirt was either getting off the train or getting on. A long shuffle in the subterranian halls and stairs, leading to a chaotic mob of meandering fans. I scooted and stopped, desperate to get home past the clots of gob-smacked rubber-neckers, the strolling parents and strollered babies, the shouts of "Needtickets, needtickets, needtickets?" interspersed with "Igottickets, Igottickets, Igottickets!" by men standing like rocks in the turbulent stream. I ran in the gutter, along the curb, a dozen steps, then had to veer and stop, sidestep and stop. I cut down the nearer, hopefully less congested, asphalt on the near side of the Park, following the slow moving cars who cleared momentary paths for me to march behind. I skittered past skinny chicks in pink hats, obliviously stuck on cell phone leashes, the frustration heating my chest. I scanned for any potential space, exploiting any opening ruthlessly. Until the crowds thinned, further from the venue, and I simply ran the rest of the way home, a couple of blocks, to home and quiet and solitude.
I don't always mind crowds. I used to love going to Eastern Market on Christmas Eve morning. The Toblerone samples at Hirt's didn't hurt, but the surge of shoppers hunting treat foods to share was happy, energizing. I loved going to the Hudson's Christmas displays, not minding the other children, or the lines for Santa. It felt warm and inviting. The million people downtown for the International Freedom Festival fireworks were oceanic, powerful and inclusive.
Perhaps it is just a matter of being at cross purposes.
I loved slides and swings. Small, I was brought to a park where a large bunch of children were queueing for a slide, round and round, climb and slide. I tried to wait for them to leave so I could play. I was instructed that I was to join in. I climbed up, one child per rung (or so), was trampled slightly. Slid down, sticking a bit, and a big boy slid down behind me, overtaking me, leaving me crushed and ruffled. I declined to try again.
There is an anonymity in large masses of people, which is appealing to me. And abhorrent. A loneliness more profound, as well as a sense of belonging more powerful. I have marched in step with a thousand others, and have felt immense, and miniscule in the same breath.
I think I'd like to be alone right now.
The trains were full, and I was annoyed by the crush, and the bulging woman leaning on me, her crotch rubbing against my knee, her incessant chatter about the movement of the train to anyone who would listen - in this case the accommodating young asian woman next to me - her florid body intruding, her grip on the handrail inadequate. So when she got off at the stop where I should have changed trains for the line that lead away from the ballpark, towards the lovely walk through the grassy park with a stream and little bridge to home, I simply sighed relief, and kept my seat.
My irritation and lack of compassion would manifest two stations on. Everybody on earth with a Red hat or shirt was either getting off the train or getting on. A long shuffle in the subterranian halls and stairs, leading to a chaotic mob of meandering fans. I scooted and stopped, desperate to get home past the clots of gob-smacked rubber-neckers, the strolling parents and strollered babies, the shouts of "Needtickets, needtickets, needtickets?" interspersed with "Igottickets, Igottickets, Igottickets!" by men standing like rocks in the turbulent stream. I ran in the gutter, along the curb, a dozen steps, then had to veer and stop, sidestep and stop. I cut down the nearer, hopefully less congested, asphalt on the near side of the Park, following the slow moving cars who cleared momentary paths for me to march behind. I skittered past skinny chicks in pink hats, obliviously stuck on cell phone leashes, the frustration heating my chest. I scanned for any potential space, exploiting any opening ruthlessly. Until the crowds thinned, further from the venue, and I simply ran the rest of the way home, a couple of blocks, to home and quiet and solitude.
I don't always mind crowds. I used to love going to Eastern Market on Christmas Eve morning. The Toblerone samples at Hirt's didn't hurt, but the surge of shoppers hunting treat foods to share was happy, energizing. I loved going to the Hudson's Christmas displays, not minding the other children, or the lines for Santa. It felt warm and inviting. The million people downtown for the International Freedom Festival fireworks were oceanic, powerful and inclusive.
Perhaps it is just a matter of being at cross purposes.
I loved slides and swings. Small, I was brought to a park where a large bunch of children were queueing for a slide, round and round, climb and slide. I tried to wait for them to leave so I could play. I was instructed that I was to join in. I climbed up, one child per rung (or so), was trampled slightly. Slid down, sticking a bit, and a big boy slid down behind me, overtaking me, leaving me crushed and ruffled. I declined to try again.
There is an anonymity in large masses of people, which is appealing to me. And abhorrent. A loneliness more profound, as well as a sense of belonging more powerful. I have marched in step with a thousand others, and have felt immense, and miniscule in the same breath.
I think I'd like to be alone right now.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Surgeons
He was never my buddy, nor would I consider him a friend, exactly. He never looked down on me, but we were not on the same level, just the same team. His responsibilities were more, his skill awesome, his demeanor unflappable. He liked my jokes, laughed, and had trouble remembering how to tell them again. He treated me with respect for my position, my duties, my training, my abilities. He visibly relaxed when he knew I would be his nurse on a long, complex day. This took a while to notice, through the reserve.
I trusted him to be on time for the first case. I knew what he liked, what he needed, and trusted him to give me a heads up for anything out of his reliable routine. He sometimes went missing to start subsequent cases when he got caught long doing procedures in endo, but even that was rare enough. I trusted his temperament, he only showed his irritation with others by eye rolling, not readily noticed by those not familiar with him. More likely, I would hear him mutter at himself, exasperated at his imperfections. He would warn himself, calling his own name threateningly. He was a patient and thorough teacher, to med students, surgical residents and new scrub techs alike.
He was incredibly self sufficient, and had worked out techniques for plugging in the camera and cords himself, often using his feet. He seemed bemused when I called him Twinkle Toes. I considered it a good day when I got to all the attachments before he had to slip his clog off.
He loves being a surgeon. He speaks well of his wife, and children. I would recommend him to anyone needing his services without hesitation.
His partner, and near equal, more personable and funnier, certainly with less hair, is perhaps better with talking with his patients. I enjoyed days with him more, but was also more wary of his crankiness. Both were calm in crisis, attentive wells of competence. The best days were when they worked together, supporting and enhancing each other's talents while teasing like brothers.
I miss them both, miss knowing them by heart, and dancing through a long day with them. I miss watching them work.
(Lest you think all surgeons are screaming prima dons. Most are intelligent, skilled professionals, with varying degrees of personality. They work closely with the same people for hours and days at a stretch. The dreadful ones are much the exception, though given the volume, it's hard to remember that.)
I trusted him to be on time for the first case. I knew what he liked, what he needed, and trusted him to give me a heads up for anything out of his reliable routine. He sometimes went missing to start subsequent cases when he got caught long doing procedures in endo, but even that was rare enough. I trusted his temperament, he only showed his irritation with others by eye rolling, not readily noticed by those not familiar with him. More likely, I would hear him mutter at himself, exasperated at his imperfections. He would warn himself, calling his own name threateningly. He was a patient and thorough teacher, to med students, surgical residents and new scrub techs alike.
He was incredibly self sufficient, and had worked out techniques for plugging in the camera and cords himself, often using his feet. He seemed bemused when I called him Twinkle Toes. I considered it a good day when I got to all the attachments before he had to slip his clog off.
