Resource today, running around generally helping, breaks, lunches, doing whatever needs doing. Went into one room, and the circulator has specimens aplenty, but it looks like she has it all organized, if only in her head. And I've had many experiences with her of being brusquely shooed away for offering help, and never had an issue of her NOT telling me exactly what she wanted. IF she's ordered me to do something, I might have rankled for a moment, inside, but I'd have done it, cheerfully and immediately. I did get her the brace she needed, overhearing the surgeon ask, was in the room several minutes both times, and was not asked by the scrub for anything, nor asked by anyone to hang around. I left to help in another room, and swung around at least once more to help out.
Well, that circulator tore me a new one, so angry that I'd not just stayed and helped. She was "Drowning!" and too busy to say anything. Um, 'help' would have been sufficient. I apologized, assured her I'd completely misread the situation, that I would never intentionally leave someone in the lurch, apologized again. I did not, I would not, intentionally leave anyone without help in the OR, personal feelings don't enter into it at all. Sure, it's nice when someone just does the job in one's mind, but to get mad at someone for not reading one's mind, that's irrational and unfair. Not to mention pointless and counterproductive.
But in my head I kept thinking, but, you had time to get angry. You had time to get the aide to come in. Her anger implied that my actions, or lack thereof, were done out of malice, intentional neglect of her because I don't like her, professional misconduct. I know very well that sometimes help, isn't. So when a nurse seems to have everything under control, I don't intrude.
Eventually, I remember D's words about how a cat sees human anger. "The cat knows it's all about you." Indeed.
I continue my urging against anger. I think much less of this woman now. She had plenty of words for me later. On the other hand, I do give her credit for telling me. More lost than gained, though.
Did I fail her? Yes. I did. Not intentionally. But after my twelve hours on my feet scrubbed in yesterday, yes, I was off my game, and I should have asked, done more, paid more attention. I deserved rebuke, correction. I did not deserve anger.
Showing posts with label anger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anger. Show all posts
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Lesson
Nine-year-old Christina Taylor Green was born Sept. 11, 2001. She died in an attack attributable to the violent rhetoric that is fashionably dividing the world, although the shooter was certainly just a looney responding to the resonances. Her organs have been donated to a young girl in Boston. Giving life as she leaves. This sticks in my mind, this generosity of spirit. This small saint. This occasion I really hope there are saints and heaven, just for her.
A boddhisatva.
Let go of the hate that feels as good as heroin and meth, and ruins us as surely.
A lesson in compassion.
Turn away from the anger. If every one of us, each chose kindness over hostility, every moment of every day, we could handle the occasional mental illness as the aberration it should be.
Take the time to consciously be kind, start here. Gentle ourselves. Eschew the easy pleasure of ranting and raging, even, especially, inside our own heads. Think well of others, especially those most difficult, most anger-trapped people. They need to learn, they need to discipline themselves. Calling them on it it one thing, allowing ourselves high dudgeon, judging their souls, quite another.
Understand, forgive, add peace to the world, one drop at a time. Breathe in calm. Breathe out serenity. Every breath.
The simple acts are the most difficult. The most worthwhile.
A boddhisatva.
Let go of the hate that feels as good as heroin and meth, and ruins us as surely.
A lesson in compassion.
Turn away from the anger. If every one of us, each chose kindness over hostility, every moment of every day, we could handle the occasional mental illness as the aberration it should be.
Take the time to consciously be kind, start here. Gentle ourselves. Eschew the easy pleasure of ranting and raging, even, especially, inside our own heads. Think well of others, especially those most difficult, most anger-trapped people. They need to learn, they need to discipline themselves. Calling them on it it one thing, allowing ourselves high dudgeon, judging their souls, quite another.
Understand, forgive, add peace to the world, one drop at a time. Breathe in calm. Breathe out serenity. Every breath.
The simple acts are the most difficult. The most worthwhile.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Dangers
Actually slept past 0600 on a day off. Seems I could only sleep late on days when I must get up. This morning, made it to nearly 0800, which helped. Sat next to Moby on the sofa, and he leaned against my leg and tucked his head into my hand, even after I got up and sat down several times to get tea and breakfast.
Raining and grey, better when it's more rain. Walked to the library, got there too early. A crowd waiting in the atrium, a voice declaiming somewhere out of sight. D forgot his employee badge, both of us thought of going in through the back, but couldn't go through employee areas without it. Belligerent voice, "Do you know how to say hi?" A few times, then directed at us, aggressive, threatening, more as we tried to tell him to go away. Between the two of us, finally got him to walk away, although he kept glaring at us. Spoiling for a fight, I'm certain.
Doors open, the crowd sifts in, and we wait. Find a security guard just inside and tell him about Belligerent Guy, someone else also accosted by him adding to our description, then I spot him getting on the elevator. Security folks identify him, although the group is too thick for them to stop him. They'll keep an eye on him. Both of us bothered and shaken, wary. We are non-confrontational people, anger frightens us.
I have no issue with the street folks using the library, quite the opposite. But a number of people on the streets are there because they are not well socialized - for a host of reasons, and I'm relieved that people trained to deal with such behaviour are there. Not just librarians expected to take care of this.
