Trust

"Looking back at the worst times, it always seems that they were times in which there were people who believed with absolute faith and absolute dogmatism in something. And they were so serious in this matter that they insisted that the rest of the world agree with them. And then they would do things that were directly inconsistent with their own beliefs in order to maintain that what they said was true."
- Richard Feynman
The Meaning of It All: Thoughts of a Citizen-Scientist

via Whiskey River

I am no believer. I trust those around me. I do not resolutely believe...anything actually. I try. I behave as best I can. None of this is about faith. I distrust faith as much as charm or beauty. I trust hard work and long experience.

I trust Dylan. I trust my cats to the extent that I am kind to them.

Quiche

Made itty bitty quiches in a muffin pan. This is the recipe. I did not follow it much.

6 eggs
1/4 cup chopped yellow onion
1/2 cup diced tomato
1/2 cup chopped baby spinach
1/2 cup shredded cheddar cheese
350, 20"

Used salsa rather than onions and tomatoes. The spinach was frozen, I should have used more.

This is me with recipes, I consider them rough outlines, not medical orders. I know how to follow prescriptions. I don't consider cooking to fall under those restrictions. My mother was much the same, and with baking, she did very well. Otherwise, yeah, not so much. If it didn't involve sugar, flour and an oven, she was... not inspired let us say.

On the other hand, I do not bake sweet goods. Baked bads, if I did them at all, which I don't.

Never made quiche before. Friend Chris brought some from a nearby bakery one Saturday Mystery gathering, and they were lovely. So I looked them up, and it seemed doable. I have an iron muffin pan that I acquired from a friend who turned out not to be much of a friend, who took some items from me that I could not replace, so I kept the pan. Not my finest hour, but it wasn't hers either, so fair swap.


I will no doubt make further adjustments.

It's what I do.

The gutters were cleaned yesterday, and I kept the lovely organic debris. The guy offered repeatedly to remove it, or at least to move it to my compost, but I assured him I'd be fine. This morning, in the snowy rain, I moved Moby's gravestone, added the mass of lovely leafy mulch, replaced the stone and stele of brick, bowed to the Great Cat. Grief indeed. For Moby, my heart. For my mother, my body seems to keep mourning. For my co-worker gone so unexpectedly and so young. And the other scrub, flaky about work, but so good to work with, fired for reasons, who I still miss, replaced with scrubs who seem to all let us suffer for their unteachable cluster B personality disorders. For my broken toe, sebaceous cyst, stye eye, distal radius fracture, plantar fasciitis, and burnout.

I bow to our first household god, who no doubt still guards us from the night horrors.

And Zeppo who will go anywhere to get a laugh. And Eleanor who has become the new Household god, in all her fluffy benevolence.




"This is a test. DO NOT ATTACK her tail. DO NOT attack her tail."

Mitigation

Give them a year. There will be cuddles.


Lead hands are a thing. Or, were.




Seriously. Lead sheets cut into the shape of a hand, with a few extra flaps. Sterilized. For palm surgeries, especially if needed for stabilization for microscopic procedures. Still around until maybe five or six years ago. Until disposable and padded aluminum hands became available and common.



Chatted with a nurse who, I had no idea, is 20 years younger than me. I have a lot of respect for her, and would be well cared for if I needed her skills. Not that age matters, she's a pro, and a better nurse than I am. We talked about this age thing, and we agreed that adults are adults, and we're all "about 30", not to be treated differently than any other adult. Experience is valued, and flakiness to be mitigated. Whether from callow youth, or decrepit age. We have two very young men at work. One is salvageable. The other, I have my doubts. It's all about being teachable, one is, the other isn't.

I'm afraid of being too old to be good at my job. I don't think I am, not yet. My lack of utter competence is minor and due to burnout and grief. I don't want to be the 80 year old who got on the freeway offramp and killed herself and another driver, because she didn't know when to surrender her license. That happened here, this past week. I take it to heart. I'm ready to stop driving when I can't anymore. There are options these days. Dylan knows how to use public transportation and drivers for hire. I am comfortable letting him "drive."