He loves being a surgeon. He speaks well of his wife, and children. I would recommend him to anyone needing his services without hesitation.
His partner, and near equal, more personable and funnier, certainly with less hair, is perhaps better with talking with his patients. I enjoyed days with him more, but was also more wary of his crankiness. Both were calm in crisis, attentive wells of competence. The best days were when they worked together, supporting and enhancing each other's talents while teasing like brothers.
I miss them both, miss knowing them by heart, and dancing through a long day with them. I miss watching them work.
(Lest you think all surgeons are screaming prima dons. Most are intelligent, skilled professionals, with varying degrees of personality. They work closely with the same people for hours and days at a stretch. The dreadful ones are much the exception, though given the volume, it's hard to remember that.)
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Yell
My parents fought. Or, rather, my father screamed and ranted, my mother spoke low and cried a lot. Whatever I see that as now, as a child, I saw an aggressor and a victim. I was terrified of people out of control. Hated yelling and belligerent behaviour.
The Army training, which is to say Drill Sergeants, was different. Such professional shouting, in iron control, impersonal. Got my adrenaline going, but did not hit that childhood sore spot. I learned to stand and take it calmly, quite easily. It was part of a voluntary deal. I chose to enlist, and knew Basic would be hard, and had agreed to the terms of the game. In effect, I had given my permission, so I was in control, even during those two months when I had no control over what I wore, ate, or how much sleep I lost. Like going on a roller coaster, I had a choice. I now emulate my Drill Sergeants, and raise my voice for volume only, tightly controlled, emotionless - in as much as possible in a given situation.
When I am truly frustrated and stressed, I get very quiet, or cannot speak at all. Then someone will invariably say,
"Are you ok?" softly and sympathetically. I crumble. Involuntarily, and shaming, my voice chokes and my face blotches red, the tears pour. I do my damnedest keep calm, to hide, I ask witnesses to ignore it. I walk away if I can, or get back to work, get busy. I find the tears dry up if I am allowed to simply keep going. I blame allergies for the red face and stuffy nose, to non-witnesses. I would never cry again, if I had any control over it.
I was weighed down by hostility, baffled by angry people, especially if they had any say in my life. I slid out, conceded, ran, quit. It was easier, and I had little idea how else to act, when chaos stared at me. I hated feeling like a victim.
I learned how to confront, how to, as the pamphlets say "Deal with difficult people" from a patient in a nursing home. She had a long history of schizophrenia, decades institutionalized, a selfish and brutal version of intelligence, angry manipulative, no doubt a very effective self defence mechanism. I had to take care of her. Warned about her, I stood my ground, tried to 'stay on her side' and appear to assume good intentions on her part, was consistently kind and insistent. While shivering in my sneakers. Over the course of a year, she came to trust me and depend on me, often only doing something (like not yelling at her roommate) because "Nurse says so." I never stopped being afraid of her. I never liked her. But I credit her challenges with my becoming steadfast, and firmly insisting.
I use all of these techniques at work, but only a few surgeons have ever lost control -at- me. Yelling in the room doesn't count. Getting in my face does. The first, and worst, I no longer deal with. I figured out that when he yelled "Shut Up!" - he knew I was right. I feel dragged down by those who elicit my contempt, a reaction, a judgement I avoid as mutually destructive. Childish bullying from professionals is deeply frightening.
I watch COPS! with a clinical eye, examining how police deal with angry, drunk, out of control folks. I've had a lot of my own experience reinforced by that show. (That is my justification for the voyeurism, and I'm sticking to it.)
There is a scene in one of the Sharpe's series, where Sharp asks his newest recruits, "I know you can fire three rounds a minute, but CAN YOU STAND?" Then fires cannon over their heads. It's a funny bit. When I must argue, I stay very calm. I fight fair. I listen. I will confront. I will stand. But that cannon still goes off inside my head.
The Army training, which is to say Drill Sergeants, was different. Such professional shouting, in iron control, impersonal. Got my adrenaline going, but did not hit that childhood sore spot. I learned to stand and take it calmly, quite easily. It was part of a voluntary deal. I chose to enlist, and knew Basic would be hard, and had agreed to the terms of the game. In effect, I had given my permission, so I was in control, even during those two months when I had no control over what I wore, ate, or how much sleep I lost. Like going on a roller coaster, I had a choice. I now emulate my Drill Sergeants, and raise my voice for volume only, tightly controlled, emotionless - in as much as possible in a given situation.
When I am truly frustrated and stressed, I get very quiet, or cannot speak at all. Then someone will invariably say,
"Are you ok?" softly and sympathetically. I crumble. Involuntarily, and shaming, my voice chokes and my face blotches red, the tears pour. I do my damnedest keep calm, to hide, I ask witnesses to ignore it. I walk away if I can, or get back to work, get busy. I find the tears dry up if I am allowed to simply keep going. I blame allergies for the red face and stuffy nose, to non-witnesses. I would never cry again, if I had any control over it.
I was weighed down by hostility, baffled by angry people, especially if they had any say in my life. I slid out, conceded, ran, quit. It was easier, and I had little idea how else to act, when chaos stared at me. I hated feeling like a victim.
I learned how to confront, how to, as the pamphlets say "Deal with difficult people" from a patient in a nursing home. She had a long history of schizophrenia, decades institutionalized, a selfish and brutal version of intelligence, angry manipulative, no doubt a very effective self defence mechanism. I had to take care of her. Warned about her, I stood my ground, tried to 'stay on her side' and appear to assume good intentions on her part, was consistently kind and insistent. While shivering in my sneakers. Over the course of a year, she came to trust me and depend on me, often only doing something (like not yelling at her roommate) because "Nurse says so." I never stopped being afraid of her. I never liked her. But I credit her challenges with my becoming steadfast, and firmly insisting.
I use all of these techniques at work, but only a few surgeons have ever lost control -at- me. Yelling in the room doesn't count. Getting in my face does. The first, and worst, I no longer deal with. I figured out that when he yelled "Shut Up!" - he knew I was right. I feel dragged down by those who elicit my contempt, a reaction, a judgement I avoid as mutually destructive. Childish bullying from professionals is deeply frightening.
I watch COPS! with a clinical eye, examining how police deal with angry, drunk, out of control folks. I've had a lot of my own experience reinforced by that show. (That is my justification for the voyeurism, and I'm sticking to it.)
There is a scene in one of the Sharpe's series, where Sharp asks his newest recruits, "I know you can fire three rounds a minute, but CAN YOU STAND?" Then fires cannon over their heads. It's a funny bit. When I must argue, I stay very calm. I fight fair. I listen. I will confront. I will stand. But that cannon still goes off inside my head.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Circulator
I was once told by a wise shop teacher, that if you want someone to talk to you, ask them about their job. They will chew your ear off. I have found this to be more true than I could have imagined in my youth.
I am sometimes the exception. For the simple reason that my work environment is so inaccessible that I run out of breath giving context before I can actually 'splain myself. Oh, I try. I wrote about it in my Nanowrimo effort, last year.
I perform such dance of multitudes, of tiny jobs strung together like beadwork or lace, a puzzle of movement and position, of checking and re-checking.