Thinking about the Elizabeth Smart abduction. And (Brian*) David Mitchell trial just finished. I saw them, robed and walking the streets, never occurred to me who it might be. I never gave him money, but a lot of people did, and supported his crimes. The whole thing bothers me. Most of the people on the streets are no doubt lost souls. Some are far worse, dangerous.
*Added for precision.
Raining and grey, better when it's more rain. Walked to the library, got there too early. A crowd waiting in the atrium, a voice declaiming somewhere out of sight. D forgot his employee badge, both of us thought of going in through the back, but couldn't go through employee areas without it. Belligerent voice, "Do you know how to say hi?" A few times, then directed at us, aggressive, threatening, more as we tried to tell him to go away. Between the two of us, finally got him to walk away, although he kept glaring at us. Spoiling for a fight, I'm certain.
Doors open, the crowd sifts in, and we wait. Find a security guard just inside and tell him about Belligerent Guy, someone else also accosted by him adding to our description, then I spot him getting on the elevator. Security folks identify him, although the group is too thick for them to stop him. They'll keep an eye on him. Both of us bothered and shaken, wary. We are non-confrontational people, anger frightens us.
I have no issue with the street folks using the library, quite the opposite. But a number of people on the streets are there because they are not well socialized - for a host of reasons, and I'm relieved that people trained to deal with such behaviour are there. Not just librarians expected to take care of this.
Thinking about the Elizabeth Smart abduction. And (Brian*) David Mitchell trial just finished. I saw them, robed and walking the streets, never occurred to me who it might be. I never gave him money, but a lot of people did, and supported his crimes. The whole thing bothers me. Most of the people on the streets are no doubt lost souls. Some are far worse, dangerous.
*Added for precision.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Over
Lemme 'splain somethin' 'bout the OR. It's a hard place, no question. Sterile technique is no joke, not a matter for opinion. Whomever says. "you contaminated" is right. When a veteran nurse says it over the objections of a two-month orderly, there is no question.
It's hard to hear anything, a lot of white noise, mumbling surgeons, everyone talking at once, beepers going off, apparent confusion to anyone new. The reality is much clearer, but only appears with experience, and time. Very easy to be overwhelmed and stunned, while remaining unaware of one's being a huge obstruction.
The first time I was pushed out of the way, nothing could have felt more intrusive or horrible. I wanted to shout back, shove back, instead I cried tears of fury and shame, and learned. My skin grew thicker, as well as more sensitive, and I realized that when I thought I was rushing around, accomplishing much, what was actually happening was, well, a blank stare and... nothing else. I only realized it once I was scrubbed in with a nurse on her first day without back-up. I recognized myself at once, and had compassion, as well as great impatience, with her. Oh, I thought, THAT'S what I looked like. I refer to it as Dead Nurse Brainwaves. And I forgave, completely, anyone who trained me. Because working in the OR I could not pick up easily, nor quickly, as I had done with just about anything else I'd ever had to learn. This did not come easily and naturally, it doesn't for anybody. The complexities require time and experience, attentiveness only makes it possible, it cannot hasten the process past a certain point.
I can still feel the first time a surgeon threw an instrument at me. The only time, actually. Or had to snatch one out of my hand that he'd been asking for. One of the many times I've had a hand position adjusted while retracting, or been moved because I was oblivious and in the way. I learned relatively fast, but never fast enough not to be corrected at least once. Not a week ago I was instructed by a surgeon on how to apply a tourniquet. His way, mind, but it was his patient, so.
Understand, I am an abrasive person. New, young people have found me intimidating. I don't deny this, I want them a little afraid so they will listen to me. I have no other natural authority, this is all I have. Anyone who knows me knows I have no malice in me, no harm.
The first complaint was an orderly of two months, standing in my room - without a role - as the new scrub had to move her sterile table into position. She had that thousand yard stare, and was in the middle of where the scrub had to be. I instructed her to move back, in the midst of all my other tasks at this point in the case. She made no reply. After several attempts, and knowing about OR deafness, I touched her shoulders to draw her back and out of the way. She resisted. I pulled harder, until she was out of the way. I remember nothing further, until I was brought into Human Resources because she complained I'd been physically abusive.
The second complaint, a core tech, whose job it is to get supplies for the room (as the RN is not supposed to leave the room at all, really, in reality we have to get supplies fairly often) did not move when I requested an item, and when I asked again she sat there and said "Oh, you needed that?" Well, she'd overheard a separate conversation as I called back into the room. She went on to lose her shit at me, then wrote me up. She has since been fired, but her version of events is still pending against me. I will never sign the complaint.
The third complaint, was one of those nightmare moments, patient's family is already on edge. I would've bet money, walking in, that I was going to hear of a complaint, before I said a word. I did my best, but honestly, I know it wouldn't have mattered. Sure enough, and that counted as THREE, I was being reprimanded and sent to EAP for behaviour management and conflict resolution.
The supervisor, each time, was conciliatory and had soft words for me, but there was a wrong note somehow. A sense of serious trouble that I could not pin down. Until I read this reprimand, which was loaded, accusatory and harsh. I corrected the first one, and signed it, thinking it was all over. The second, I will never sign, and the last I never got an actual write-up done.
