Absurd

I am sipping good whiskey made in Utah. I voted for the first president of this country who is not of northern European descent. We live in an apartment with a washer and dryer in the unit. My back is slowly coming around. Our friend's leukemia is in remission, and he and his wife's new baby arrived in rude good health. The year has it's redemptive qualities. Not to mention absurd miracles.

So, instead of the year in review, some photos from the ends of the last few years.





Walking through Boston Common on christmas day, December, 2005.



The cake of despair December 2007.


Lap(top) cat, December 2008.

Next year in Ypsilanti.

(Yes, they are all out of order, and I don't feel like re-ordering them, so consider it more intentional absurdity.)

Beam

Moby has been very engaged with any sun reflection, whether off of my laptop iMogen, or my watchface or a shiny magazine. Or in this case, a small mirror I brought out for the purpose. First photo he is plotting, missed is his stretch up to capture, seen is the start of his embarrassing slide off the scanner and halfway off the desk. I stopped with the camera to help him, but he scrabbled up uncertainly. I held him for a moment and tried not to giggle. Poor cat. I told him not to be embarrassed, but he was rather rattled.

Energy

Given the advantages of full sun, versus the appeal of electric bed pad under wool, Moby chose solar radiation. Or as D puts it,

"A cat is an engine for turning heat into cute."

D is very squishy about Moby, which I find endlessly endearing.

Trust

Moby loves him some wool, army blanket best of all.

Woke this morning to Moby walking on the bed. It took him a while, the first time, a few months after we got him home, to jump up when we were in bed. We'd been out of town a few days, unaware of how much we'd be missed. The friends who came to feed him had to sit by him so he would eat. He lost weight, and seemed to miss us far out of proportion to any previous evidence of affection. As we crashed after the red-eye flight, he snugged in at the very foot between our feet, and stayed.

So this morning, I laid near him and stroked him, as he relaxed and rolled over, pleased and comfortable. Trust and pleasure, and to be the source of this, earned over years in small increments, is a warm and lovely feeling. Never forgetting his week hiding under, under the sofa, under the bed, under the sink cabinet (4" clearance), after the trauma of the box home from the shelter. Not a cat to give love easily, no freebies, wait and watch warily. It took us a while to get used to each other, I learned not to shout - since that was just proof that this human was scary and out of control. D learned how to hold him. Moby learned that it was ok to be held, because just a gentle squirm resulted in his being gently placed down. He controlled it, so a good hug became enjoyable.

Likewise, we found that if we are petting him, and he gets anxious, he puts a back paw on the hand. Stillness and slow withdrawal, and Moby knows we are not a threat. And with his permission, he gets good belly rubs. When he is in full chase mode, we don't make our hands a target, and he is very good at avoiding laying claw to skin. Probably feels weird to him anyway. We've each had maybe a scratch or two over the last four years.

Early yesterday morning, he sat politely between us about elbow level, purring loudly. When this produced no result, he patted D's face.

"Hey, wake up. I want to eat and chase. Get up."

So, we did.

Deep

The picnic/basketball area of the apartment complex is covered with untouched snow. Well, until me. No good for snowmen, powdery.





The heater is out, or I would be soaking in the hot water here.

Howl

It kept snowing last night, nothing excessive, maybe 6" here. Moby had to get us up to play with him this morning, and this is his first walk in snow to our knowledge.


Checking out a local station for road conditions and weather, I read a short item about "worst gift" stories. They were pretty lame, a bad color tie, socks, a ruffled dress, nothing that screams in horrified laughter. No leg shaped lamps in fishnet, the soft glow of electric sex gleaming in the window. Although, actually, we would love to have one of those lamps. But then, I gave D a 4' inflatable emperor penguin for christmas one year, and George is still with us.

Nothing beats the litany at the Carolyn Hax site the week before christmas. Reindeer Poo is the only one that comes to mind, but there have been some doozies.

And the "worst" gift for one might well be another's whimsical, or at least best story. One of my father's sisters-in-law gave me a game one year. A few ping pong balls in an egg carton with numbers in the cups. Otherwise undecorated. I did like the ping pong balls, actually. Hardest time I ever had acting excited and grateful. One of the many times I would have preferred no gift to a grudging one.

From Aunt E, a pair of flannel pajamas that would have fit me three or four years earlier was hard to take. A sweater from the in-laws one year, too navy, too fluffy, I planned immediately to return it, until D thoughtfully took the tag off. He got such a LOOK, but I said nothing. Better than the Book Of Mormon they got for me, which I took reverently, and later quietly donated to the library. My mother send me a huge beige sweatshirt with an enormous applique teddy bear covering the chest - I was 30 at the time. A friend's kids used it as a sleep shirt. D was given a Grisham novel, which no Le Carre reader would stomach.

But this is part of why I don't get presents for the children of my friends, children I've barely met, just because it's a holiday. I keep them in mind, and once in a while, when I know they need something, for no reason, I will give them a gift. Most of them are pretty much swamped with stuff anyway. I want to give generously, thoughtfully, so they don't have to act happy. Or if it's a horrible gift, I at least want to be remembered with laughter, not because I was cheap.

The worst gifts that left me burdened, felt bad because they made me feel invisible and misunderstood. The truly horrible ones leapt over the line into derisive humor that would last generations. The difference between a bad movie and an energetic howler deserving of the MST3K treatment.

May you have had apt gifts, or at least ones to tell tales of.

White

And the snow, snow, snow came down, down, down. Also sideways and up on drafts. It waited until evening in this part of the valley, further south and west has been getting whiteouts since last night. We stayed home, only going out for egg nog, to the drugstore visible in the left of the photo. We've even had thunder. Unlike our place last year, where we lost power in a light fog, if the electricity goes out here it's because this whole section of town is cut off. The two green army wool blankets, cot sized, sewn together years ago, will provide sufficient warmth if we lose heat tonight.

Moby watches the tree, occasionally noses a low ornament, but clearly would prefer we'd put up furry, wooly or feathery ornaments. Shiny is sort of interesting, but not really his thing.

Job

(Crane Beach, November 2004)


We walked down to the Broadway to see a free showing of It's a Wonderful Life. Quite an experience, much more emotional than seeing it on television. I cried through much of it. We got hot chocolate to pay rent - seemed only fair. The place was crowded, and I sat next to a man who did not have access to laundry nor shower, and I could hardly mind. Only this morning did I think, I should have given him my cocoa. But I am a slow thinker, as writers often are.

We walked home in the raw damp, and talked. The emotional power of the movie is still potent. The facts of the plot have proved to be false dreams. Plastic from soybeans, suburban tract houses. That a lively downtown with music clubs is bad, (Ok, the Dime a Dance and Girls,Girls, Girls and casinos is....) But the town is not a disneyfied ideal either, it just happens to be where all of George's friends live.