I banter and deflect and pull metaphorical teeth. I chart and fill in forms and run around. I think ahead, often on poor data, so I am often wrong, and have to page and ask and adjust.
I get the right bed and positioning equipment in the room, based on surgeon preference. I talk with patients who may be confused, or deeply stressed, or resigned and joking, or not speaking English. I can manage a bit of Spanish, enough for what I need to know. I know how to get Interpreter Services.
I take care of scrub techs who may or may not like or respect my efforts, but I have to keep them properly supplied without regard to my own feelings. I must endure everyone else's musical tastes. I make sure everyone is observing sterile technique.
I handle specimens and send off blood, and open expensive implants and tools. I make sure the electro-cautery is working, and suction, irrigation, and power for the drills is attached and turned on. I tie up the backs of sterile gowns and answer pages for surgeons and residents, and try to get their names spelled properly in the chart. I call for sales reps and x-ray and cell-saver and pathology and if equipment alarms - clinical engineering.
I am at the patient's side during induction, to lend a hand and help, usually not needed, to the anesthesiologist. I put in the foley catheters (over 1500 at a conservative estimate over the last decade.) I open sterile supplies and prep solutions. I know where the code cart is. I have done CPR, I have witnessed deaths, I have washed the dead.
I have slipped and fallen on those hard floors. Bruised myself all over from hard corners. Cracked a knuckle in a supply area from an open drawer sticking out. Been stuck by solid suture needles twice, by a surgeon and an intern, one each. One laceration near my clavicle from a steel pass-though door corner, leaving a scar I should have had stitched, but it was a 12 hour Friday, too busy during the day, and I just wanted to get home after. I bandaged myself and kept going. A profusely bleeding eyebrow from a misplaced computer ledge brought the overwhelming care and concern of fellow nurses, and some tiny beige steri-strips. We do take care of each other when injured or ill. A migraine aura prompted an anesthesiologist to give me IV drugs with not a flutter of fuss. I fell off a wheeled stool once, snaking both my feet unwisely into the circular rung, and began to slide. The surgeon was dealing with some patient bleeding, so didn't look around when I made a nice thud. They asked if I fainted, as a young nurse had done the previous week, who I'd caught, and slid gently to the floor. I said, calmly and quietly,
"I'm fine. I just fell off my stool."
I hold hands in those last anxious moments before the drugs win. (The drugs always win.). I talk into ears, and I say,
"We are going to take really good care of you."
I make sure every body part is well padded, and in as neutral a position as possible.
And later,
"You did just great, the surgery is all done, you are fine."
Then, I get warm blankets, and make sure bodies are as covered as they can be, gowns replaced and edges tucked in, a recovery slot called for, or an ICU notified. Turnover cleaning team called, and everything gathered for the next case. On a trauma day, I may not know what it is until I call the front desk.
There is more. That is enough.
I am sometimes the exception. For the simple reason that my work environment is so inaccessible that I run out of breath giving context before I can actually 'splain myself. Oh, I try. I wrote about it in my Nanowrimo effort, last year.
I perform such dance of multitudes, of tiny jobs strung together like beadwork or lace, a puzzle of movement and position, of checking and re-checking.
I banter and deflect and pull metaphorical teeth. I chart and fill in forms and run around. I think ahead, often on poor data, so I am often wrong, and have to page and ask and adjust.
I get the right bed and positioning equipment in the room, based on surgeon preference. I talk with patients who may be confused, or deeply stressed, or resigned and joking, or not speaking English. I can manage a bit of Spanish, enough for what I need to know. I know how to get Interpreter Services.
I take care of scrub techs who may or may not like or respect my efforts, but I have to keep them properly supplied without regard to my own feelings. I must endure everyone else's musical tastes. I make sure everyone is observing sterile technique.
I handle specimens and send off blood, and open expensive implants and tools. I make sure the electro-cautery is working, and suction, irrigation, and power for the drills is attached and turned on. I tie up the backs of sterile gowns and answer pages for surgeons and residents, and try to get their names spelled properly in the chart. I call for sales reps and x-ray and cell-saver and pathology and if equipment alarms - clinical engineering.
I am at the patient's side during induction, to lend a hand and help, usually not needed, to the anesthesiologist. I put in the foley catheters (over 1500 at a conservative estimate over the last decade.) I open sterile supplies and prep solutions. I know where the code cart is. I have done CPR, I have witnessed deaths, I have washed the dead.
I have slipped and fallen on those hard floors. Bruised myself all over from hard corners. Cracked a knuckle in a supply area from an open drawer sticking out. Been stuck by solid suture needles twice, by a surgeon and an intern, one each. One laceration near my clavicle from a steel pass-though door corner, leaving a scar I should have had stitched, but it was a 12 hour Friday, too busy during the day, and I just wanted to get home after. I bandaged myself and kept going. A profusely bleeding eyebrow from a misplaced computer ledge brought the overwhelming care and concern of fellow nurses, and some tiny beige steri-strips. We do take care of each other when injured or ill. A migraine aura prompted an anesthesiologist to give me IV drugs with not a flutter of fuss. I fell off a wheeled stool once, snaking both my feet unwisely into the circular rung, and began to slide. The surgeon was dealing with some patient bleeding, so didn't look around when I made a nice thud. They asked if I fainted, as a young nurse had done the previous week, who I'd caught, and slid gently to the floor. I said, calmly and quietly,
"I'm fine. I just fell off my stool."
I hold hands in those last anxious moments before the drugs win. (The drugs always win.). I talk into ears, and I say,
"We are going to take really good care of you."
I make sure every body part is well padded, and in as neutral a position as possible.
And later,
"You did just great, the surgery is all done, you are fine."
Then, I get warm blankets, and make sure bodies are as covered as they can be, gowns replaced and edges tucked in, a recovery slot called for, or an ICU notified. Turnover cleaning team called, and everything gathered for the next case. On a trauma day, I may not know what it is until I call the front desk.
There is more. That is enough.
Litter
Changed the filter on the vacuum. Washed the canister out well. Vacuumed. Used the hose around the toilet. Sucked up that little white hemispheric bolt cover. Spent a half hour with oil, a spatula, a long screwdriver, and a salvaged surgical clamp (gotten with permission), a lot of flinging of the hose, and head shaking at my own ineptitude. I got it out. I don't think there is much damage. It still sucks.
I did wipe up in the tub. Changed the litter boxes.
Mostly, though, I did my PT, rested, watched dumb TV, and 'vacationed'. Drank a lot of tea, and nibbled on little mozzarella balls, cashews, cereal, and potato chips. Sequentially, not all at the same time. Cleaned the counters a bit.
I was going to go out, do some grocery shopping. Get better litter boxes, since these have a dip around the edge that is hard to clean out. No, they are not sold as litter boxes, but they work. Let's not get picky about this, ok?
Caught up on all your blogging.
Sent photos, of my visit to my cousins yesterday, to said cousins. We had lovely walk around Newburyport and a tour of their garden, a very British lunch, and was out-walked by my Aunt Peggy, who fell last winter, breaking her knee and wrist and lacerating her face.
Oh, and I was going to get the dishes out of the dishwasher. Yup, I was going to.