I saw the EAP counselor, who I rather liked, and did trust, feeling that she did believe me, and gave me credit for being misread. I saw her intake form, with my supervisor's note, "...terminated if the behavior doesn't change." I went icy and hot, and crumpled. That afternoon, I spiffed up my resume and applied at the New Hospital. I was not about to walk on eggshells and wait for the next petty, personal complaint to give my supervisor an excuse to fire me. I thought he was laying the groundwork to fire me, though the way he wrote his reprimands. To find a job in this economy, after being fired? No, I would carve my own path, not wait for the guillotine, no.
The manager tried to reassure me, by effusive language and praise, giving me an unwanted hug to, apparently, shore up my self esteem, over my objections. Not my assessment of my value that was the issue, so her entreaties fell flat, since what I needed was her respect - and dismissal of the seriousness taken of the trivial complaints.
It took a month, and the day I was offered the new position, I had to meet again with supervisor and HR - before I knew. Their sweet words embittered me, too late, and still, with no belief in me. They needed my skills, sure, but one idiot without skin who thought I looked at them funny would land me back in front of them, my character prodded and dismissed. The next day, my resignation letter was on the manager's desk.
That got her attention. I had to tell her repeatedly that I was not threatening, this was not a bargaining tactic, I was leaving. She tried to sway me, still lacking the fundamental understanding that molehills had been turned into mountains. She tried to extract a promise from me to call her back if I didn't like it in the New Hospital. Over and over again, car-saleman pressure. I should have stopped it sooner, I know, I didn't and hate that I didn't. But I never gave her any such promise. I would not lie. I did not add that if I didn't like it there, I would go to another department, or work at the V.A. hospital, or indeed, live in a box on the street before I would ever work for a corporation that employed or promoted her.
I needed to trust the people who could fire me. I didn't.
That, my dear friends, is the story.
And I am done. I loved the people I worked with, and will miss them with all my heart. I will work at a new place, day shifts only, no call, no nights, all my hours and better pay. I mourn. I hope.
It's hard to hear anything, a lot of white noise, mumbling surgeons, everyone talking at once, beepers going off, apparent confusion to anyone new. The reality is much clearer, but only appears with experience, and time. Very easy to be overwhelmed and stunned, while remaining unaware of one's being a huge obstruction.
The first time I was pushed out of the way, nothing could have felt more intrusive or horrible. I wanted to shout back, shove back, instead I cried tears of fury and shame, and learned. My skin grew thicker, as well as more sensitive, and I realized that when I thought I was rushing around, accomplishing much, what was actually happening was, well, a blank stare and... nothing else. I only realized it once I was scrubbed in with a nurse on her first day without back-up. I recognized myself at once, and had compassion, as well as great impatience, with her. Oh, I thought, THAT'S what I looked like. I refer to it as Dead Nurse Brainwaves. And I forgave, completely, anyone who trained me. Because working in the OR I could not pick up easily, nor quickly, as I had done with just about anything else I'd ever had to learn. This did not come easily and naturally, it doesn't for anybody. The complexities require time and experience, attentiveness only makes it possible, it cannot hasten the process past a certain point.
I can still feel the first time a surgeon threw an instrument at me. The only time, actually. Or had to snatch one out of my hand that he'd been asking for. One of the many times I've had a hand position adjusted while retracting, or been moved because I was oblivious and in the way. I learned relatively fast, but never fast enough not to be corrected at least once. Not a week ago I was instructed by a surgeon on how to apply a tourniquet. His way, mind, but it was his patient, so.
Understand, I am an abrasive person. New, young people have found me intimidating. I don't deny this, I want them a little afraid so they will listen to me. I have no other natural authority, this is all I have. Anyone who knows me knows I have no malice in me, no harm.
The first complaint was an orderly of two months, standing in my room - without a role - as the new scrub had to move her sterile table into position. She had that thousand yard stare, and was in the middle of where the scrub had to be. I instructed her to move back, in the midst of all my other tasks at this point in the case. She made no reply. After several attempts, and knowing about OR deafness, I touched her shoulders to draw her back and out of the way. She resisted. I pulled harder, until she was out of the way. I remember nothing further, until I was brought into Human Resources because she complained I'd been physically abusive.
The second complaint, a core tech, whose job it is to get supplies for the room (as the RN is not supposed to leave the room at all, really, in reality we have to get supplies fairly often) did not move when I requested an item, and when I asked again she sat there and said "Oh, you needed that?" Well, she'd overheard a separate conversation as I called back into the room. She went on to lose her shit at me, then wrote me up. She has since been fired, but her version of events is still pending against me. I will never sign the complaint.
The third complaint, was one of those nightmare moments, patient's family is already on edge. I would've bet money, walking in, that I was going to hear of a complaint, before I said a word. I did my best, but honestly, I know it wouldn't have mattered. Sure enough, and that counted as THREE, I was being reprimanded and sent to EAP for behaviour management and conflict resolution.
The supervisor, each time, was conciliatory and had soft words for me, but there was a wrong note somehow. A sense of serious trouble that I could not pin down. Until I read this reprimand, which was loaded, accusatory and harsh. I corrected the first one, and signed it, thinking it was all over. The second, I will never sign, and the last I never got an actual write-up done.
I saw the EAP counselor, who I rather liked, and did trust, feeling that she did believe me, and gave me credit for being misread. I saw her intake form, with my supervisor's note, "...terminated if the behavior doesn't change." I went icy and hot, and crumpled. That afternoon, I spiffed up my resume and applied at the New Hospital. I was not about to walk on eggshells and wait for the next petty, personal complaint to give my supervisor an excuse to fire me. I thought he was laying the groundwork to fire me, though the way he wrote his reprimands. To find a job in this economy, after being fired? No, I would carve my own path, not wait for the guillotine, no.