But being a good RN? I think I'm fine for now. I think I'll be fine for a long while, if I pay attention and withdraw from the OR when necessary, I can still teach or write or something. I'd hate to dump all my knowledge too soon, though.

Lodge

At work, I tend to like the house renovation shows. Largely because they are uncontroversial and no one is yelling. And we have a House, so I get some of it. Mostly harmless. I spotted this story of a family buying and renovating an old Masonic Lodge, in a more realistic way than the hgtv shows. Part of me wants them to be on one of them, if only to get the family some cash. I think they'll be happier just plugging away at the project themselves.

Those shows are, brace yourselves, largely fake. Oh, there are real renovations, but they take a LOT more time, workers, and coordination than they show. The buyers in most cases are directed to up the drama of their conflict. The buyers may have already chosen the house, and the hosts take them around to other properties, and they pretend to consider all of them. All the dressing in the staging is just that, stage dressing, most of which they won't get to keep. The Fixer-Upper, which we see most often because the reruns are on when I'm having lunch, at least doesn't try to dramatize the relationships, and the hosts seem to have a friendly marriage - which is nice.

I went in to cover lunches today, which was actually rather nice. Got a great parking place, scrubbed one lunch, set up another scrub lunch and covered a circulator - but we were waiting for the surgeon, so I just hung out and chatted. And everyone is grateful for my two hours, rather than sour that I want to go home after ten hours already. And I get time and a half for covering a shift that I'm not scheduled for. Dylan caught a ride up with me to stop by his Dr's clinic to get his HepB vaccine. All kinds of win. And I don't go in tomorrow.

I'm happier without all the thanks, but I love being a quiet hero, who at least doesn't get more demanded of me.

Jeans

My first short day in longer than I can remember. But I'm having trouble remembering. The grief is lumped and lingering. The burnout persistent and pervasive. Good I stepped back in time,(more or less) trusted the klaxons going off in the back of my head. Dropping hours was a big decision, at a time when I wasn't all that capable of making difficult choices. Bit of a bugger, really.

Ordered some jeans, since getting anything like what fits locally is a joke. Used the dwindling remainder of the inheritance, and only belatedly realized my mother's hatred of jeans. Well, there ya go then. Some part of me remembered. Didn't consciously think of it, though.

Part of me wants it all spent, exorcised, expunged. But not... wasted. If it would have pissed her off, all the better.


Life feels like this lately.



- The Far Side.

Ratty

Year of the Rat.

Proposal

There were yard sales and an estate sale today, to our delight. We didn't find much, which is fine, we just enjoy the time together, poking around stuff. Found a good small saucepan - better for making ramen. And a glass milk bottle that Dylan will use for... milk. We'll get a top or a stopper for it. And a nice little garden cart that will be easier for me to use for most jobs than the wagon cart I have. The one guy making well intentioned "bad marriage" jokes, a wooden kitchen paddle "You can hit him with that!" I said "Never, not even as a joke." Then he brought out, saying "Every married man will need this..." a military body bag. We commented that some of our unit had to carry these. We don't do "bad marriage" humour. We just don't. Spent less than $10.




Measuring for a plug or lid.


Probably because I was mid-divorce when we were activated, and started our relationship, we talked about marriage right from the start. Not to mention being in the military, I could have been charged with adultery. That and 400 bored, nosey people asking when we were getting married before we'd even kissed the first time. It was not a subject we could avoid.

We came to the conclusion that if we'd been an arranged marriage, we'd probably have done just fine. So when, about three years later, we really would be staying together the rest of our lives, I proposed. He said no. Stay together, absolutely. Get married... not so much. In part this was actually about not wanting a Wedding, which wasn't my question, but we were still working on shared vocabulary. I didn't want a ring, or children, or a house, or a poofy dress, or a receiving line, which he hadn't quite realized. So we moved in together anyway, and he eventually told this to his parents - who were far less stressed about it than either of us expected of very religious people of their generation. Not happy, but tolerant. When they urged us at Thanksgiving, "Five minutes in the Bishop's office, make us happy, we'll pay for the license." we slunk off to talk. He asked me to marry him, and I said... "Are you sure?" because I wanted him to be sure.