No, I did not get to the store. The only time I went out was to throw out the old litter. This good wheat chaff litter. Clumps and deodorizes, doesn't track much. Moby's paw pads look better than when we used the more famous clumping stuff we tried first. And we know he isn't licking clay. He seems to actually like just going in there and scratching, sometimes. Vigorously. I never wanted to have litter boxes in the bathroom, but in small apartments with carpet, it's the only choice. Sure does gather around the bottom of the toilet.
We should do something, go out for dinner.
Eh.
I did wipe up in the tub. Changed the litter boxes.
Mostly, though, I did my PT, rested, watched dumb TV, and 'vacationed'. Drank a lot of tea, and nibbled on little mozzarella balls, cashews, cereal, and potato chips. Sequentially, not all at the same time. Cleaned the counters a bit.
I was going to go out, do some grocery shopping. Get better litter boxes, since these have a dip around the edge that is hard to clean out. No, they are not sold as litter boxes, but they work. Let's not get picky about this, ok?
Caught up on all your blogging.
Sent photos, of my visit to my cousins yesterday, to said cousins. We had lovely walk around Newburyport and a tour of their garden, a very British lunch, and was out-walked by my Aunt Peggy, who fell last winter, breaking her knee and wrist and lacerating her face.
Oh, and I was going to get the dishes out of the dishwasher. Yup, I was going to.
No, I did not get to the store. The only time I went out was to throw out the old litter. This good wheat chaff litter. Clumps and deodorizes, doesn't track much. Moby's paw pads look better than when we used the more famous clumping stuff we tried first. And we know he isn't licking clay. He seems to actually like just going in there and scratching, sometimes. Vigorously. I never wanted to have litter boxes in the bathroom, but in small apartments with carpet, it's the only choice. Sure does gather around the bottom of the toilet.
We should do something, go out for dinner.
Eh.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Update
For all those who so kindly sent healing intentions and steadfast encouragement,/ again, thank you. Now, the Update. I have been to Physical Therapy, which helped. And today another epidural injection. Which is causing an impressive amount of pain. Pain that was lost below my baseline last time. The doc pointed out the damage on the MRI, and being in a more receptive frame of mind, I could see evidence that, no, in fact, I had not been exaggerating my distress before. Holy herniation, no. Herniation that folded back up the spine. Oh. Well. I guess that was why it hurt so damn much. Eeek. Still, only at about a 6/10, right now. Bearable.
Moby slept on the foot of the affected side through the night last night. I'd shift, and he would simply sprawl further out over my leg. I've had dreams about him two nights running. One, he attacked a four foot bird with red wing feathers. The other, he simply waited as I met a crooked kitten, and wondered if he would like to have a fellow cat. The only phone I could find to call D, to see what he thought, only had three numbers. I only wish I had a cat spine.
No, I am not on the Neurontin again. Just acetaminophen. Ok, and Dos Equis.
Moby slept on the foot of the affected side through the night last night. I'd shift, and he would simply sprawl further out over my leg. I've had dreams about him two nights running. One, he attacked a four foot bird with red wing feathers. The other, he simply waited as I met a crooked kitten, and wondered if he would like to have a fellow cat. The only phone I could find to call D, to see what he thought, only had three numbers. I only wish I had a cat spine.
No, I am not on the Neurontin again. Just acetaminophen. Ok, and Dos Equis.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Cover
I once looked forward to the parent teacher conference days. I'd hear what a good, quiet, intelligent girl I was. But in fourth grade, I hit a wall. Worse, I never heard the whistle, nor saw the lights, never even realized I was standing on the tracks, when Reality slammed me down. Pummeled and splintered me like a small rag doll, I was sobbing shockily.
"She has not been turning in her math homework. I'm afraid she does not know her multiplication tables. I want her in the lower track."
No, not in with the run of the mill fourth and fifth graders, I panicked. I read at a high school level. Likewise science and social studies. So what that long division went way over my head? I'd ignored the arithmetic I had no skill for, no understanding of. I'd thrown away my homework. Simple. Problem solved.
"Did you think this would go away? That I wouldn't find out?" Mom. As angry and incredulous as I had ever seen her. Well, in as much as I thought at all, I'd assumed that long division and times tables would be over after a week or so (like the industrial exports of Michigan) never to be needed again. But. No. Numbers were not going away. Realization imploded. The hot, wet shame of being caught, of being wrong, of being stupid, swelled up and made my belly ache.
My brother's old index cards were dug out, and I filled them with numbers separated by Xs. I felt stung by this abrupt slide down the ladder. I felt the sting in my hands. My chest felt bruised, breathing was hard. My head hurt, hard bumped. I hated that Mom's hand was on my back, forcing me upwards, brooking no slumping. Every evening, all weekend, she tested me, over and over. I even dreamed reciting the six times, seven times, eight times eight equals sixty... four?
I ground my teeth, enduring the half & half fourth and fifth grade readers lurching through stories I'd read the first week. Struggling to get the numbers straight in math class, I lived in stinging, shaming, despairing tears. I railed against the waste of being held back in my other classes, just because of times tables unmemorized. I so yearned to be back with the mostly fifth graders. I hated the bullygirls who considered it justice that I'd been taken down a notch. Adding "crybaby" to the taunts I'd mostly kept my head below, before.
With great resentment, I stuffed those cursed tables into my brain. Only when I'd multiplied my age a few times would I value them as study skills. I studied hard, then, only to build up a shell of knowledge to keep them away from me, parents and teachers and bullies alike. I vowed to never be caught out again. I would be perfect, beyond rebuke, would keep every picky rule they could dish out, and keep subversion in my heart.
"She has not been turning in her math homework. I'm afraid she does not know her multiplication tables. I want her in the lower track."
No, not in with the run of the mill fourth and fifth graders, I panicked. I read at a high school level. Likewise science and social studies. So what that long division went way over my head? I'd ignored the arithmetic I had no skill for, no understanding of. I'd thrown away my homework. Simple. Problem solved.
"Did you think this would go away? That I wouldn't find out?" Mom. As angry and incredulous as I had ever seen her. Well, in as much as I thought at all, I'd assumed that long division and times tables would be over after a week or so (like the industrial exports of Michigan) never to be needed again. But. No. Numbers were not going away. Realization imploded. The hot, wet shame of being caught, of being wrong, of being stupid, swelled up and made my belly ache.
My brother's old index cards were dug out, and I filled them with numbers separated by Xs. I felt stung by this abrupt slide down the ladder. I felt the sting in my hands. My chest felt bruised, breathing was hard. My head hurt, hard bumped. I hated that Mom's hand was on my back, forcing me upwards, brooking no slumping. Every evening, all weekend, she tested me, over and over. I even dreamed reciting the six times, seven times, eight times eight equals sixty... four?
I ground my teeth, enduring the half & half fourth and fifth grade readers lurching through stories I'd read the first week. Struggling to get the numbers straight in math class, I lived in stinging, shaming, despairing tears. I railed against the waste of being held back in my other classes, just because of times tables unmemorized. I so yearned to be back with the mostly fifth graders. I hated the bullygirls who considered it justice that I'd been taken down a notch. Adding "crybaby" to the taunts I'd mostly kept my head below, before.