The manager tried to reassure me, by effusive language and praise, giving me an unwanted hug to, apparently, shore up my self esteem, over my objections. Not my assessment of my value that was the issue, so her entreaties fell flat, since what I needed was her respect - and dismissal of the seriousness taken of the trivial complaints.
It took a month, and the day I was offered the new position, I had to meet again with supervisor and HR - before I knew. Their sweet words embittered me, too late, and still, with no belief in me. They needed my skills, sure, but one idiot without skin who thought I looked at them funny would land me back in front of them, my character prodded and dismissed. The next day, my resignation letter was on the manager's desk.
That got her attention. I had to tell her repeatedly that I was not threatening, this was not a bargaining tactic, I was leaving. She tried to sway me, still lacking the fundamental understanding that molehills had been turned into mountains. She tried to extract a promise from me to call her back if I didn't like it in the New Hospital. Over and over again, car-saleman pressure. I should have stopped it sooner, I know, I didn't and hate that I didn't. But I never gave her any such promise. I would not lie. I did not add that if I didn't like it there, I would go to another department, or work at the V.A. hospital, or indeed, live in a box on the street before I would ever work for a corporation that employed or promoted her.
I needed to trust the people who could fire me. I didn't.
That, my dear friends, is the story.
And I am done. I loved the people I worked with, and will miss them with all my heart. I will work at a new place, day shifts only, no call, no nights, all my hours and better pay. I mourn. I hope.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Stutter
A moment of chiming clarity. This articulate woman, fluent, educated, has an obscured defect. Even I forget about it until it overcomes me and robs me of speech. I have a strange stutter. I don't perseverate on a sound, I don't prolong or sputter. There is only maddening silence, the inability to pull out the word I most want. I can talk around it, but cannot coax it out. Names are especially difficult always, but any key word can get caught in the maelstrom in my brain, stuck floundering just out of reach. I'm sure, now that I have finally put this all together, that I have a horrible expression on my face, that a self conscious person could easily take personally, tainting anything I say or do.
Yes, I am intense. Yes, slow, inattentive people that I have to rely on frustrate me, and make this more likely in their presence. My defect + their hypersensitivity = hurt feelings & judgmental managerial concern. I never realized it before, because these complaints against me always baffle and blindside me. "But, I wasn't angry!" I can protest til I am bluefaced, but that sounds just like defensive excuses. However true.
Now, I think I get it. Now, I think I can head off further "little problems." This is not an excuse, it's quite real. Not an emotional hash, although there is an emotional component. But a physical/brain disability that is explicable. I can no more control my face at these moments than an asthmatic having an attack can "just breathe and don't panic." Ever had an asthma attack? I have, long ago. Everyone told me to calm down and breathe. Well, if I could have taken an easy breath, I could have calmed down. Like telling someone having a seizure to just control themself.
Not residual crap from my father's abuse, save as a sort of PTSD that left a little hole in my brain that crap falls through now and then. This makes me feel so much better, I knew I wasn't malicious, but I just couldn't figure out what was going wrong. This is a condition to be coped with, this is understandable.
Yes, I am intense. Yes, slow, inattentive people that I have to rely on frustrate me, and make this more likely in their presence. My defect + their hypersensitivity = hurt feelings & judgmental managerial concern. I never realized it before, because these complaints against me always baffle and blindside me. "But, I wasn't angry!" I can protest til I am bluefaced, but that sounds just like defensive excuses. However true.
Now, I think I get it. Now, I think I can head off further "little problems." This is not an excuse, it's quite real. Not an emotional hash, although there is an emotional component. But a physical/brain disability that is explicable. I can no more control my face at these moments than an asthmatic having an attack can "just breathe and don't panic." Ever had an asthma attack? I have, long ago. Everyone told me to calm down and breathe. Well, if I could have taken an easy breath, I could have calmed down. Like telling someone having a seizure to just control themself.
Not residual crap from my father's abuse, save as a sort of PTSD that left a little hole in my brain that crap falls through now and then. This makes me feel so much better, I knew I wasn't malicious, but I just couldn't figure out what was going wrong. This is a condition to be coped with, this is understandable.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Hard
Nancy Griffith's It's a Hard Life Wherever You Go has been streaming through. Which is very melodramatic to apply to such a personal dismay. Personal is not important, really. Still, I can hear her voice, oddly compelling.
Today I spent way too much time bursting into tears, telling people I care about that I've put in my notice. It's all very sad.
Dealing with my oblivious manager brought on tears of angry frustration, prolonged far beyond reason or reasonability. Such soft words, but I kept noticing lies, and the barb that my "little problem" was going to be there at the new job. That being, stupid lazy new people have a problem with me, as I have with them. Yeah, well, not all supervisors turn that into a reason to berate and dispirit their experienced staff. Then want to hug and reassure them. Ugh.
Yeah, well, it's not her problem. Never will be again. Made me really glad I will be gone.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Face
Often, when I am thinking, I have been misread. The kind of people who take these things personally have accused me of being angry when I am simply pre-occupied. My father often accused me of sulking or pouting when I simply pondered. I have no idea what I look like at these moments, I can only extrapolate.