It's turned out rather well. The wedding was a side note, having legal status eased many a move, medical issue, banks, buying a house. I'm sure we'd have stayed together anyway. The document gave us structure, not unlike House gave us a place to put our home and have cats. Not essential, but damn useful.

Stalks

Zeppo stalks back and forth, past my hand, tail through my fingers, which I squeeze a little. Then his face coming back pushing into my knuckles. I reach a little lower to touch his back. Usually he evades and slinks down, today he stays up, even presses up, lets me stroke his body firmly. Over and over. He flops down, so I slowly offer my foot, he gives me such a look, so I apologize and promise not to do that again. I'm given another chance, and am provisionally forgiven.

As I sit in the kitchen writing, the cat knows where to be petted.

In time, this one is going to be a lap-cat I think. He clearly loves affection. Last night as we read in bed, Eleanor dozing between us, Zeppo greets her with a head bump. She responds with a nose sniff, "Oh. It's you. That's fine then." He then snuggled up on Dylan's chest to get his face scritched. This is good, this'll do.

And then, he jumps up to the table, at my invitation. We rub noses, he explores a little, I let him do what he's comfortable with. I don't try to touch him, he comes back a few more times to face bump, then hops down.

This is a win.

Grave

When I was younger, I obsessed about the Afterlife. What Heaven would be, or Hell, or Limbo, since the idea of living in God's face and singing His praises for Eternity sounded like Hell to me. It was a theme I imagined and reimagined constantly. Likewise my own funeral, as a young person dead and all the bullies and awful father stricken with grief and regret...

I have to think this was a combination of Catholicism and my father working at the cemetery. (He was a groundskeeper, and lucky to have a good job after his factory shut down. Brought home day-old roses all the time.) I think it was also an escape.

The natural morbid romanticism of young people as well.


I hope no one wants a funeral for me, really. Dispose of my remains in the most ecological and inexpensive manner, given that the army will be doing it, I won't really have a choice. And hopefully no one will be left to care much. Let me be the last, and unlamented. Let everything we own go to an estate sale, and the proceeds to the kids of friends, maybe one of Dylan's brothers too. It worries me slightly that this house is a real asset, largely due to the house bubble and local gentrification. So, making a will eventually is looking necessary.

If there is anyone grieving, I hope they can find a group to sing Sacred Harp. Or a bagpiper to play Lady of Spain with an accordionist who will play Scotland the Brave. Possibly at the SAME TIME! Or just the entirety of the They Might Be Giants discography. No, wait, that would take days, longer than sitting shiva. As long as it's not christian, what do I care? I'll be dead. I'd just like to think I was funny, and could still make people laugh. Just don't let the god-botherers* get me.

This is all why I have no interest in The Good Place. I've already worked through my issues on this. I merely want oblivion. Not even nirvana, although they may be the same things. I get why people are into it, I just don't care anymore.

Not unlike the gender awareness going on. I respect it all, and do my damnedest to meet people where they are. While I feel free of my sexuality, genderless, outside the duality. I've always been a bit indifferent and non-conformist. Genitally female, mostly only attracted to men, hating most of the gender roles, but not indiscriminately. Menopause has settled me further to the middle, asexual, non-binary, and it's largely irrelevant.





These seem unconnected, but the sense of going to a bad place or a good place, or being one thing or the other, have settled into a wholeness. I seek beauty, kindness, acceptance, and try to pour the same out on those around me. I protect myself from harm and harmful people, and try to extend that to anyone needing reinforcement.

Broke a pretty little bowl while putting it away today. My Derecho arm is still not wired up properly. I do keep flipping things without consent of my brain. The shards are on Moby's grave now.

Yeah, I'm still grieving. It's been a bugger of a year.