So we figured out an ending. Potter dies. Of course. And dies intestate - not wanting to give anyone a profit motive for wanting him dead. Turns out, George is is only living kin, a distant cousin. Well, in a town that size Potter'd have to be related to someone. So the Baileys venture off to tramp around Europe for a year, and all the kids become photojournalists for National Geographic, or archeologists, or world renowned architects, always inviting George and Mary to visit them in their exotic locales. And George lives a long, long life, making life better for everyone in Bedford Falls, since he now owns the bank and pretty much everything else. So it becomes in effect a co-op town, as people who live there invest in windmill energy and trolleys and local theater and music, maybe even a small college. Violet will start a ballroom dance studio, and get to dance with lots of young men all her life, flirting with them until she's well into her ninties.

There will be grief and loss, heartache and trials, but no willful stupidity or criminal malice.

And no one descended from the Bailey shop gets involved in the S&L crisis or the corrupt housing loan practices.

Because George is Job, and that's how the story is supposed to go.

(W)Rap

Via Mrs. Chili.

Needful

My image of five days idly dithering, not driving, soaking in gallons of tea, seems to be eroding. Probably for the best, in the end. Groceries today, via feet, in the plans. Splurging on nice whiskey, also in the plans, two trips to the State Liquor Store because of their hours - not. Better than missing the closing time.

I'd forgotten about the Christmas Eve Day free showing of It's a Wonderful Life that D so wants to attend. I'd said yes, but I was distracted. We'll go, I'll enjoy, but the thought of going feels so burdensome. This is an anxiety trait of mine. I'll make plans to do, and unless I have paid tickets, I will seriously want to bail out, stay home, hunker down. I nearly talked myself out of going for the Humane Society volunteer orientation last week, but I alerted D to my urge to avoid, and he stopped me from listening to my shy fears. One of those supportive services.

And out to the in-laws tomorrow, unless it snows. I really can't deal with a non-essential drive in winter stormage so soon, but otherwise have no excuse if D wants to see his family on a holiday. They are fine people, but I have to bite my tongue so often in conversation with them. I respect, and like, them too much to challenge or shock them, but the thoughts sluice through my brain anyway. I have never been naturally reverent. I also wish they would not get us presents, we don't give gifts to each other, and I have not liked such one sided exchanges since I was twenty. I unwrap supplies forty hours a week, unwrapping a present holds no appeal for me at all anymore.

But we deal with an essential discord between D and I right now. He has way, way, way too much time alone and in, and I have an excess of time out and crowded. We both get too little time together. This is an unresolvable state, until some smart person figures out they should hire D. So, I have to spend some extra time out, and he has to spend more time in, and we at least get to spend it together.


And Moby, well he's soaking up sun, using the stool leg to shade his eyes.

Reset

So my little ortho hospital is having problems, and we had to move all our cases to The Other OR, along with our staff today. I can't really be more explicit, but it is an issue with the building itself, that will hopefully be rectified by Monday. The next day I am scheduled to work. I was going to go in Friday to be the second RN in the place, but that no longer applies. I won't get paid for all these lost hours, only the 25th, and using some of my vacation time. Not much choice.

After the early conundrum of where to park, our satellite parking lot doesn't have the same pass, and getting back to vehicles after is a very long, hard, snowy hike across unplowed expanses of a mountainside campus. One of the supervisors told us to use the ER valet there, and if we got a ticket, she would take care of it. This was the best part of the day.

No, actually, most of the people there were wonderfully helpful at our intrusive foray onto their workplace. A few were snarly at our missing some of their arcane protocols, I had a rash of such growls midday that rattled my composure. I also had a huge amount of help on the last case, trying to get on the charting program (the system went down), filling out specimen forms, moving unexpectedly needed equipment in the room. I had three different computers, as each freaked in turn. Missing supplies, unavailable equipment, the usual frustrations.

Wound up staying late to finish, I would not have gotten it to a place where I could have handed it off anyway. Everyone is alive, the work is done. Nice fellow got my car for me, although I couldn't reach the pedals until I made a large adjustment.

The roads were clear. D made us chili, and Moby is hanging out nearby. Got a card to send to Aunt tomorrow.

Five days to reset my thoughts, in a warm and welcoming home.

News

It breaks my heart that this has happened to her.

Update, Cousin is escorting her mum home, wading through the red tape of hospitals and transportation, to get her to her own country of insurance. Having spoken to everyone in Massachusetts, Michigan and Ontario to arrange transportation and medical support. It's been a long, hard, slog. Loving and capable people on her side.
This from my cousin.

Nanna got up in the night 4 am, turned the light off in the bathroom and
fell all the way down the stairs. OK outcome, all things considered. She has
a fractured pelvis and a broken rib plus many abrasions and cuts, but
fortunately nothing that needs surgical intervention. Pain management is the
focus as well as keeping her moving with a walker. She was walking painfully
with aid and a walker this PM. She is spending tonight at the
Hospital and tomorrow the PT people and MD will meet with the
case manager to decide the best course of action. Possibly home here
tomorrow. Preferably (in my opinion) another day there or possibly rehab,
whatever insurance allows. Our activities will be curtailed, of course, and
she will probably stay here beyond Jan 2 as originally planned..


I started a surgery on a 91 year old, rather confused, before I left The Other OR.


D had been more or less moping at home, not having slept last night, and the weather wet and icy today. Got him out to a local restaurant pub, walked there. Both better, and genuinely tired, not just bored.


One more day at work this week, then a few extra days off, most welcome.

Chanukah

First night of Hanukkah. Listening to a program of seasonal music, Kitka and Davka, finding it much more moving than the christmas fare. Cheerfully sad, plaintive joy. I had a fascination with Judaism in high school, the only religion I may have changed to. Eventually, my love of ceremony and history would not overcome my bone deep dismissal of belief that contradicted my experience, and any institution that treated women (or any group) as distinct and inferior. By their works shall you know them, dontcha know. But I love old music that has been nurtured through voice after voice, generation after generation, emerging with a patina, richly nuanced. The mystery holds power for me, when the sounds stay pure, the words become magical incantations, the universal moan.

Detailed

The humming bird's(?) isinglass (?) tail feathers have suffered from years of love and travel and simple age, but this is still one of my favorites. I suspect this was not from the family, but one of the elderly neighbor ladies who passed us, as the only family in the street with children, their decorations as they decided not to put up a tree for themselves anymore.


The Peacock as well has aged, still holding a place of honor on the tree. The bright pink ones are from an aunt who liked stylish trees, had a silver one with blue and white balls, with the color wheel. I loved sitting alone in her front room, bathed in rainbow colors.