I believe I am not easy to read correctly. Not that the hostile and oversensitive don't see themselves reflected in my blank look. It's a phenomena that utterly baffles me, as I remain as oblivious to my expression as I am to the vestigial Canadian "oou" that creeps out when I am tired. (I can tell I've said Hoouse or aboout because D grins, then denies I've said anything faintly Canadian.)
Being surrounded by engineering and ADD type guys, I have little feedback when I might be looking grimly grouchy. They don't see it, they wouldn't read into it, and certainly wouldn't take it personally.
It still amazes and frightens me how often others claim as fact that I am angry, when I am still. How often they attribute malice to my face when I am making a mental list of tasks. At the breathtaking audacity of their assurance that they know what I am feeling and thinking, when I would never presume to tell them their minds. (Amazing they can live in anything so small...)
I have no idea what goes on in such leaky people, that cannot see that what they have in their hearts has nothing to do with me.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Enough
I want to cry and give up and throw all this away because of a third idiot this week. After having gone through this twice earlier. The last one made sure I knew he had the last word by sending an even more insulting email by leaving it on the comments and then deleting it, knowing I would get it, but you wouldn't hear that he called me "crass" for shining the light on his attitude. And of course, it's all my fault, for being "petty".
Yup, defending my own patch is petty and crass. Expecting mere silence from a stranger who just shows up, uncritically reads the bits he understands, then attacks me, is silly. Not letting him hide his persistent defense of his mean words... ah, well, shame on me.
This makes me crazy. This has to stop.
Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone....
This blog will either be moving, or going away. I can't do this, my stomach hurts, I'm crying. I don't need readers, I don't make money here, there are other patches. This one smells bad.
Yup, defending my own patch is petty and crass. Expecting mere silence from a stranger who just shows up, uncritically reads the bits he understands, then attacks me, is silly. Not letting him hide his persistent defense of his mean words... ah, well, shame on me.
This makes me crazy. This has to stop.
Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone....
This blog will either be moving, or going away. I can't do this, my stomach hurts, I'm crying. I don't need readers, I don't make money here, there are other patches. This one smells bad.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Business
I'm sure I was in kindergarten, walking home. I stood waiting at the corner, as two older girls talked. I told them what I thought. There was a pause, a glare from them, and the bigger one said. "No one. Was Talking. To you."
Hot anger and shame hit me, silenced me. And shocked me out of my baby-egotism. Resentfully, I still felt I had done nothing wrong. That short, sharp shock nevertheless impressed on me that my view of the matter didn't matter.
I thought about the guy from the barber shop, a decade ago, who approached me when he recognized me in the grocery store the next day, and demanded to know why I had my hair shaved like a boy. Apparently, he never had a second grader look down her nose at him and tell him to mind his own business.
Today, I know how to withhold my opinion in public. As I can ignore an intrusive question. I still think about it. I hear stupid and wrong statements in the lounge, and I want to correct them, but I don't. I come here, often writing in response. Anyone here comes voluntarily, can read or not read, leave or stay.
I feel a little posh about getting a place with so many amenities, even if it is small. Then I think of the woman at work who complains about decorating her new-built 3000 sq ft house, and the difficulty of getting to the country club, in a loud and constant chatter during her lunch. I tend to avoid her, lest I say something snide. My opinion of her is none of her business.
D spoke with our ISP to-be today, a local company we have had email from for fifteen years, the owner used to post on a BBS run by D's friend before there was an internet. The tech asked D if he was from Boston, because of the way he said apartment. No, he'd only been there three years, but so often imitated the accent, it stuck to him. (Ah PAHT m'nt). So much better to have local support, not Crapcast's helpline that gets us to Indian call centers, where I can't understand every third word. We are going cable tv free for a while, maybe to read more, write more, walk more certainly.
Moby knows, it's that time of year when we change where we live. This is all he had known living with us.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Calm
It's been since we have lived with Moby. I have cultivated a studied quiet, to give him reason to trust us, not to be startled or fearful. Where once I would have screamed and thumped around the place because I felt frustrated, especially when alone, I now express this in a more controlled flow of calmer words or rueful laughter. Seeing my dear cat freaked and hiding - echoing my out of control fits, motivated me to change.
I'd already moved toward less rageful expressions, because D retreated at my outbursts, and expressed distress at my screaming at other drivers. As I restrained my fury, the anger itself ebbed. Venting, I came to realize, is feeding the anger monster. Anger is a choice, and a toxic one, in no small part because it spreads and splashes back from others. Frustration and worry, those are feelings. My response is always a choice.
Gentleness and polite responses, laughter, deflect anger, but take conscious effort, practice. Yesterday, I had a lot of practice, turning it into a good day.
We have orderlies that work in surgery, some are trained to be unit assistants, who do a bit more. They open supplies with the scrub, they set up the bed, help me position, run for equipment, hold the leg for me to prep. Experienced ones are a great help with total joint cases. Setting up a total hip replacement is a lot of jobs all at once, especially for a surgeon who may do eight to ten between two rooms in a day (with the assistance of a Physician's Assistant - PA). The turnover has to be fast for this to work. Delays are inevitable. The good UAs usually go on to med school, or to be PAs, which has happened recently. So when new ones train, a lot of work falls back on me. Some UAs are quicker off the mark than others.