Moment of insight: I estranged myself from my parents long ago. They threatened to "disown" or there were stories of "disownment" threading through my childhood. And I realized now, no. I've Disowned Them.

It's linguistic acrobatics, but it strikes a chord. Ever seen The Quiet Man?


Tolerance for the tolerant. Reason for the reasonable.

*I just got the "dogbotherer" joke from Night Watch, as the insult to Vetinari from Downey, in the Assassins School. God=Dog. Ugh.

Compression

Called off and I accepted. The virus that knocked me down and sat on me is faded to threads. The burnout refuses to lift, not yet, not enough. So I take my time and let myself feel rather dreadful, and wonder how much of it is age, grief, loss. How much neglected stress. Or if it matters.

Went in yesterday to finish the CPR practical on the computer dummies, which often don't work properly, and are really not much like actually working on a human patient. Especially not when the plastic shifts over the sensor. I eventually gave up on one part, got our education guy - at the urging of one of my co-workers, who got it sorted out. My arms feel like noodles, my wrists are responding to drugs and are not so painful now. I have a week to finish the online work, the program fritzed out on me for the final part as well, but that's detail, the work is done.

It's frustrating, because I've certified on BLS since 1988, have done actual CPR several times, and the dummies are really not quite analagous. But it's reproducible, impartial, even though it's often broken. It's also exhausting. And I miss the stories from actual CPR trainers who have done actual rescues, because those are much more meaningful than a robot telling me "not so deep" "press harder" "a little more air" "faster" "slower" in no apparent order. Especially since CPR doesn't succeed all that often, even if done perfectly. Mostly, if your heart has stopped, it is done and there is not much to change that. The exception being otherwise healthy kids who've drowned, they have a pretty good chance of coming back.

This is part of my bad headspace. Knowing that so much of what we do is not well supported by good science.

And yes, my wrists hurt. And of course I've taken drugs. I should show you my drug drawer some time.

Nurses, eh?


The photo. Yes, I do need to tidy this up. Along with everything else.

Late

Nine days after Housiversary. It's been eight years. This is going to get harder as the years go on. I missed it completely this year, and I feel a bit bad.

House is still beloved.

Always.

Burnout

Washed, and over several days, dried, the sheepskins. Eleanor has missed them.

Rain. Freezing rain. Wintry mix. Mostly rain.

Dealing with foot pain, again. The shoes and assorted insoles that resolved this a while back, wore out. So I got new shoes that seemed wonderful. But over time, they weren't supportive in the right way, and gritting my teeth through relentless hours on my feet at work leaves me back at square one. Back down the snake into hell. As it were. Working on solutions.



Finding the burn-out is deeper than I thought. Still struggling to feel well, regain any energy. It seeps back, but painfully slowly. I really did leave this too long. A sense of self destruction haunts my peripheral vision like a demon. I still weep too easily. I head out to do errands, and cut it short midway.

Only working two days this week, due to the Monday holiday. That will be a recurring theme, any Monday holiday will be an extra short week for me, unless I volunteer to cover another day. I'm ok with this. I need this. I must recharge.

There are scanners for certain implants, a hand held device that reads bar codes and QR codes to specify what has gone into a patient. Last month, several of these were not working. They would only charge for a few seconds then fail. The IT guy had to replace the batteries, and they charged and are back to working properly. I wonder if he will replace my rechargeable battery...

Enjoying the competence porn of Bernadette Banner, costume historian and seamstress. I've always wondered what a corset would feel like, but I can't abide tight clothes, so I'd probably hate one. I'd love to try on, and occasionally wear, historical costume. I think this is the real reason I ever wanted to act. Yes, I could probably get into cosplay, but sewing is hard on my neck as well.

Coming around, but like Zeppo's trust, it's a painfully slow process.

And...

Yes, I hear you. I’ve been in the same place and it was SO HARD to pull back from the “good” parent who could somehow never see what was going on or protect me … but still demanded that I listen to his endless complaints about how badly HE was being treated etc. … and then so hard again when other family members who “never noticed” and were “so sorry” could just not respect that I was not going to spend time with someone who abused me. I think that people who participate in these kinds of family systems for any length of time need to take on the faulty logic of the abuser in order to rationalize their participation. It can definitely make you feel like the crazy one.