The hand-blown purple drop is another that I have spent many a childhood hour gazing into. My brother hated the chubby baby santa, worn of it's color even then. I have a strange affection for the creepy wee thing.


The clot of wires disappears at night, and the lights distract from the utilitarian. I used to see tinsel (Icicles) as indispensable, but with Moby's love of linear comestibles, we gladly take a plainer tree.


Somehow, all together, a sort of magic is created. Fragile but enduring.

Humane

Got the tree up for Solstice, will stay until Epiphany. The one time I believe in wretched excess, in decorating a yule tree. Our small silk faker gets a full load of lights and all the ornaments I have accrued from childhood (and before), until now - that I have hangers for. The effect is encrusted and a little loopy, taste gots nothin' to do with it.

I was accused of being a grinch for admitting to not playing christmas, by my scrub yesterday. I told him, we don't have kids, don't need any stuff, and aren't religious, it has to be low key. He had the grace to giggle.

The volunteer orientation for the local humane society this morning is the beginning of my first reaching out in a long time. One cat demanded my attention with her eyes from across the room. All the dogs were beautiful and questioning. I want to write stories about all of them so that loving people will fall in love with them and make homes for them. I want to photograph them and be creatively useful.

I've become very insular, staying close in, a bit agoraphobic, lazy and shy. I once sang sacred harp every week or so, manned the welcome desk at the library as a volunteer, took belly dance classes and threw pots. Now I go to work, come home, see friends for a few hours a week some weeks, and that is the extent of my physical life. In part I am recuperating from so much change, afraid and in pain. This is too soon for my life to be ebbing so. Touching animals always makes me smile and calm down. So, I do this, giving when I feel I have so little. Perfect emotional sense.


The drive home last night after the hardest Friday yet* in the middle of the snowstorm had me very tense. The car is fine, the anti-lock brakes actually worked well, now that I am used to them this year, most other drivers were leaving plenty of distance and taking it slowly. I tripled my ten minute drive home down the hill - without incident. D had ordered Chinese food, ready for me, which helped. We watched I'm Not There, a very interesting film more or less about Bob Dylan, that needs to be severely edited, but is otherwise rather amazing.

Slept hard.





*We voted, worst Friday that did not have a code. Clocked out at 1836, 6:36PM, scheduled until 5. Flood in one room. One case still going when I left. I'll be at the other OR tomorrow at the main hospital. Rather glad I won't have to deal with the aftermath.

Zine

An early gift, the FT a week before it showed up on the site. Usually we get it a week, or so, after the new issue is announced. Happened last month as well. This is the only magazine we get, and we keep it, like Smithsonian and National Geographic. Not just eye fluff, or last week's news, a chronicle of weirdness, and the stories we most enjoy. Probably says a great deal about both of us. D used to get Guitar Player, but says it's not as good, and he sates his gear lust online these days.

Now we've got Moby into it as well. He likes the stories about Egyptian cat worship, and ABCs.

Odd

Ode to a Lump of Green Ribbon I Found in my Cat's Shit One Midwinter Morning. (With apologies to Vogon Poetry.)

Yes, it's hideous, and a homemade gift from my supervisor at work, and came wrapped in a length of the same green ribbon visible as a loop for hanging on the corner. I tossed the thing in the corner when I got home, not even thinking about the ribbon, I still have no idea what happened to it, before it got masticated. D found it, in a gob, inside a turd, in the litter box this morning, Moby apparently none the worse for his snack. We know he has a weakness for ribbon, including one vet trip with x-ray, that thankfully passed. I should have been more careful, I usually am. But it's an utter blank at the end of a late day on Monday. Moved through pretty quickly, though.

Damn that thing is creepy.

Language

We have, over the years, but beginning at the very beginning, created our own world. Two witty people amid Army people, we few who loved obscure references and who'd actually read as well as seen Shakespeare - for instance, spoke in a sort of code even then. We'd both read Douglas Adams and Robert Anton Wilson. He wanted to be Pete Townsend, I memorized Tommy The Who (as one of the albums my brother left behind.) It's the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine) was our song.

We were silly together, often confusing those around us, or nauseating them - hard to tell really. He made me laugh. I taught him to skip. Ok, I tried to. I did get him to look at the moon and clouds, sun rises and sunsets. He would straighten my hat and push up my glasses. I would shake my head over his many shaving mishaps. I would warm my hand in his pocket.

He fell in love with me when I had a bowl cut. (Filipino barbers hired by the army, set up by the score in Saudi to give a last head shave. Women took their chances, but not knowing if I would be out in the sand, didn't much care. Turned out we had buildings, and many of us a line around our head, all shaved beneath.) But I never worry about how he will feel about me because of how I look, because, well, he has always just seen me. In cammo, bad hair, wind burnt, hungry, cranky, ill, and still seems to like hanging around with me. And we speak the same language.

We still call it Lowthering, from The Meaning of Liff, when we are with friends who can't decide where to eat. We call spray oil Sproil. Chicken spread in a small can is Tunachicken, because that's the kind of can only tuna used to be in. Refrigerator Tapas from Rhymes With Orange - when we make a snacky meal out of whatever odds and ends we can find at home.

When we come home, we call out "Hi, we're home!" We did that before we had Moby, too. When D brings in the mail, I ask if we've won. When I get very drowsy in the afternoon, I say the sleep monster has sat on me, with his big fuzzy butt. He always has to go check out the gear of any band. He's sheepish when he drops food on his clothes, and I tell him it's how I will always know he's not a Pod Person.

We quote books or songs, or shows, we both know, all the time. The shorthand of eighteen years together, two eclectic eccentrics who really, really like each other. I still love all his jokes. Especially the bad ones.

Flu

So, I think what's going on is that I have what could be called a cold in my back. Which is to say, the part of a flu that manifests in body aches, and it's gone to my areas of weakness - head, back, neck, hips. I did very minimal PT this morning, rubbed and iced and heated, then just took anti-inflammatories to max doses and took a nap. This finally seems to have helped somewhat. D also had a wicked stiff neck this week and a lot of body pain. I'm thinking that just treating it like a virus, rest and drown it, give it a week, I should be better soon.


Feh.

Ask

While reading online, I frequently have to copy, open a new tab, and oogle or wiki for information. Nearly a reflex. I click on linked words for details, if available. I never mind answering a question about anything I mention. I don't make a point of over explaining, neither do I mind doing the research, adding a reference. This is why I so love comments, the feedback has allowed me to clarify my writing somewhat, over the years.

Yes, this is meant to be, in part, educational. (That'll scare off a few people.)

I remember deeply resenting teachers who brought up a subject, but when asked a question ordered us to "look it up." Now, I didn't mind looking anything up, but to be refused an answer of any kind in class, fobbed off in effect, chills. Disincentive to ask again, as such temerity would be punished by snippy shaming.