With great resentment, I stuffed those cursed tables into my brain. Only when I'd multiplied my age a few times would I value them as study skills. I studied hard, then, only to build up a shell of knowledge to keep them away from me, parents and teachers and bullies alike. I vowed to never be caught out again. I would be perfect, beyond rebuke, would keep every picky rule they could dish out, and keep subversion in my heart.
Lounge (Photo)
We though we'd gotten him a scratching post. But, apparently, it's actually a Catlounger. Who knew?
Chain
There are very few things the military does right. I was in, glad I merely did the Guard/Reserve route, rather than Regular Army, got a lot out of it, found D because of it. Hated the institution. I can see exactly how that culture of "don't get caught" and loyalty to the hierarchy can produce the evil of secret prisons and torture.
But, it does do two jobs well. One is that meticulous cleanliness that makes it possible to live in a 64 bed bay full of other people. The second is one I wish I saw more often in the management level of my profession.
If a private ran to the Commanding Officer, complaining about a fellow private, or his/her sergeant, that CO's first question would be,
"Did you speak to that person directly?"
If the answer is No, then the poor dope would be told to Do So, then shown a copy of the chain of command, then the door. If, instead, that individual had talked with the problem person, and everyone on that chain, the CO would endeavor to resolve the problem. It seems artificial, and prolonged, but it puts responsibility on the one with the issue, to solve conflict at the lowest level possible.
My managers, and other nurse managers in other hospitals, all women, have not understood the essential value of this. I have been brought in to respond to vague accusations of "not being nice" or " not having good priorities" by cow-orkers who did not want their names connected to the complaint with the excuse that they were afraid of me. I could, sort of, buy that I was scary to young mormon suburbanites, but to be accused of frightening tough Bostonians is simple baloney. 'Right to face my accuser' is an essential element of Western Law. This is a miserable piece of female politics, the cattiness, hiding and roundabout complaining, that makes me despair of nurses as a group. Running to the Authority, passive aggressive bullshit.
Group Think vs Community. Old Boy network vs Organization. I grew up with older brothers. I am generally more comfortable with men, and strong women. I prefer mixed groups. There is a balance then, diluting the toxicity of the extremes. Abuse and evil are not wholly owned by either gender, both are prone to petty selfishness and entitlement. Only when we live up to the best tendencies of both principles can we thrive, and become whole.
Yeah, I need this week's vacation.
But, it does do two jobs well. One is that meticulous cleanliness that makes it possible to live in a 64 bed bay full of other people. The second is one I wish I saw more often in the management level of my profession.
If a private ran to the Commanding Officer, complaining about a fellow private, or his/her sergeant, that CO's first question would be,
"Did you speak to that person directly?"
If the answer is No, then the poor dope would be told to Do So, then shown a copy of the chain of command, then the door. If, instead, that individual had talked with the problem person, and everyone on that chain, the CO would endeavor to resolve the problem. It seems artificial, and prolonged, but it puts responsibility on the one with the issue, to solve conflict at the lowest level possible.
My managers, and other nurse managers in other hospitals, all women, have not understood the essential value of this. I have been brought in to respond to vague accusations of "not being nice" or " not having good priorities" by cow-orkers who did not want their names connected to the complaint with the excuse that they were afraid of me. I could, sort of, buy that I was scary to young mormon suburbanites, but to be accused of frightening tough Bostonians is simple baloney. 'Right to face my accuser' is an essential element of Western Law. This is a miserable piece of female politics, the cattiness, hiding and roundabout complaining, that makes me despair of nurses as a group. Running to the Authority, passive aggressive bullshit.
Group Think vs Community. Old Boy network vs Organization. I grew up with older brothers. I am generally more comfortable with men, and strong women. I prefer mixed groups. There is a balance then, diluting the toxicity of the extremes. Abuse and evil are not wholly owned by either gender, both are prone to petty selfishness and entitlement. Only when we live up to the best tendencies of both principles can we thrive, and become whole.
Yeah, I need this week's vacation.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Sister (Photo and Meme)
This is the Roseway, sister ship to the Liberty that we 'sailed" on last evening.
Middle Aged meme. If you feel no longer young, but not yet old, consider yourself tagged. Leave a note so we can all come look.
What I'll never do, and that's ok.
Skydiving
The splits
Become a famous actor with my own sitcom
Ballet dancer
Wear a big fluffy formal crinoline dress
What I have done, and would like to do again
Rappelling
Bellydancing
Throw pots
Flying in a helicopter
Cross country skiing
What I've done, and will have to do again
Move
Start new jobs
Heal injuries
Laugh and mop it up.
What I won't do again
Be promiscuous
Get divorced
Go to war
Phone surveys or sales
Act on stage
What I still may get to do
Visit Istanbul and the Hagia Sophia
Get published, and paid for it
Live on a ship (for a week or so)
Own our own place, with garden
Train animals
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Sail (Photo)
What is a two hour sailing cruise with no wind? Actually, contemplative, and a restful, beautiful evening.
Math
There is this TV show called Numb3rs, featuring a mathematician who is smart, sexy (stop laughing), and consults for the FBI. I so get this. I had a crush on my college algebra TA, and his endearing Oklahoma twang. I was 28 (I'd avoided anything requiring math when I was a Theater student.) Probably a few years older than him, so stop thinking dewey eyed Freshman. I crushed on him in no small part because he barely took points off for dumb arithmetic errors, as long as the equations were correct, and I got a hard earned B+ from him for the final grade. He made story problems easy, the only way to approach mathematics. And he made the distinction between arithmetic and mathematics.
One Friday, when half the class didn't bother to show up, he shared his passion. He demonstrated a proof on the board, coming alive. And I got it. Oh, I could never go there again without a map and a guide, but I could follow him, it made sense, it flowed. Like listening to my Uncle Walt talk about aerodynamics or building stresses. Or our engineer friends talking computers. Or K talking the chemistry of making computer chips. I'm always enamored of deep, loving knowledge, and being given a tour of a different view on the world.
So, why isn't Mathematics, proofs and rationale, taught in grade school? Seems to me essential, the grammar of math, and much more logical than language rules. I loved Geometry in grade school, because there were few numbers, mostly words, and lots of constructions.
I don't see numbers in my head, like I do words and letters. I cannot add up a column of numbers the same way twice. Which went critical in my statistics class. The instructor (I did not have a crush on her) had us manage 20 or so data point numbers as a quiz, five minutes at the beginning of every class. I could apply the equations, if I could have ever gotten through adding up the initial data in five minutes. A classmate tipped me off to the disabled student union. Blessed be, I took my quizzes there, to take as long as needed, number help. Sitting there waiting for a kind counselor to come check my arithmetic, I remembered my oldest brother trying to teach me numbers. Asked me what they looked like. He incited me to give them personalities. Three was angry, five was grumpy, and eight was heavy and stubborn. The numbers, especially those three, writhed and twisted, like letters for a dyslexic. Dyscalculia. All my stupidity in math became clear.
I took me a long time to learn to read a clock. I ignored my long division assignments, until I was caught, and had to learn my multiplication tables. I shied away from numbers, knowing I didn't get them. I wanted to study Meteorology, go chase storms, but knew I'd need a lot more math than I was prepared to handle. Such a timid twit I was.