I said please, and thank you, and what can I do for you, and that's fine, I can take care of that, many many times yesterday. In a calm and pleasant voice. To keep everyone around me calmly thinking, not add any chaos in. Which keeps my patient safe. Which allows me to laugh as I dismantle and clean the OR table after the last case.
That's when my scrub tech yesterday told me the story of two of the ortho guys, on a ski-lift, one telling the other he hoped to do five hundred joints this year. A snowboarder on the seat beside them goggled, "That's a lot! You have to have a good job to do that much."
D calls our current situation a "Perfect Storm of anxiety." In our first year back, after four yearly moves, an apartment with electrical (it's not grounded) issues necessitating another move, his overwhelming difficulties finding work (I know when he does get hired, they will love him, but getting hired is a high, spiky hurdle), health problems for both of us - his requiring surgery and ongoing therapy, resultant financial stresses (this insurance is barely adequate), my own work hours reduced due to low census - related to the slow economy. We know, if we could, that buying a house now would be a great idea. But we can't, not without having the house take us under.
So.
We hold each other, and laugh, immediately to keep Moby happy. He is our barometer, and he depends on us to be good, trustworthy people, whatever our worries. He purrs back calm.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Payback
My teacher called me out of class, because I had not been doing my arithmetic homework for a long time. I did not know my times tables. I would be put in with the slower students in all my classes to make up the deficit. Shamed and devastated, I would have to work with my mom every day to get the damn numbers in my head. I'd been skating, unaware that there were consequences, thinking that my intelligence with words would be more than sufficient. The rope jerked hard, the truth cut to my third grade bones, with bitter tears, I learned.
Out of my depth again, trying to be an actor in a college program, stressed out, ill nourished, lacking coping skills, always patching with excuses, I was told plain truth. In class. "You are always sick, you always have an excuse for not being ready," said Fred. I wanted to crawl away, blasted with my own failure. Simple truth, through my tears, even then, I managed to thank him, defending him against the 'nice' classmates who called his words harsh. It would not be long before I was out of the program, and would begin the long hard climb up my anxious bad habits, long ingrained and unseen.
Again, thinking myself capable, making progress, learning to scrub and circulate in surgery, again I was called aside for an adjustment. Now, I know, this is a common experience, assurance is balanced with ability, both are necessary and somewhat independent factors in this job. Jarring, my life didn't shake beneath my feet so badly.
I have come to value my humility, and become better at self assessment. I get it wrong still, but not by vast amounts. It always hurts. I strive with all my heart to hear wake-up calls, to welcome in the prickly truths, even when wrapped in false judgements and personal attacks. A hard, hard gift to accept, but precious seen with open eyes.
And, well, every time I actually learn the lesson, I maybe won't have to be slapped with it AGAIN.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Monster
I was a child terrified of the dark, under the bed where piraña lurked to eat off my toes, shadow demons on the walls, skulls that stared death, tree branches come to life scratching at the window to snatch at me. Creaking floors and rattling windows. I bunched myself down at the foot of the bed, thickening the blankets for warmth and psychic protection. Stuffed animals wedged behind my back as security.
My dreams haunted by skeletons, malicious eyes, I sensed myself an immense bloated entity engulfing a tiny fragile being, or my bed flew up, over the stairwell, dumping me to fall slowly, inexorably down the long steep stairs, the door at the bottom opened, to a steep, grassy drop. Naked, cold and alone, I wandered, accused, lost in the dark, light switches everywhere, none turned on lamps.
My mother would pull me to the top of the bed. I never knew how I returned to that position, until she complained one morning that I had hit her, leaving a bruise on her face, when she'd performed this essential adjustment. I apologized to her. I was angry, though. Why could I not stay there, warm and safe? Secretly, glad I'd fought back in my sleep.
Of course, it was just the house settling, just cars driving by, just ordinary trees in the wind, nothing under the bed at all. The adults had all the answers, none of which addressed my fears, and me without sufficient words to ask. Surrounded by monsters, as all children are. They have to trust, but how are they to know that they really can? Even if they can't, what choice do they have?
And I was a monstrous child, silent, scheming, a gloss of good over rage and hatred. Incomprehension of others, as well as of myself. Drifting without compass, a wild and dangerous wraith, brittle, frightened.
The monster grew up, learned to speak, became strong enough to release the rage, to forgive, to have the power to trust those trustworthy, to look the same outside and in, to find comfort in dark and light, and the shadows between. Still dangerous, but only to those with sharp sticks. A black cat sleeps under the bed, he eats wild monsters.
Inspired by Tall Girl.
My dreams haunted by skeletons, malicious eyes, I sensed myself an immense bloated entity engulfing a tiny fragile being, or my bed flew up, over the stairwell, dumping me to fall slowly, inexorably down the long steep stairs, the door at the bottom opened, to a steep, grassy drop. Naked, cold and alone, I wandered, accused, lost in the dark, light switches everywhere, none turned on lamps.
My mother would pull me to the top of the bed. I never knew how I returned to that position, until she complained one morning that I had hit her, leaving a bruise on her face, when she'd performed this essential adjustment. I apologized to her. I was angry, though. Why could I not stay there, warm and safe? Secretly, glad I'd fought back in my sleep.