As if a patient asked me about their surgery, and I told them to "look it up." No, I would answer as much as I could, then add that they should ask their surgeon, maybe even suggest wiki (which seems to do really well on medical stuff.) I want them to ask, in particular the ones who "don't want to be a bother." They prompt me to question how I do my work, figure out how to do better. Or else I have patter for the usual ones, like "why is it so cold in surgery?"*


And often, it used to be very difficult to know where to find the information. Oogle has just not been around that long, nor have the wikis. They are just a starting place, still, they are sufficient for basic understanding. In conversation, no one needs a dissertation, just enough information to follow along. In a teaching situation, that plus a way to find out more.

The problem, I have suspected, is the teacher didn't know, and didn't want to admit ignorance. Perhaps they were resisting being derailed as well. And I did have teachers who would say, "I don't know, I'll see if I can find out and let you know." They are the ones I still treasure and respect.

So, ask away. Glad to help.





*ORs are not as cold as they seem to stressed, hungry, and thinly clad people lying down on gurneys. Not for staff running around or swathed in impervious gowns, wearing hats, gloves and masks. The other side of it is that ORs have positive air pressure**, the cleanest air in the hospital which goes out to the rest of the facility, which causes some "wind-chill." Also, large complex heating/cooling systems can be touchy, so it's hard to get the balance right. It winds up being easier, and more reliable, to use warm air blankets during the procedure to directly warm the patient.


** As opposed to negative air pressure, as in TB patient rooms, to contain highly contagious material.

Static

There are at least three, maybe four, blogs I cannot read because of intentional interference patterns. Bubbles on one, two have "snow" that streams down the page, and several others have bright white writing on black backgrounds. I get a headache just looking at them, with nausea if I keep trying, and simply can't read so much as a sentence with any comprehension. It's like watching an old television when I was a kid. I would go to great lengths to get that picture clear, stop the rolling, stop the buzz and fuzz, even to turning down the brightness completely and just listening. I am baffled that people intentionally create such annoyance. I suspect if I were among the very young on the more popular sites, I would be effectively barred from that world by the excessive moving graphics. As it is, I have Pith Helmet blocking ads and pop-ups and anything moving, but it doesn't turn off the swirling flash people put on their blogs - with no option to halt what is for me alone, a bother.

I can only suppose it is a sort of shibboleth. If it bugs me, I don't belong, not one of them, filtered out. Fair enough. I filter as well. Not because of anything like "unworthiness," but simply a matter of comfort in this place at this time. Personally, I have no tolerance for argument, and none for spammers. Polite disagreement is good, but I'm a little oversensitive generally. My issues only hold sway in this tiny corner of the blogsphere, as in our own 1 bdrm apt. I have no grounds for objecting to anyone else's sense of style or play. We don't play our music loudly - our own preference. We never shout at each other. D and Moby go in the other room when I vacuum.

I have no right to do more than let them know why I don't visit. If that. But it feels bad when a site I like and read and value is suddenly closed to me. Like when an old acquaintance I enjoy suddenly starts selling Amway religiously. Or if they have a dog I'm allergic to. Can't ask them to get rid of their pet, but neither can I visit. (No, I'm not allergic, this is just an analogy. FYI.)


All I can do is sadly sigh, and quietly close the door.

sigh.







(A humble thanks to the creator of a site that dabbled in snow, who erased it when I notified her of my problem reading her site. I would have understood, really.)

Trade

One of my recurrent games of childhood involved figuring out what I would most mind losing. Apparently I had a fixation about health and injury early on. I still do it, as most in the medical world do, seeing a patient suffering. We ask, what would be the worst affliction, knowing we are all in that lottery. My early imagined losses were about going blind or going deaf, and I figured deaf would be a bit more livable - since I would still be able to get around. Never quite figuring on how isolating to not be able to easily communicate with others. I still think I would prefer to keep my sight.

I would have gladly given up my sense of smell, since so many odors nauseated me, but with that would go a large aspect of taste - much of pleasure and appetite. Worst of all would be to lose touch, even in part, for with it goes the ability to move properly, heal, maintain muscle. And it's probably the most common partial loss, because of neuropathies from numerous diseases, strokes, spinal cord injuries, nerve damage or burns. Strange how that never really occurred to me either, then.

Seeing the human body in all it's decrepitude has broadened these considerations. I used to think lung disease would be the worst, but I now figure the brain learns to cope with it, in part. Still awful. I mostly want to take a healthy pancreas to my grave, no diabetes, no autodigestion sort of thing. Bowel disease in general makes every meal fraught. Even dealing with my intermittent chronic pain has it's piquancy, a wearing away of patience and good will. Ultimately I am back to the skin, and any kind of persistent itch, or the poorly understood processes that create it, would drive me mad.

Then I remember the counselor at the Vet Center who talked with me for three straight hours one day after I got back from Gulf War I. Feeling inexplicably distressed at what turned out to be a footnote war, a piece of (dry, gritty, tasteless) cake for me and those I knew well, compared to the nightmare of the Vietnam Era vets. His war. He told me of the worst pain he'd ever had, when shrapnel had ripped apart his leg, the wound that sent him home. But when he got a paper cut, in that moment that's still the worst pain ever. Told me not to compare my pain to other vets, or anyone else, even my own at another time, just deal with what I am faced with, right then, right there.

I know this is my life, now. Accepting that my back will always hurt, sometimes more, sometimes less, but always there, may help me cope better. Because I will always have to do my exercises, take anti-inflammatories on occasion, massage sore spots, move with intent, sit with care, and be prepared to start at the beginning over and over, without ignoring the damage and thereby causing more damage.

It's ok, really. A good trade, nor would I choose differently. I would not exchange a moment of my well-earned pain for anything as transient or false as say, youth or prettiness. But then I would not swap my worst times with D for any moment without him. I'll take what I have, and pay the cost again if need be. Evading it would cheapen the gift of such knowledge, as would simply succumbing.



Off to get some ice, now.

Hohoho

I love the idea of a War on Christmas, as though this holiday were some monolithic creature embodying all that is holy, and is under attack by evil robot atheists. The Puritans and Calvinists would argue that a war should be waged on that pagan winter festival, and they were hard core christian soldiers. Most of what we call tradition is a mishmash of older religions, children's literature, and made-up sales promotions. But if we remember it fondly from childhood, it must've always been so, right? Anyone who doesn't have the same idea is hostile to us, right? More fodder for F**X news hysteria. Yellow journalism at it's finest.

But then, strident evangelicals can assert straight-faced that the bible needs to be taken literally, making me wonder if they can actually read since the book is so utterly contradictory even if different translations aren't taken into account. Where the bible tells them to depict the holy family in plastic or plaster on their front lawns... well I'm not a biblical scholar, maybe it is in Deuteronomy.