Just as dyslexia does not rule out reading, my numeral confusion still slows me, but no longer stops me. See that RN behind my name? Yeah, well. But I don't do Pediatrics, because every dose has to be calculated to weight. I know my limitations. I just know to be careful, check, get others to check after me. I do the Soduku as number therapy. My most common mistake is not seeing a numeral properly. I can tell when I am very tired, I do much worse. I still puzzle it out in pen.
I'm terrible at names, too. I wonder if it's related.
One Friday, when half the class didn't bother to show up, he shared his passion. He demonstrated a proof on the board, coming alive. And I got it. Oh, I could never go there again without a map and a guide, but I could follow him, it made sense, it flowed. Like listening to my Uncle Walt talk about aerodynamics or building stresses. Or our engineer friends talking computers. Or K talking the chemistry of making computer chips. I'm always enamored of deep, loving knowledge, and being given a tour of a different view on the world.
So, why isn't Mathematics, proofs and rationale, taught in grade school? Seems to me essential, the grammar of math, and much more logical than language rules. I loved Geometry in grade school, because there were few numbers, mostly words, and lots of constructions.
I don't see numbers in my head, like I do words and letters. I cannot add up a column of numbers the same way twice. Which went critical in my statistics class. The instructor (I did not have a crush on her) had us manage 20 or so data point numbers as a quiz, five minutes at the beginning of every class. I could apply the equations, if I could have ever gotten through adding up the initial data in five minutes. A classmate tipped me off to the disabled student union. Blessed be, I took my quizzes there, to take as long as needed, number help. Sitting there waiting for a kind counselor to come check my arithmetic, I remembered my oldest brother trying to teach me numbers. Asked me what they looked like. He incited me to give them personalities. Three was angry, five was grumpy, and eight was heavy and stubborn. The numbers, especially those three, writhed and twisted, like letters for a dyslexic. Dyscalculia. All my stupidity in math became clear.
I took me a long time to learn to read a clock. I ignored my long division assignments, until I was caught, and had to learn my multiplication tables. I shied away from numbers, knowing I didn't get them. I wanted to study Meteorology, go chase storms, but knew I'd need a lot more math than I was prepared to handle. Such a timid twit I was.
Just as dyslexia does not rule out reading, my numeral confusion still slows me, but no longer stops me. See that RN behind my name? Yeah, well. But I don't do Pediatrics, because every dose has to be calculated to weight. I know my limitations. I just know to be careful, check, get others to check after me. I do the Soduku as number therapy. My most common mistake is not seeing a numeral properly. I can tell when I am very tired, I do much worse. I still puzzle it out in pen.
I'm terrible at names, too. I wonder if it's related.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Lines
Inspired by Udge whose lyric challenge I could not even hope to figure out, I decided to do one even harder. These are all They Might Be Giant lyrics. All from different songs. If you can guess which song, fine. If not, just let it wash over you as the strangest poetry, since I don't do poems here. And as a bit of a tweak to all those who say they hate TMBG, but only know Istanbul, which is a cover, for one thing.
Its a long, long rope they use to hang you soon I hope
And I wonder why this hasn't happened
Why why why
A furry hat, elastic mask, a pair of shiny marble dice
Blew out your pilot light
And made a wish
Unnoticed by few
Very very few
And that includes you
I don't want a pizza, I don't want a piece of peanut brittle, I don't want a pear.
I don't want a bagel I don't want a bean I wouldn't like a bag of beef or a beer or a cup of chowder, corn, cake, or creamed cauliflower.
Ignore the mountain of discarded falderal
Peter came out and gave us medals
Declaring us the nicest of the damned
Chinese people were fighting in the park
We tried to help them fight, no one appreciated that
And we still havent walked in the glow of each others majestic presence
Every jumbled pile of person has a thinking part that wonders
What the part that isn't thinking isn't thinking of
And when I lean my head against the frosted shower stall
I see stuff through the glass that I don't recognize at all
Jodie Foster held two pair
Bach had three of a kind
Gandhi said, "With my full house,
I will blow your mind!"
I'm searching for some disbelief that I can still suspend
But never mind the furthermore-the plea is self-defense again
While lying there in my bed there was a message for me
As I went through the pillow, I noticed something
Wearing a raincoat is flying around in a yellow rubber airplane
Made out of a raincoat,
I lay out in the sun too long
And burned off all of my skin
I felt so dizzy I got into the car
And got into an accident
Out of the burning wreckage I fell
Wanting only to lay where I fell
The back wheels O is now a letter D
Wreck!
I was an I and now I am a V
I heard they had a space program
When they sing you can't hear, there's no air
Sometimes I think I kind of like that and
Other times I think I'm already there
Its a long, long rope they use to hang you soon I hope
And I wonder why this hasn't happened
Why why why
A furry hat, elastic mask, a pair of shiny marble dice
Blew out your pilot light
And made a wish
Unnoticed by few
Very very few
And that includes you
I don't want a pizza, I don't want a piece of peanut brittle, I don't want a pear.
I don't want a bagel I don't want a bean I wouldn't like a bag of beef or a beer or a cup of chowder, corn, cake, or creamed cauliflower.
Ignore the mountain of discarded falderal
Peter came out and gave us medals
Declaring us the nicest of the damned
Chinese people were fighting in the park
We tried to help them fight, no one appreciated that
And we still havent walked in the glow of each others majestic presence
Every jumbled pile of person has a thinking part that wonders
What the part that isn't thinking isn't thinking of
And when I lean my head against the frosted shower stall
I see stuff through the glass that I don't recognize at all
Jodie Foster held two pair
Bach had three of a kind
Gandhi said, "With my full house,
I will blow your mind!"
I'm searching for some disbelief that I can still suspend
But never mind the furthermore-the plea is self-defense again
While lying there in my bed there was a message for me
As I went through the pillow, I noticed something
Wearing a raincoat is flying around in a yellow rubber airplane
Made out of a raincoat,
I lay out in the sun too long
And burned off all of my skin
I felt so dizzy I got into the car
And got into an accident
Out of the burning wreckage I fell
Wanting only to lay where I fell
The back wheels O is now a letter D
Wreck!
I was an I and now I am a V
I heard they had a space program
When they sing you can't hear, there's no air
Sometimes I think I kind of like that and
Other times I think I'm already there
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Fail
Mr. Shirkey laid the paper face down on my desk, saying, dramatically.
"Oh, how the mighty have fallen."
I turned over the lab report on the worm dissection, and was slightly relieved that it was only a D, since I figured I'd deserved an F. I'd had no idea what I'd been looking at at all. I filled in the answers with nothing like a real answer, a muddle, which was all I could see. Anything under the microscope was a blurred mystery. This despite having glasses by the time I was 15, sophomore year. Despite being a straight A student in high school.
Oh, I'd gotten Cs in 7th grade typing, pity grades, since she saw I really tried, but never could get my fingers to do as dib. bod. bid. In lower grades I had occasional Bs in maths, related to numbers turning in my brain from 3 to 5 to 8 and back, which I only figured out in college statistics class (dyscalculia.) Generally, I did well in school, with enough effort to have good study habits.