I bet you’re the nicest person in your whole family.

And

The logic of people who enable abuse to be directed at kids when they’re well aware of how their partner is treating *them* is…acrobatic, to put it mildly.

CaptainAwkward

Vibration

Purr via Whiskey River.

PURRING
The internet says science is not sure
how cats purr, probably
a vibration of the whole larynx,
unlike what we do when we talk.

Less likely, a blood vessel
moving across the chest wall.

As a child I tried to make every cat I met
purr. That was one of the early miracles,
the stroking to perfection.

Here is something I have never heard:
a feline purrs in two conditions,
when deeply content and when
mortally wounded, to calm themselves,
readying for the death-opening.

The low frequency evidently helps
to strengthen bones and heal
damaged organs.

Say poetry is a human purr,
vessel mooring in the chest,
a closed-mouthed refuge, the feel
of a glide through dying.

One winter morning on a sunny chair,
inside this only body,
a far-off inboard motorboat
sings the empty room, urrrrrrrhhhh
urrrrrrrhhhhh
urrrrrrrhhhh
- Coleman Barks
Winter Sky

Thanks Crow.

Favourite

Favourite in the morning favourite in the evening, chair is just a happy no matter what the time.

Lids

We have friends who wear hats nearly all the time. This is fine, of course. But Dylan and I remove our hats when we enter a building, a synchronized dance.

I didn't used to, quite the opposite. Attending mass meant wearing something on my head, at least when I was small. My mother stopped wearing a hat in church at the first loophole. I can't tidy up the house without winding up with something on my head.

But I clearly relive the first time I had to report to some guy in a building in Basic. It looked like a public building, and I assumed I'd be going down a hall to a door, so I just opened the external door and walked in. BIG mistake. The two NCOs sitting at the desk looked at me in a professional rage. The NCO explained to me, loudly, that I needed to knock, wait for permission, remove my hat, then enter, stand at attention, and await further permission to speak. This was delivered in a voice that stimulated adrenaline.

"Go out. Try again."

I followed the instructions precisely, shaking away my previous assumptions. I think this may have been in the first week or two. This was a different world with different rules, and I'd just stepped in one.

Whenever I go through a doorway into a building, I at least think about taking off my hat, and often simply do it without thought.


Last night Eleanor slept between our hips and Zeppo between our ankles. At some point, Zeppo stood on me, Dylan shifted, so Zeppo turned and stood on both of us, back paws on my chest, front paws on Dylan's. This morning, both cats again, snuggled and purring. Last evening, Zeppo trilled around our friends, as Eleanor walked on them. He even got to the top of the cat tree, in full view, but safe. He's coming around, his curiosity slowly wearing away the wariness.


My own exhaustion is ebbing so slowly. And I had three episodes of feeling like a Good Nurse in the past week. Two with local anesthetic only cases on the last two Fridays. The first one I sat with, he had an insulin pump, and near the end of the procedure asked for juice. First time I've gotten juice for a patient mid surgery, but I did it with no fuss, knew what to do and how to do it.

This Friday a trans woman, and her pre-op RN referred to her as "He", so I stopped and asked for the right pronouns, in case pre-op RN had been told something different than I was seeing. In this case I was right, and we had a nice chat waiting for the surgeon to show up. She had another nurse to sit at her head during the surgery, but I did a few spot checks. It was also good to hear her stories about her family, who supported her.

The third thing was holding a patient getting a spinal. They sit on the OR bed with their legs off to one side, with a padded tray to lean on, and someone in front to keep them steady and relay messages.


(I keep them more covered than this. I've also had spinal injections for my herniated discs, so I know how it feels.)


She was very tolerant, but it was a difficult stick, going on a while. She grimaced, and I asked what hurt.

"My neck."