The market can make a sales day out of Veteran's Day - so desperate are they to separate people from their money. Of course christmas is a capitalist wet dream, it's been a gift giving holiday since it was Saturnalia. Shopping to sooth anxiety, shopping to feed the 'christmas spirit', shopping to stimulate the economy and be patriotic at the same moment. Buy loads of christmas cards and stamps, even if most people make a pile of them, then throw them out.

But of course the message is muddled because the extremists simply want folks riled, it can mean whatever they want it to mean at any moment. "They" want to take away Jesus! "They" want to take away your right to go to church once a year on Christmas! "They" want to remove your memories of unwrapping presents from Santa! Such evil theys they is. Make "them" make everything go back to when christmas was perfect and we were seven!

Ah the pain of disappointed, fully imagined, unvoiced expectations from everyone.

Figure out what is important, in the darkest hours. Which traditions bring joy, who can be included without demanding obedience of them, enchant children, respect faith, share warmth, - celebrate thusly. So in cold sadness, there is a spark of beauty, the comfort of love, the generous sharing of foods and thoughtful gifts. There is a spirit there, when we all want to come together and await the dawn.

We don't do cards or gifts, usually get a small tree up the week of, make sure to get with friends. We go along, but make no demands, quietly pass on any but the most personal presents to those more in need. Not about to take sides in this battle.

Glimpse

Beautiful snow today, at least I got to glimpse it through windows. By the time I got off work, I had a car to clean off in the dark. I always completely clean off snow.

Moby has chosen his favorite place, up on the tree in the bed. We always quote Jamie from Mythbusters, "I like it in here. It's private."


We're watching Spaced, with homage-o-meter and commentary, nestled together on the couch.

Maybe I'll make us some cocoa.

That is all.

Clauses

D postulated over waffles this morning that if the US carmakers get their bailout, it should include firing all the directors. Fired, no benefits, no farewell gifts, just a security guy walking them out of the building. They bet on greed and indulgence, refused to innovate or stay ahead of the game, and they lost. Let new companies take over the old plants, give others the chance to create


Being a historian, he riffed on that Yasser Arafat should have moved to Paris, Fatah members in tow, to leave his country to elected representatives. Gerry Adams of Sein Fein should have gone walkabout to the Gobi. He calls it the Moses Clause.

They were willing to gamble their lives, and the lives of others, for the change. Let them win the war, but full payment is still due. The provocateurs correcting corrupt and abusive systems cannot then make the peace, nor should anyone encourage them to get along with the former regime. Let them be estranged, don't ask of them more. Don't ask them to play nice. Not as punishment, just consequences. Don't let them enter the promised land, it's not for them.

Cursed

I'm dealing with a supervisor who felt misused as a young nurse, and is out to solve everyone's work interpersonal irritations at any cost. Instead of letting us be adults and coming to terms with each other on our own. She says she doesn't need us all to like each other, just be able to work together, but her interference is feeding the complainers and punishing and stressing the best workers. Making many of us feel we are walking on eggshells, in an economy without other options. Instead of fostering good will, she sows distrust.

My mother tried to get everyone together, and labeled the family who avoided others - as grudge holders. I had my own forming opinions, like that people who didn't like each other maybe should stay as much out of each other's way as possible. I would have been happier with less paternal contact. And that is exactly what finally broke my relationship with my mother, her trying to force a 'reconciliation' with my father - after he viciously berated me, nearly a decade ago, in front of her and D. Some wounds are better left alone. I figure she is wondering how I can hold a grudge after so long.

I've run into more people like this, the ones who want everyone to get along, even if they have to lock them in a room until they make nice. More likely they'll simply find more reasons to dislike each other. I've been pressed into angry contact with the mean and the toxic, when a bit of space would have allowed quiet coexistence.

No one can make anyone do anything. We can only act ourselves, to be honorable, to be kind, to be thoughtful. The scripture that says Blessed are the Peacemakers has always galled. My mother rued her role as the only peacemaker, but never enough to stop. Cursed are such peacemakers, for they pick at scabs, trying to make others do as they wish, which never works. She had no peace inside herself, I suspect.

Recycled

In the name of sterility, there is a great deal of waste in the OR. The people at this place have turned this around, with at least one large bag of recyclable plastic and paper from each room each day. It adds up, and makes us all feel like we are doing something better than nothing. Decorating for the holiday has been included, with green disposable light handles, not used here, but part of the packs, having found a second life as a christmas tree, decorated with other recycled materials cut into snowflakes.


The snowmen were my work, during a slow case. I am rather impressed with the combined creativity.

Fire

Better today, everything just painfully awake last evening.

Dreams of a DHL panel truck on fire crashing into a dumpster and apartment building I could see from my window. I called 911, and had to explain in way too much detail to get the operator to believe me. Then, somehow both in the apartment and in the alley below, I noticed a gurney, all made up with white sheets, in the way of the running firemen. I tried to move it, but had to just scoot out of the way around the corner, with the phone still to my ear, cord stretched tight. By now surrounded by restaurant kitchen staff in aprons and holding utensils and towels, anxiously watching the fire from outside.


Creative Commons has a survey about what is commercial and what is non-commercial for anyone interested to take.

And I think we may have overdone our wedding when I see how Joi and Mizuka did.

D and I stood in his parents' living room, mom, dad and three of his brothers on the sofa, LDS bishop had us say our 'I do's', signed the papers. His mom had an angel food cake and balloons. Took about an hour. I had just finished finals and was getting over the flu, my memories are a bit hazy.

Seven years later, we had a reception for disappointed friends. Lebanese restaurant, bellydancer, good food, 23 people, what else would anyone want.

Jerked

Out of words tonight.

Acupuncture. Bringing the pain to the front of my mind again. Exercises continue. Stretches assigned so depressing, because it hurts so much to do a simple back bend. Still. And I thought I was doing... better.

Always shocking to feel like I'm making progress, then get pulled up short.

One morning, when I was in about twelve or so, I heard the alarm, got up, walked downstairs, then down to the basement. The snooze alarm went off again, and I felt torn up through the floors back to my bed, where I'd been asleep the whole time.


Like that.

Princess

I want D to write a book. About Princesses. Not fairy tale ones, although that would make a good reference point. Real ones. Their dark and stunted lives of luxurious limitations, political expediency, perilous pregnancies, dismembered families, imprisonments and false glamour. Real historical princesses. I want to end the fantasy princess in glittery gown winning her prince happily ever after for little girls. And the Bridezillas that grow from such manure.

The stories we tell in our culture are not just 'kidstuff', they are vital. We hear them first as impressionable children, so they are most important then, but we re-tell them to ourselves all our lives. Disney's bastardization of those stories does harm. The Club Libby Lu should never be considered 'harmless fun.'