Of course, it was just the house settling, just cars driving by, just ordinary trees in the wind, nothing under the bed at all. The adults had all the answers, none of which addressed my fears, and me without sufficient words to ask. Surrounded by monsters, as all children are. They have to trust, but how are they to know that they really can? Even if they can't, what choice do they have?
And I was a monstrous child, silent, scheming, a gloss of good over rage and hatred. Incomprehension of others, as well as of myself. Drifting without compass, a wild and dangerous wraith, brittle, frightened.
The monster grew up, learned to speak, became strong enough to release the rage, to forgive, to have the power to trust those trustworthy, to look the same outside and in, to find comfort in dark and light, and the shadows between. Still dangerous, but only to those with sharp sticks. A black cat sleeps under the bed, he eats wild monsters.
Inspired by Tall Girl.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Shove
I stood on the stage with a grad student actor, the director dim in the empty space, straggling actors watching, or not. She paced and smoked beside me, statuesque, expertly made up, be-thonged, potent. She shoved me. I backed up, annoyed. She shoved me with both hands, hard, again. I stepped back again, alarmed. She moved to raise her hands again, and I braced, threatened, cornered, immovable. I would not be shoved a third time.
"AH! I knew you had fight in you!" She triumphed.
"Asshole!" I did not say to her.
She explained this was an actor exercise, proving her theory I was only to be pushed so far, then I would fight. That I was strong, despite my apparent deference and shyness. I felt used, manipulated, I never forgot. I knew I was restraining rage. That my inner core was steely fury was a backward compliment.
I thought about my parents, and my brothers today. Of my disinclination to have any contact, any relationship with any of them. They perhaps pushed me once too often, the game grew tiresome to me, pointless. This apathy on my part grows not from anger, but from my enlightened laziness. Any amount of energy into the functional, none into the extraneous and irritating. Much of my decision not to pursue a theatrical path, not wanting to play aimless games. Not for a living.
I never forgot. This was not a surprize to me, that I would retreat and retreat, then bite. I wonder if my resolute decision caught my genetic family blindsided. When I lived there, no attack on my part could have been effective. I bided. Even after all, I did not strike out. No, I shut the door, locked it tight, and walked far, far away. Not playing. Not mad, not anything. The rage has leaked away, over the decades, leaving deep disinterest.
The fight is still strong, but for, no longer against. Not shoving back, nor falling for artificial tests of my character. What others think of me is none of my business. I know what I am.
"AH! I knew you had fight in you!" She triumphed.
"Asshole!" I did not say to her.
She explained this was an actor exercise, proving her theory I was only to be pushed so far, then I would fight. That I was strong, despite my apparent deference and shyness. I felt used, manipulated, I never forgot. I knew I was restraining rage. That my inner core was steely fury was a backward compliment.
I thought about my parents, and my brothers today. Of my disinclination to have any contact, any relationship with any of them. They perhaps pushed me once too often, the game grew tiresome to me, pointless. This apathy on my part grows not from anger, but from my enlightened laziness. Any amount of energy into the functional, none into the extraneous and irritating. Much of my decision not to pursue a theatrical path, not wanting to play aimless games. Not for a living.
I never forgot. This was not a surprize to me, that I would retreat and retreat, then bite. I wonder if my resolute decision caught my genetic family blindsided. When I lived there, no attack on my part could have been effective. I bided. Even after all, I did not strike out. No, I shut the door, locked it tight, and walked far, far away. Not playing. Not mad, not anything. The rage has leaked away, over the decades, leaving deep disinterest.
The fight is still strong, but for, no longer against. Not shoving back, nor falling for artificial tests of my character. What others think of me is none of my business. I know what I am.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Easy
My father was impossible to please. Though my mother, for her own peace, certainly tried. I can only suspect, that, given constant negative feedback for large or small effort, she put as little energy into her efforts as possible. Especially over time, as her good will eroded over decades of derision and snide disappreciation. This was evident in her cooking, which elicited much scorn from him. Perhaps she was never much of a cook, but his criticism certainly degraded her inspiration.
I thought about this, growing up there. Needing to perfectly iron white cotton handkerchiefs, lest his fellow factory workers look down at him for having a few wrinkles in his snot rag, ill-ironed by his ungrateful daughter. Or if I did not shine his shoes, worn black leather, huge in my small hands, to his unattainable satisfaction, both to be worn to work, removed and re donned after, or for Sunday mass. My resentment for him grew each time I had to put a hand in his shoe to buff it to some kind of shine.
I have met many unpleaseable people since. No surprize that some have been surgeons, though less than you might imagine. Beyond high maintenance, these surgeons snip and snarl, yell and throw instruments, and no effort is appreciated. An occasional thank you is treated as an ironic miracle, not genuine gratitude. One of which, Dr. Evil shall we say, sounded out "hurryhurryhurry!" as a regular cry of exasperation at the careless incompetence of all the idiots around him. I once confronted him.
"You know, when you say that, it actually slows us down." I said to him, quietly.
His reply, "I know," in a quiet, self satisfied admission of manipulation, told me much.
Likewise, scrub techs who, upon returning from lunch, snort derision, and shuffle items around, as the person who set up, tries to defend their own organization, and finally just breaks scrub, leaving the other to fall into ignorance pits. Or, when asked to assist that person, will do the absolute minimum. Hard not to. I worked just as hard for the difficult as the easy, for the sake of my patients, but the difficult stole more of my energy, adding chaos and distraction.