Ok, well, I know what to do here. As I stood in front of her, I just started massaging her neck. When the spinal went in, she told us she thought we'd been very fast, she was so relaxed getting her sore neck rubbed.

So, yeah, the cure for burn-out is a few less hours and a bit more effort. Really digging deep into doing my job well, not for praise, but to know I'm doing the right thing and being effective.

Puzzling

Sometimes, getting food to both cats, without them bothering each other and scattering, is difficult. Sometimes, they just stare until food appears.



Cats are terrible at jigsaw puzzles.





I've been working on this over a week, or is it two? The first bits were hard, and I wasn't much up to it. Then we found faces and put together the distinct areas, and suddenly it went very fast and was a lot of fun. The last bit was the fur coat, and it was a bugger.

The Table has been appropriately welcomed, with the puzzle, food, cats, and on Monday with a game and friends.



Edward Gorey loved cats.
"Books, cats, life is good."

Wishes

Starting to gain a little ground on my health. Still woke coughing, and for the first hour. Definitely not back to fully healthy yet, but pretty sure I'll get there. Taking another week to rest and recover, before I offer to cover lunches or shifts. Yeah, full burn-out in force.

Humans survive, though, don't we? Get through the hard stuff, deny it's that bad as long as possible. Or is that just those of us who have endured abuse? Well, I guess we all have the potential, then, since there is no commonality to being abused. Yes, I have been going through the Captain Awkward posts, how did you know? Well, it does help, the perspective, the insights, the maps to get out.

My father was the abuser, my mother the gaslighter, a well oiled double act.

One of the repeating themes of abuse is that the abused takes on the guilt and responsibility. And the habit of people to heap that on the abused because that person is the reasonable one that will listen, rather than the dangerous one who can't be reasoned with. What is even more insidious is that if that reasonable person is ourself, we will take on the responsibility because that is the one factor we can control and understand and change. We blame ourselves for the atrocious behaviour of others because we can fix that. It's completely irrational in practice, but in theory, inside the mirror universe of a dysfunctional house, it is the only rational approach.

I wish I could reach out to the friends who took me in, over my (mild) objections, and let me escape from the ex. Apologize for the chaos I brought into their house, however inadvertent, in the two weeks it took me to find an apartment in a very tight market. It's been nearly 30 years, their names aren't very unique, and she was in the FIB*, so probably not all that internet findable. I wish them well, not that wishes have any effect. They also took care of some of my finances while I was activated to Gulf War I, along with the woman who stayed in my apartment (wasn't giving that place up) for utilities only. I'd like to thank her as well. Another common name, and no way to find after so long.

I wish I could have had a place to escape my parents' house.

Head down, use the time, heal, rest.

Possible

The PLAN, and yes there was a plan, was to get the public areas of the House clean when friends came by last evening. I got the kitchen cleaner than it's been for a month, Dylan vacuumed, we did a little sweeping. Then we found out they were celebrating her birthday, and yes we were invited but got missed, so we did go and it was a bunch of wonderful friends and family in their new apartment. I had to call it about 1030 PM, because I'm still very low on energy reserves. Good conversation and company and cookies, what else could I ask for? Well, a clean house, yes, and we did make a little progress.

I of course resisted going out, as I do, but asked Dylan to talk me into it. I rolled my back and hips, which I have also not done for the past month due to feeling dreadful, it does help and it did help, and all is well.

I tried to change the sheets this morning, but was overruled.

"Nope."

"We were here first."




Since it's now an hour to Treat Time® they've given up the bed, so we were able to change sheets. Finally. Zeppo is singing away, insisting that yes, it is Treat Time® and so there. We are trying to ignore them for a little longer.


Ok 40 minutes early. Well, if Eleanor gets herself worked up, at the urging of Zeppo, she eats too fast then horks it up.

"You are here. Give us treats!"

Ok, ok, fine.

When we got home last night they were very nearly starved to death. Poor malnourished kitties.