My choices were pretty limited growing up in the 60s, housewife, nurse, teacher. But at least those were roles with authority, responsibility, a job to do. Princess, in today's popular culture, just has to be pretty. Models, rock stars, dancers - all about looks. Not to say I didn't do Princess as a costume one halloween. Once. Much preferred to be a witch, ghost, char lady (a la Carol Burnett), pioneer, Emily Dickenson, or puppet stage.

Kids need better stories. We should give them roles of active participants in life, not decorations. Put the over-sexualization of it all aside, and see if they can actually grow old in the stories. Turn them around, see if they fit boys as well as girls - a great test for discrimination. Not "empowering" them, just allowing all of life in, not just the shiny bits. Never assuming they are dumb and won't understand because they are young, and dressing as an object for sale won't matter. It always matters.


Girls and boys can be allowed capes and magic wands, crowns and glitter. Or lab coats and microscopes, real musical instruments and batons, safari hats and fossils, old clocks to take apart, wooden blocks or toy cars. Me? One year all I wanted was a snow shovel. Maybe we'd all be amazed at the ideas that capture the imaginations of kids. Best not to limit girls to the empty dreams of glamour. Or boys to anything not at all "girly".

Any good princess would be carrying her head beneath her arm.

King

Many years ago, when I was a young...ish nursing student, I had a job at the VA Hospital. About 20 hours a week, most of them on Saturday, some before I started classes for the day. Having Vet status had to be worth something. I was called an Escort, which actually meant taking whatever wherever, and patient transport.

One of those old VA hospitals, with several buildings, spread low and wide, connected by tunnels, in case of Japanese attack. We desultory few sat in a tiny office reading old Smithsonian magazines (wonderful) until sent off on our errands. Which often left no time to sit at all. Whole lotta walking. I could push a patient in a Big Boy bed down and up the tunnel slopes and to his room, without hitting any walls, all by myself. Great exercise, and my already fast, strong walk became unstoppable. (My mother stood 4' 11" and hated shopping, so she walked fast. I kept up with her. By the time I was her height, she had trouble keeping up with me.)

So, the movie people showed up to shoot the old hospital scenes for The Stand. Logical, really. Everyone expected to see a celebrity or two, mostly we saw camera and sound guys, and assorted techs who got in our way and hogged our few, slow, ancient and unreliable elevators.

Then one day, after a hard shift moving gurneys with cardiac cath patients and their residents (holding arterial pressure on their groin, on the gurney), I headed off to class in a typical hurry. The one hallway to 'out' - blocked by a mass of film equipment. And in the one narrow pathway to the side, the man himself, tall and admittedly menacing, Stephen King. I saw him, assessed, and without missing a long step said, "Please move out of my way."

He moved.

I like to think I scared him.

Just a little.

Batcat

Nanananana BatCat!





D got this one. Lying on his back on the floor with Moby perched on one of the levels of the cat tree, looming.

Oh, and some links.

Indexed explains everything.


Why Suicide? From Reynolds over at Random Acts of Reality, make sure to read the comments.


That is all.

Hypothetical

I stopped engaging in the discussions over at Post Secret because the discussion just got too dumb. I almost want to reply to one secret from this week. This one.

I wish someone would just ask the question. My answer would be a simple, "Yes, I am gay. Thanks for asking."


I can actually understand the impulse not to have to bring up the difficult subject, to leave it to someone else, and feel virtuous about hypothetical honesty. But any desire based on the spontaneous actions of someone else doing as wished is doomed before it starts.

I would never ask a friend that sort of question. I often already pretty much know, and figure it's really none of my business unless they want to tell me. Sexual orientation in particular - unless I want to have a sexual relationship with that person, I have no right to ask. Internal speculation is one thing, confronting them with my theory is quite another. And if I am wrong, it is a bit of an insult to a woman to imply a certain Unprettiness (for lack of a better word), or call a man a sissy - in essence. Not that being gay IS that kind of difference, but if I ask that question, that is what I imply I am reading in them.

So, I wait for the subtle coming out, ready with an "I get it." "My partner... she... " Yes, I understand, I'm safe to talk with. Really, that's all that's needed. Not coded or elided, just the correct pronoun, and the same old stories of dealing with intimate relationships with other human beings. Direct is good, but it's hard to have an intelligent answer to "I'm gay." Yes, well, that's nice dear, seems a trifle lame. Rather like meeting someone famous, and having nothing more to say than, "Oh, I love your work!" Then they say "thank you" and the conversation necessarily falters.


Ok, there was the time I told Stephen King to get out of my way, and he did, but I wasn't trying to chat with him, he was simply standing in my path.

Indulgences

Whole load of nothing today. Got Moby his wheatgrass, which brings joy, and regurgitation - but in a good way. Slept late, moved slowly, nibbled, sauntered one errand. And we talked about what brings us pleasure. Mostly time together, doing the crossword, watching a film or decent series - catching up on Mad Men today, walking side by side, in step, as we have always done. He's taken to rubbing my back as I perch at the keyboard here, a useful kindness. Both of us love watching Moby chase hard, capturing the end of the rope with a rolling tackle or balletic leap. Or when he walks on us in bed. I love giving a kitty massage, stroking his soft glossy fur from nose to tail, and then he curls around my hand, or stretches out exposing his belly to be included, obviously, blissfully relaxed.

Pleasures come in smaller sizes. Hand lotion that is mild, and odorless, but works.* Good beer drunk from a goblet. Hot salsa over fried eggs. Well fitting shoes. Beach towels for everyday. A couple of rice bowls** that feel good in my hand. A car*** all-paid-for, still solid and reliable. The smell of beeswax candles. A nut mix**** with Brazils and macadamias. A hot deep bath.

Writing has become a huge pleasure, in no small part because you read my words. After a lifetime of feeling disregarded, voiceless, to have a small but responsive readership is no small blessing. To have one person at home who listens is more than I could have imagined hoping for.

I allow myself more comfortable, and hopefully more flattering, clothes than I once did. Chocolate is to be savored, not anguished over. I take photos of myself to allow myself to look at myself. When it's cold, I brave it, and feel tough and capable, indulging in mild self congratulations.

I have a few unflattering joys - that I will admit to. Squeezing zits, and other bodily picking. Occasionally seeing life avenge me without any action on my part. Lulling the assumptive into thinking I am conservative, old fashioned, sweet or a little dim. Then giving them a hint that they just might be wrong.

My superlatives are for the people whose lives have become part of mine, who share my life with me. D, who holds me when I am tired or cold, angry or scared. And all of you who give my ideas consideration. And Moby, whose tail goes up when I talk to him.