For non-acedemics, if I figured I was not going to be pretty competent, I would withdraw fairly soon. Violin bruised my chin, and I couldn't finger the strings, did that about a month. Flute I managed one song, the tone never sounded good, that was maybe two months. Rented instruments, nothing much lost. My father thought that the trick to a good life was being able to play an instrument. (He always thought there was a trick to any kind of success. He'd never managed the trick to it, so was where he was.) I was terrific at cutting my losses. I minded my mother telling me I lacked sticktoitiveness.
I failed to have her ironclad faith. Lost it when I was eight, if I'd ever had it at all. I wanted it, prayed for it. Eventually nitpicked that if Faith was a gift from God, and God hadn't seen fit to give it to me, what was I to do? I rather liked that St. Thomas made Jesus prove himself, and was bothered that his unbelief was disparaged. I now think that those who have faith are being cheated of their curiosity and most of their intelligence thereby.
My first marriage failed miserably, due in no small part to my general failure to make friends or lovers. When I learned to make friends, I realized just how badly I'd chosen a husband. I failed, for a year, to get myself out of that abusive relationship.
I'd been working at a survey research center, phone surveys. I came in for my shift. I looked at the phone. I looked at my survey. I looked at the phone. I cleaned everything with alcohol. I looked at the phone. I picked up the receiver. I put the receiver down. I did this for almost two hours. I picked up my knotted stomach, walked up to my supervisor, and told him I had to quit. I simply could not make another phone call, possibly ever again in my life. He nodded, made sure they had my correct address, and wished me luck.
I once worked for a famous dance teaching studio. I could teach dance well. That was not the issue. I would not lie to, nor pressure at every break in breath, my students to sign up for the most expensive dance class packages. They fired me.
I worked night shift as an aide at a nasty little nursing home, all psych patients, about half elderly. Two of the other aides who hated me said I'd pushed a patient. This was the same week I got into nursing school. The nursing supervisor fired me with one of those half assed, ever changing reasons. Afraid they would call my nursing school, I did not fight it, but left in exhausted tears, and indignant fury. Every doubt and fear overwhelmed me. I also failed to report the place, but I did not know enough then.
I took Anatomy 204. Great teacher, great class, I studied pretty well, I thought. Then the midterm appeared before me. Empty lines. Trace a drop of blood from the right ventricle through the right kidney to the liver naming all vessels and organs. List all the muscles, the nerve artery and vein involved in raising your left arm. The following Monday, when the test was passed back, I took a peek, then took myself to the nearest restroom stall, and sobbed. I would get an A on the final, and take the class again, for the A for the class.
In nursing school, I failed daily. I rarely made the same mistakes twice, but I found new ones constantly. So, I was never snotty about asking for someone to check behind me. As a result, when I was in my senior clinicals, I was the one the my clinical instructor sent to the other floor, without her to watch over me, when there weren't enough precepting nurses.
"You'll be fine."
What she really meant was that I was reasonably competent, not cocky. I would ask anyone for help, without hesitation, without ego. She trusted me to neither jump off the deep end, nor stop in my tracks. I probably wouldn't kill anybody. I had learned how to fail, but keep going, turn it around.
I was new in surgery, maybe four months in. I scrubbed, and went to put on my sterile gown. Hit the sleeve on the (unsterile) light. (Damn, blast, idiot snarflebarble... .) Nurse took off my gown, so my hands were still sterile, got another gown, hit the light again. (Stupidstupidstupid... .) Again with the gown, third time in a row, again, I hit the sleeve of the gown on the light. I felt about this ( ` ) smart. I have never contaminated a gown putting it on since. This is the story I tell to newbies in the OR to this day.
"It gets better. Give yourself time, this is hard. Sometimes we forget."
I don't do everything well, but I keep trying. I still screw up numbers, but I double check them. I don't work under microscopes. Still can't play an instrument. I forget stuff. I get the thingmabob on the whatsit the wrong way, and have to redo it. I do not quit because a task is hard. I fall, and keep working until I get the job right. There is no trick to what I do right, save only practice, experience. And remembering, deep in my bones, when I am wrong.
"I screwed up. I am fixing it right now."
Well, hell, makes for a good story, if I tell it right.
"Oh, how the mighty have fallen."
I turned over the lab report on the worm dissection, and was slightly relieved that it was only a D, since I figured I'd deserved an F. I'd had no idea what I'd been looking at at all. I filled in the answers with nothing like a real answer, a muddle, which was all I could see. Anything under the microscope was a blurred mystery. This despite having glasses by the time I was 15, sophomore year. Despite being a straight A student in high school.
Oh, I'd gotten Cs in 7th grade typing, pity grades, since she saw I really tried, but never could get my fingers to do as dib. bod. bid. In lower grades I had occasional Bs in maths, related to numbers turning in my brain from 3 to 5 to 8 and back, which I only figured out in college statistics class (dyscalculia.) Generally, I did well in school, with enough effort to have good study habits.
For non-acedemics, if I figured I was not going to be pretty competent, I would withdraw fairly soon. Violin bruised my chin, and I couldn't finger the strings, did that about a month. Flute I managed one song, the tone never sounded good, that was maybe two months. Rented instruments, nothing much lost. My father thought that the trick to a good life was being able to play an instrument. (He always thought there was a trick to any kind of success. He'd never managed the trick to it, so was where he was.) I was terrific at cutting my losses. I minded my mother telling me I lacked sticktoitiveness.
I failed to have her ironclad faith. Lost it when I was eight, if I'd ever had it at all. I wanted it, prayed for it. Eventually nitpicked that if Faith was a gift from God, and God hadn't seen fit to give it to me, what was I to do? I rather liked that St. Thomas made Jesus prove himself, and was bothered that his unbelief was disparaged. I now think that those who have faith are being cheated of their curiosity and most of their intelligence thereby.
My first marriage failed miserably, due in no small part to my general failure to make friends or lovers. When I learned to make friends, I realized just how badly I'd chosen a husband. I failed, for a year, to get myself out of that abusive relationship.
I'd been working at a survey research center, phone surveys. I came in for my shift. I looked at the phone. I looked at my survey. I looked at the phone. I cleaned everything with alcohol. I looked at the phone. I picked up the receiver. I put the receiver down. I did this for almost two hours. I picked up my knotted stomach, walked up to my supervisor, and told him I had to quit. I simply could not make another phone call, possibly ever again in my life. He nodded, made sure they had my correct address, and wished me luck.
I once worked for a famous dance teaching studio. I could teach dance well. That was not the issue. I would not lie to, nor pressure at every break in breath, my students to sign up for the most expensive dance class packages. They fired me.
I worked night shift as an aide at a nasty little nursing home, all psych patients, about half elderly. Two of the other aides who hated me said I'd pushed a patient. This was the same week I got into nursing school. The nursing supervisor fired me with one of those half assed, ever changing reasons. Afraid they would call my nursing school, I did not fight it, but left in exhausted tears, and indignant fury. Every doubt and fear overwhelmed me. I also failed to report the place, but I did not know enough then.