The Yule trees are still up, and I'm not dealing with them today, they aren't hurting anything. I have to do my BLS this coming week, and I will. And I need to get the car in for an oil change. With the extra day free, this all seems - doable. Not easily, just possible now.

Prudence

Tea this morning, as per. Watched the dregs swirl and settle, first into a sort of owl, then this chipmunk shape. Telling me I have to be quick and thrifty? Or cute with nuts stuffed in my cheeks? Not like I'm about to let tea dust tell me what to do, what the hell does it know?


I don't know what's going on with the charge nurses at work, but I'm glad to be reducing my contact with them. More explanation would be pointlessly un-enlightening, so I'll leave it like that. Perhaps everyone is crispy.

Yesterday with a scrub who I've gotten used to, and who has improved massively over the last year, really polished her professionalism. And the surgeon, who is skilled, efficient, communicative and appreciative, not to mention massively sarcastic and dry, all rather ideal for me. Resident's wife past her due date, so I watched his phone for him. She'll be induced today, so I wished him a happy birth day, which took him a beat to get, then he grinned.

When we were finishing up Basic, several of my fellow privates told me that at the beginning, I was the one they figured would wash out. They were glad to see I'd gotten so strong. And the one that most of us assumed would make it, wound up trying to kill herself with an OD of Motrin* and was still sitting in CQ waiting to be discharged when we all left. A few struggled with stress fractures in their feet, mostly the women who normally wore high heels in their previous lives. Several had to go through a pre-Basic to get strong enough to do one good push-up, but they were pulled out within the first couple of weeks. I refused sick call the last couple of weeks, despite coughing up blood, with my Drill Sergeant's knowledge - I was not about to wind up in the hospital and have to go through it all again. So he excused me from the optional ten mile run in the snow. Got on antibiotics after I got back to my home unit, for bronchitis.

Yeah, I know how to push through. I may have left it too long again this time. Taking care of it now.


Both cats slept between my legs last night, Eleanor at my knees, Zeppo at my ankles. Made turning on my side very difficult.


*Not a way to kill oneself. Tylenol can do enough liver damage to eventually work, but not vitamin M, as we called it. We ate it like candy already, in that place, at that time.

Burn

I don't have to work
Tomorrow! Time to rest more.
All crispy edges.


Burn out in full force,
Strategic retreat, back up
turn around and run.

Desultory

Plumbing is happening. The kitchen sink drain is borked, on a long and winding road lacking gradient. Theseoldhouses. It clogged up over the holiday weekend, plumber got it cleared enough to get us through, and is now working on a definitive repair. At least he won't need a jackhammer.

This is my first week of respite, I've reduced my work hours to 30, three ten hour shifts, which doesn't change my benefits. And I'm feeling the exhaustion like a flood I've been holding back. It seeps in around my ankles, cold and wet, wicking all the way up my body to force tears. I'm good at pushing though, enduring, getting to the other side. I've done it many times. This time, I've left it a little too long, lost a bit too much, reserves depleted. And still I've had to stop myself from planning to do any catching up on my new day off. Not this week, I remind myself again and again. This week I need to recuperate from this lingering viral damage, regain my hearing, clear congestion, heal the array of blisters on my mouth and face. It's only one more day off, it won't be enough if I busy it up. My wrists are both swollen, especially the broken one. This is my sanity focus, my ring is off so I must back off on doingness.




Eleanor isn't too bothered by the power tool racket in the basement. Zeppo is hiding. Oh, nope, he's here with me on the table now. Looking curious and wary. Happy to see the curiosity beginning to balance with the fear. One day the boldness will win out.

Snow in desultory mood, dampening the warm ground. It's hardly trying at all.




Ran a small errand slowly, and when I returned, the plumber was gone, the job done. It wiffs a bit from the basement, the remainder of very old food debris.

I'm not getting far with the puzzle, but the cats are enjoying it.

Safe

Using cotton handkerchiefs through this virus has been a lot easier on my face. My lips are raw, but nowhere near as bad as with tissues, even the lotion ones. The worst part is the flashbacks.