*Cetaphil
**From Oriental Food Market
***Honda Fit
****The Nutty Guys

Cranberry

Lovely Friends Thanksgiving. Talk and company, enough food, hugs, laughter. Moby wandering in and out, depending on the presence of someone who might feed him in the kitchen, or if there were cooking sizzling noises going on. Ankle love versus terror of the smoke alarm going off. Yes, he got all the turkey he wanted, D's mum graciously let us take a bit of leftovers for Moby.

Subjects included politics (no arguments,) U2s descent into mediocrity, health insurance nightmares, school, the poor guy killed in the shopping mob today, and that K has never seen Young Frankenstein. The arrowroot cookies went over well.

And sure enough, there are just enough leftovers for lunches this weekend for the two of us. Including D's most delicious chili & my cranberry sauce. Not to be eaten together, mind.

We are snuggled beneath the red wool blanket watching The Kumars at No 42, Moby at our feet looking very relaxed.

Album

D recorded his album this month. National Solo Album Month, the musician's answer to Nanowrimo. Feel free to listen or download. D apologizes for the format they are in.

So, I present The Fifth International debut album,

Workers of the World, Untie.

Turkey

Mrs. Chili has a meme for the day. I deleted a lot of the redundant questions.


Which do you like better: Cooking at your house, or going elsewhere?


We usually see D's family on the day, and celebrate on the Friday with friends who need a break from the family by then. I love anything that involves not driving, especially on a holiday.

What kind of stuffing?


Bread from a box, and I don't really eat it.

Sweet potato or pumpkin pie?


Twice baked whipped yams over pineapple - cinnamon. allspice and nutmeg. Bought pumpkin pie. One is part of the meal, the other a dessert.

Do you believe that turkey leftovers are a curse, or the point of the whole thing?


I am so used to cooking for two, I rarely have more than I need for a few days of lunches.

Which side dish would provoke a riot if it was left off the menu?


Homemade cranberry sauce. But only in me. And I'm the one who makes it.

What do you wish you had that would make preparing Thanksgiving dinner easier?


Enough pots and pans and bowls not to have to cook and do dishes at the same time.

Do you get up at the crack of dawn to have dinner ready in the early afternoon, or do you eat at your normal dinner hour?


Ha. Hahahahahahahahahahaha. We eat when we feel like it and food is ready. I sleep in on my day off if I can sleep, and I bloody well don't get up early to COOK. (Is it clear by now I get no enjoyment from cooking?)

If you go to somebody else’s house, what’s your favorite dish to bring?


Homemade cranberry sauce.

What do you wish your guests wouldn’t bring to your house?


Cold viruses.

Does your usual mix of guests result in drama, or is it a group you’re happy to see?


Our friends are good people, they discuss and laugh, have never seen a real blow up. Ok, well, one person - but she's apparently out of the loop with everyone else as well as with me these days. The in-laws are nicely boring. Oh, wait, it was Thanksgiving when his dad uttered the immortal words.
"Ten minutes in the Bishop's office. Make us happy. We'll pay for the marriage license."
So we left the room to talk, decided yes we could do getting married if done this simply. We were happy living together, committed to a life together, figured it couldn't hurt. It has been helpful to have the legal benefits.

What’s your absolute favorite thing on the menu?

If anyone makes a pecan pie.

What are you thankful for this year?


Getting to share my life with D.

Share one family tradition


When we realize we didn't eat enough of his mom's cooking, or rather I didn't, and we didn't get enough groceries the week before because I worked long hours, and nothing is open, and I'm hungry.


Do you have turkey, ham, or both?


Turkey, and for our turn, often chili.

Name your fave thing about Thanksgiving.


Having the day off.

What is your least favorite dish at Thanksgiving?


Dry white turkey meat. And I don't eat potato salad that's been sitting at room temp for hours.

Do you kill your own turkey?


No, but if I had to, lived on a farm sort of thing, it would be a very difficult task that I would do for the sake of integrity.

What do you drink with your Thanksgiving feast?


Tea, but not with the Mormon in-laws - which makes me a little crazy. Used to be cola - but I don't drink that anymore. So, water mostly. D likes ginger ale.

Has there ever been a feud during your Thanksgiving?


Long ago I worked on the Detroit Thanksgiving Day Parade, got home about noon frozen solid. The future ex got in a snit that I was not making turkey, and ignoring Thanksgiving. My Canadian family didn't recognize the holiday except by watching the parade. Should have been a clue, but I was young and foolish.

What kind of veggies do you have with Thanksgiving?


I'm pretty much good with anything green available, steamed. D has been doing miracles sautéing peppers lately, so anything that doesn't wind up in the chili...

Do you have appetizers before your Thanksgiving meal?


Nuts. I love nuts.

How many people attend your Thanksgiving(s)?


There will be six today at the in-laws. Tomorrow, five here. Unless there are California friends in town we haven't heard from yet.

Have you ever missed a Thanksgiving?


Every one until 1990. Spent that with friends the day before being sent off to Saudi Arabia for Gulf War I. Been celebrating with D ever since. This is a newish holiday for me.

Do you eat Thanksgiving leftovers?


Not throwing it away until it turns green.

Do you ever play games at Thanksgiving?


Arkam Horror, Illuminati New World Order, Scrabble, Apples to Apples.

Do any animals attend Thanksgiving dinner? If so, do they get Thanksgiving scraps?


Moby will be here. He likes turkey. 
If I cook turkey, he gets some whenever he asks all day long. He gets full fast.

Baked turkey or fried turkey?


Roast a turkey roll, or tofurky (which is much better than it sounds, and moist to boot.) Deep fried turkey is dangerous, don't you watch Timewarp?


Do you eat gizzards?


I used to like the heart, but none of the rest.

Do you like whipped cream on your pumpkin pie?

No. I don't like whipped cream. Or milk in any form.

Is your Thanksgiving formal, or do you just do whatever?


Informal, sometimes in the extreme.

Is your Christmas tree set up before or after Thanksgiving?


AFTER. Way too soon for a tree today. Week before Christmas, or Christmas Eve, then leave it up until Epiphany. Otherwise I'm sick of it by Christmas Day.

This post was way to much work. Still, I'm that grateful for all of you.

Pad

Moby is nestled on the heating pad, looking very contented.

I'm ready to fall asleep.

Four days off in a row, thanks to Thanksgiving. More tomorrow.

Reruns

I am a surgical nurse by trade. If I get too technical, a search of the site may help, but if you ask, I'll gladly do it for you. This time I went and dug up an old essay, part of my first Nanowrimo novel.

Scrub

Blood

I wrote an essay about this long ago. Here it is, warts and all.