I took Anatomy 204. Great teacher, great class, I studied pretty well, I thought. Then the midterm appeared before me. Empty lines. Trace a drop of blood from the right ventricle through the right kidney to the liver naming all vessels and organs. List all the muscles, the nerve artery and vein involved in raising your left arm. The following Monday, when the test was passed back, I took a peek, then took myself to the nearest restroom stall, and sobbed. I would get an A on the final, and take the class again, for the A for the class.
In nursing school, I failed daily. I rarely made the same mistakes twice, but I found new ones constantly. So, I was never snotty about asking for someone to check behind me. As a result, when I was in my senior clinicals, I was the one the my clinical instructor sent to the other floor, without her to watch over me, when there weren't enough precepting nurses.
"You'll be fine."
What she really meant was that I was reasonably competent, not cocky. I would ask anyone for help, without hesitation, without ego. She trusted me to neither jump off the deep end, nor stop in my tracks. I probably wouldn't kill anybody. I had learned how to fail, but keep going, turn it around.
I was new in surgery, maybe four months in. I scrubbed, and went to put on my sterile gown. Hit the sleeve on the (unsterile) light. (Damn, blast, idiot snarflebarble... .) Nurse took off my gown, so my hands were still sterile, got another gown, hit the light again. (Stupidstupidstupid... .) Again with the gown, third time in a row, again, I hit the sleeve of the gown on the light. I felt about this ( ` ) smart. I have never contaminated a gown putting it on since. This is the story I tell to newbies in the OR to this day.
"It gets better. Give yourself time, this is hard. Sometimes we forget."
I don't do everything well, but I keep trying. I still screw up numbers, but I double check them. I don't work under microscopes. Still can't play an instrument. I forget stuff. I get the thingmabob on the whatsit the wrong way, and have to redo it. I do not quit because a task is hard. I fall, and keep working until I get the job right. There is no trick to what I do right, save only practice, experience. And remembering, deep in my bones, when I am wrong.
"I screwed up. I am fixing it right now."
Well, hell, makes for a good story, if I tell it right.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Monday, September 04, 2006
Tail
"Vans usually have their tails in motion - in every direction imaginable a habit that is known as "flouncing". The tails seem to function totally on their own. Even when the cat is asleep, its tail remains active and the cat will eventually grab its own tail and pin it under its legs for a more peaceful nap."
-Turkish Van, Swimming Cats
Flushing cat video.
Moby is certainly not a Van, Turkish or otherwise. Not a spot of white on him, a thick undercoat. And Vans are rare. He does play with his water, and doesn't seem to mind a bit of wet, will stick his head under the stream when we pour water into his bowl. We've never seen him flush, but then, we keep the lid down.
His tail does flounce as described above. His shortish, muscular tail, that makes me wonder if he has a touch of Manx, flicks and curls, wags and wriggles. Only when he seems most deeply asleep is it quiet at all. It perks up and curls at the end when we call his name, even when he is busy doing other cat things that we can't understand, and therefore can't stop right now, sorry. We saw him once trying to nap, when the tail was dancing in front of his nose. He irritably reached out a paw and stopped it, as if to say "Cut it out, you."
Sometimes I hold his tail loosely in my fist, feeling the twitch and thrum. Moby seems not to mind.
Over the last two years, we have formed a deep friendship with him. He knows he can trust us, a simple squirm, and he will be set down gently. He will be let out of the bag eventually, Vets are kind to him, and he will come home afterward. He will never be left in a place with dogs and rabbits and other animals for two months, ill with worms and a cold, though well fed, and the people were kind. He knows we never hurt him intentionally, and when a foot hits him, we will apologize and let him hide for a while. Often, chicken will follow.
We, in turn, have learned to trust him. If he puts his claws out, we leave our hand there, and he does not dig in, but retracts, and licks an apology. We rub his tum gently when he is in the mood, but do not play that way, so he does not feel threatened to the point of defending himself with teeth and hind legs thrashing.
We think about him in that shelter. They were careful about sending him home with us, as they told us they were careful about black cats. More so around Halloween. They wanted him to have a home, not be sacrificed. We saw him on the shelter website, and thought him ideal. When we met him, they let us be in a caged area with him. I held him, and he squirmed away, looking for "out", without putting a claw on me. D remembers him climbing over his shoulder, with the same gentle urgency. We knew we would have to earn his affection. We were both hooked. A cat like both of us, not easily won over, no surface shinola, but without malice. We were told his first owner had brought him in because he was at work so much, he did not feel he could take good care of him. It sounds like an excuse, but it feels true enough.
He knows he has taught us well, attentive to feline wisdom. We amuse him, with our strange habits, like never leaving the house once, but always coming back in before leaving. As he amuses us. He likes us to chuckle.
All our quirks together, there is love at home.
-Turkish Van, Swimming Cats
Flushing cat video.
Moby is certainly not a Van, Turkish or otherwise. Not a spot of white on him, a thick undercoat. And Vans are rare. He does play with his water, and doesn't seem to mind a bit of wet, will stick his head under the stream when we pour water into his bowl. We've never seen him flush, but then, we keep the lid down.
His tail does flounce as described above. His shortish, muscular tail, that makes me wonder if he has a touch of Manx, flicks and curls, wags and wriggles. Only when he seems most deeply asleep is it quiet at all. It perks up and curls at the end when we call his name, even when he is busy doing other cat things that we can't understand, and therefore can't stop right now, sorry. We saw him once trying to nap, when the tail was dancing in front of his nose. He irritably reached out a paw and stopped it, as if to say "Cut it out, you."
Sometimes I hold his tail loosely in my fist, feeling the twitch and thrum. Moby seems not to mind.
Over the last two years, we have formed a deep friendship with him. He knows he can trust us, a simple squirm, and he will be set down gently. He will be let out of the bag eventually, Vets are kind to him, and he will come home afterward. He will never be left in a place with dogs and rabbits and other animals for two months, ill with worms and a cold, though well fed, and the people were kind. He knows we never hurt him intentionally, and when a foot hits him, we will apologize and let him hide for a while. Often, chicken will follow.
We, in turn, have learned to trust him. If he puts his claws out, we leave our hand there, and he does not dig in, but retracts, and licks an apology. We rub his tum gently when he is in the mood, but do not play that way, so he does not feel threatened to the point of defending himself with teeth and hind legs thrashing.
We think about him in that shelter. They were careful about sending him home with us, as they told us they were careful about black cats. More so around Halloween. They wanted him to have a home, not be sacrificed. We saw him on the shelter website, and thought him ideal. When we met him, they let us be in a caged area with him. I held him, and he squirmed away, looking for "out", without putting a claw on me. D remembers him climbing over his shoulder, with the same gentle urgency. We knew we would have to earn his affection. We were both hooked. A cat like both of us, not easily won over, no surface shinola, but without malice. We were told his first owner had brought him in because he was at work so much, he did not feel he could take good care of him. It sounds like an excuse, but it feels true enough.
He knows he has taught us well, attentive to feline wisdom. We amuse him, with our strange habits, like never leaving the house once, but always coming back in before leaving. As he amuses us. He likes us to chuckle.
All our quirks together, there is love at home.
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