When I was small, I had chores. Some I have no argument with, even if I didn't like doing some of them - helping with dishes, taking out garbage, sorting laundry, setting the table, vacuuming. But some of my assigned tasks were doing stuff for my father that really shouldn't have fallen to a little girl. Folding his underpants, polishing his shoes (I can still feel the ickiness of my hand in his shoe, the smell, the resentment at this weekly task) and ironing his white 'snotrags.*' One week my mother berated and punished me because I hadn't ironed them 'properly.'

How in the name of all the gods can anyone justify yelling at a kid for not ironing a bit of material perfectly, that is used to blow noses? Or even give that to her as HER job? When they belong to her abuser?

I do not iron my bandanas. I take some comfort in the fact that I used spray sizing on his, and made them good and stiff and scratchy. And I used a LOT of it, too bad it wasn't starch.



I've also been thinking of the times I was pushed, and how I reacted. The guard at the main library, when I worked there, who cornered me in the elevator and kissed me. I never got on an elevator alone with him again. Which wasn't always easy, our department was on five floors, and with carts and heavy materials it was my job to move, I had to use the elevator. I also spread the word, everyone knew what he was.

When I was in training at Ft. Sam, I would drink at the E-club. And I would often flirt with guys, letting the alcohol show more than I actually felt, there would be some snogging. One guy walked back towards my barracks with me, which was fine, we kept stopping for kissing breaks. I was enjoying it. But then he tried taking me into a bit more, nudging me toward a more isolated part of base. I gave him enough rope to convince myself he was trying to coerce a drunken woman into a rape. I stood up straight, clearly said, "No, thanks." and marched away briskly. I have the fleeting glimpse of the look on his face. Not that I'd intentionally fooled him, but he certainly fooled himself. But, had I hesitated? If he'd jockeyed me into a more vulnerable position? Yeah, it was a close call.

Self destructive as I was at that point in my life, I wasn't up for being a rape victim. That would happen later, except not legally since marital rape didn't exist, was not a crime in this state.


I don't polish shoes, iron anything (but the occasional tablecloth which is a pleasant job for me), fold underpants, and I have a dishwasher. Not to mention I'm safe at home. In every sense of the word.



*His word for them.

Margins

Got an ultrasuede bit of fabric to cover the Table day to day, still need to trim it. Dylan picked out the color, and I have to agree, it's rich and warm. Eleanor loves the table, too. She knows it's hers. There is a puzzle we want to put together. And a friend gave us Mysterium game, which we hope to play soon.

Oh, look who's also on the Table...



I'm still recovering, the sinus steamer is bloody useful. At least I have a semblance of my voice back. Still 1/4 deaf, which is better than the 3/4 deaf I've been all week, with tinnitus buzz. Still very low energy. Asked my manager to drop to 30 hours per week, at least for a while, and she got back to me approving it. I'll be willing to cover lunches, or cover shifts occasionally, but it's my decision then. And I will continue to look for a PRN sort of job, or a less physical job, in the meantime. Respite. A bit of margin.

Virus

Sat on the bed to dress, and noticed Zeppo staring at me. Looked a bit further, and there was Eleanor the other side of the fold. They were there a long time. They do nose each other, with evident pleasure, when Eleanor is in the mood and doesn't bop him in varying measures of irritation. Sometimes her rebuffs are pro forma at most, a lazy paw nudging him away sorta.




The virus has make a shambles of my poor old face. Still unwell, but this is the first day in a week I've felt substantially better than the day before. It's a nasty wee pathogen, I'm tellin' ya. Avoid if possible. Sitting at the table reading. I like Aly Montroe's writing a lot. She has a certain flow I find pleasing. And the table invites people to sit and enjoy. I have put the tablecloth I got in Saudi Arabia ohsolongago. Thirty years, and this is the first proper table it's been on.











-Liz Climo

I'd hoped there would be something. Sure enough, underneath the table top, a plaque. Want to add our dates, as well as our names, possibly our address. This table will outlast us, and deserves it's history noted.