Blood red spurts pump a beadline of rubies across the front of her dark green gown, draws a line across her light green duckbill mask, across her forehead and her pale blue puffy paper hat. Perhaps a glistening spot on her glasses as well, harder to see, she squints her eyes to check. She adroitly drops a clamp in the surgeon's right hand, then holds taut a black silk length of suture for the left, then repeats the process. Hands over suture scissors, takes each clamp, unclamping each at his subtle signal- as he ties down each dark thread. She is intent, focused, watching, waiting. The tension eases as Dr. Goode mumbles,
"Hmmsmm."

A Mumble of surgeons, she thinks. The proper collective noun. I don't hear them anymore, I simply watch and come to expect. And when I am wrong? Snippy breed they can be, even the best, even the most even tempered, professional. A Grumble of nurses? An even more apt collective noun. And perhaps a whine of scrub techs. She sighs, and lets her internal monologue unfold.

"Hold here."

She lays down her hand to hold back tissue, he shifts her hand a smidge. The fat is warm and slippery through the doubled gloves, the fascia rubbery, smoother, denser. How did I manage to change so much, she wonders. I couldn't tolerate being barefoot in mom's garden after I spotted the first worm of the season, just in case I might step on it. She smiles at her former squeamishness. She lifts her right foot up and wiggles it, then the left foot, not moving her upper body, certainly not her hand. Or oatmeal, I used to retch cleaning out the pan, her smile broadens, unseen, under the concealing, protective mask. I hated that slimy cereal sticking to the aluminum pot with the copper lid, she remembers it was also perfect for popcorn. And she thinks, I wouldn't eat an egg with a smear of red, or if the white wasn't charred. She tries to remember what process beat the queasiness out of her, leaving her with an iron stomach- at least as far as external stimuli went. Perhaps education, fascination at the skill. But it was before she'd seen surgery close up, she was sure.

An itch slinks across her nose, threatens to cause a drip inside the mask. She ignores it until it slinks away in embarrassment. She passes a blue filament of suture, eyelash size needle almost visible on the Castro holder. Admires the red line of spray, drying now, looks over to the circulating nurse, gestures with her head and looks crosseyed at the blur on her lens.

"Yup, I'll get it," murmurs Barb, as she slips off her stool, and grabs a small towel, wets it, and stands behind her, head cocked.

"Oh, yeah, go ahead." The surgeon stops working for a minute to allow the clean up.

"You got it on your face, just a sec." Barb wipes the spots of blood from Anne's face, and glasses. "That ok?"
Anne squints again. "Thanks, much better."

"Any on me?" Dr. Goode grins. "Nice shot though?"

"Nope. You're fine, Greg." Barb adjusts Anne's specs, backs off to her corner, her book. It's going to be a while.

She watches the deft, careful line of minute thread marching around the artery, suctions away the slowly pooling blood, tiny amounts that make it hard to see his work. Her mind drifts in the silence, in the concentration.

She dreams about throwing small pots on a wheel, off the hump. Pile of grey clay spinning under her hands, water in a sponge smoothing a small section on top, to be coaxed and pushed and firmly instructed. The deep pleasure of feeling growth in mud, first a bump, dimple, a column, and then opening into a small bowl. She can live in that experience, practice in her mind. Even there, though, she can also feel when it goes wrong, and it falls out too wide, too thin, starts to oscillate and fly off.

My back hurts, she thinks. Can't think that, won't help, do-ya do-ya want my love?c'mon now! do-ya... arrrghghg. The radio had been playing on the last case. Hours of dopey pop, songs she'd hated the first time around, heard way too many times since, forced to hear again too many days in here. Now she had that piece of sugar in her head, popcorn behind a tooth, and it was not coming out. She hums "The World's Address" to clear it out, it usually worked. But not this time, damn song kept insinuating itself into her head. But asking for music here would not help. There were far worse songs. That's the way, uh huh, uh huh I like it uh..... see? She breathes slowly, shifting her hand as instructed, passes a rubber shod clamp.

I hold a life in my hands, where did I learn courage? She marvels at the change in herself, at how far she has come from the frightened, shy, little girl who so wanted to just disappear, to... well she had to admit, there was a kind of disappearing going on here. What I do matters, she realizes, but it also doesn't show, it's hard to explain her responsibilities, and she largely prefers not to.

"Follow me please."

She holds the tiny suture gently taut, alert to change in pressure, watching him work his way around, the layer of tissue being sewn, keeping her head out of the light. His loupes made it difficult to tell where he is looking, except that there is only one place for him to look right now. He moves his head in a strange rather birdlike motion, his focus on the very very small right in front of him, his peripheral vision uncertain. It always strikes her as funny.

She likes the silence. No one being pompous about politics, no football, no home repairs. In a pinch, she would start up the latter two subjects to prevent the first. She knew when he was finished with the artery, Dr. Goode would talk with her about pottery, or Monty Python and The Holy Grail, or books she had actually read, or might really be interested in reading. He could be very funny, but not many of the nurses or techs knew that. She didn't quite know how to feel about this, she liked a sense of some distance from the docs. They were good enough folks, all in all, really, but they were, in a very real sense, in charge. They were different, and not entirely to be trusted, not personally, not with my personal feelings, she thought. Oh, I know if I were sick or injured, they'd be fine, admirable, but I don't want to say, get drunk around them, she judges. She decides this is probably a bit unfair. Nevertheless, she keeps, always some semblance of distance. Any nurse who marries a doctor loses my good opinion of her intelligence, she says to herself. And a man who marries a doctor? Oh, much the same, she thinks. Although I wonder if a man would marry a female surgeon for the same kinds of reasons? I wonder if that might not even up the power differential? Her thoughts dithered on in this fashion as the hands of the clock crept.

Then she has a small epiphany, I layered on my courage, experience by experience, like I learned this job well. Not one event, she thinks, all of them together. I remember, and I hoard and try to fit into my whole life what I remember, and she wonders why this seems so rare. Maybe it's not, but she feels rare, and peculiar.

"I know what you want, you want to be an Anonymous Angel." Moira told her last week, apropos of nothing obvious, which is much of what she loves about her friend. The phrase, the assessment, warms her, she feels her stomach unclench, recognizing it as a great, and truth filled, compliment, impossible to refuse. So she takes it in and treasures it in her heart, just like the BVM is said to do.

The artery was sewn, the length of cloth tape looped and threaded through the red rubber tubing, clamped at the end released, and the blood stays inside where it belongs, a tight seal. Deep breaths all around. Anesthesiologist pokes his head over the drapes.

"Going good?"

"Yeah." Dr. Goode feels the pulse thoughtfully. "Say another 15, I'll be done here."

And very quietly, she begins to hum.
"Spam, spam, spam, spam....."

And Greg joins in.
"Lovely spam, wonderful spam...."


Barbara shakes her head, bemused behind her mask.