And then, there are those surgeons who want what they need, but when that isn't available, make do. Flexibility and imagination as a fortification of their intelligence, they say "That'll do" or "I can make this work." even if the reason the item is not there is purely their circulator's error. And with them, we try harder. I worked regularly with two of this temperament. I strove to have everything imaginable ready for them, went to great effort to make their lives in the OR easier, because they made it worthwhile. They did not criticize - only instructed, when I failed, and gave generously of their praise when all went well. My work meant not only good outcomes for my patients, but acknowledgment of my competence, with better effect with less effort over time. There was a kind of joy, as in a shared burden, gladly borne.
D is easy. Oh, he apologizes for his lack of attention, messiness, mental absences, or being a bother. I don't mind any of that, I find it endearing, because he is grateful, and is so obviously pleased with whatever I do. There was a time when he was happy that I had frozen burritos available, and he gladly nuked them himself. (He's trying to eat better now, or I'm sure he still would be perfectly pleased.) He would no more think to criticize my housecleaning deficits than he would expect to suddenly even begin noticing that vacuuming needs to happen. He is constantly surprized and glad when I make dinner, or bring him home some needful gift.
"Oh, thank you so much. You're wonderful, you know." He tells me, with all his heart.
So, when I thank him for running the dishwasher, or doing laundry, I get "Well, it's only fair." I try to express my appreciation sufficiently, generously. He is better at it than I am. I am learning.
It's one of those nameless virtues, because it is not just gratitude. It is a talent for being happy, for being pleased in a way that returns the pleasure to the giver. A grace of making the most mandatory work a freely given gift, turning a chore into a fountain of bounteous plenty. And yet, I begin to think having both high standards, and being easy to please is a true path to a good life, and real happiness.
I struggle to learn this.
I thought about this, growing up there. Needing to perfectly iron white cotton handkerchiefs, lest his fellow factory workers look down at him for having a few wrinkles in his snot rag, ill-ironed by his ungrateful daughter. Or if I did not shine his shoes, worn black leather, huge in my small hands, to his unattainable satisfaction, both to be worn to work, removed and re donned after, or for Sunday mass. My resentment for him grew each time I had to put a hand in his shoe to buff it to some kind of shine.
I have met many unpleaseable people since. No surprize that some have been surgeons, though less than you might imagine. Beyond high maintenance, these surgeons snip and snarl, yell and throw instruments, and no effort is appreciated. An occasional thank you is treated as an ironic miracle, not genuine gratitude. One of which, Dr. Evil shall we say, sounded out "hurryhurryhurry!" as a regular cry of exasperation at the careless incompetence of all the idiots around him. I once confronted him.
"You know, when you say that, it actually slows us down." I said to him, quietly.
His reply, "I know," in a quiet, self satisfied admission of manipulation, told me much.
Likewise, scrub techs who, upon returning from lunch, snort derision, and shuffle items around, as the person who set up, tries to defend their own organization, and finally just breaks scrub, leaving the other to fall into ignorance pits. Or, when asked to assist that person, will do the absolute minimum. Hard not to. I worked just as hard for the difficult as the easy, for the sake of my patients, but the difficult stole more of my energy, adding chaos and distraction.
And then, there are those surgeons who want what they need, but when that isn't available, make do. Flexibility and imagination as a fortification of their intelligence, they say "That'll do" or "I can make this work." even if the reason the item is not there is purely their circulator's error. And with them, we try harder. I worked regularly with two of this temperament. I strove to have everything imaginable ready for them, went to great effort to make their lives in the OR easier, because they made it worthwhile. They did not criticize - only instructed, when I failed, and gave generously of their praise when all went well. My work meant not only good outcomes for my patients, but acknowledgment of my competence, with better effect with less effort over time. There was a kind of joy, as in a shared burden, gladly borne.
D is easy. Oh, he apologizes for his lack of attention, messiness, mental absences, or being a bother. I don't mind any of that, I find it endearing, because he is grateful, and is so obviously pleased with whatever I do. There was a time when he was happy that I had frozen burritos available, and he gladly nuked them himself. (He's trying to eat better now, or I'm sure he still would be perfectly pleased.) He would no more think to criticize my housecleaning deficits than he would expect to suddenly even begin noticing that vacuuming needs to happen. He is constantly surprized and glad when I make dinner, or bring him home some needful gift.
"Oh, thank you so much. You're wonderful, you know." He tells me, with all his heart.
So, when I thank him for running the dishwasher, or doing laundry, I get "Well, it's only fair." I try to express my appreciation sufficiently, generously. He is better at it than I am. I am learning.
It's one of those nameless virtues, because it is not just gratitude. It is a talent for being happy, for being pleased in a way that returns the pleasure to the giver. A grace of making the most mandatory work a freely given gift, turning a chore into a fountain of bounteous plenty. And yet, I begin to think having both high standards, and being easy to please is a true path to a good life, and real happiness.
I struggle to learn this.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Yell
My parents fought. Or, rather, my father screamed and ranted, my mother spoke low and cried a lot. Whatever I see that as now, as a child, I saw an aggressor and a victim. I was terrified of people out of control. Hated yelling and belligerent behaviour.
The Army training, which is to say Drill Sergeants, was different. Such professional shouting, in iron control, impersonal. Got my adrenaline going, but did not hit that childhood sore spot. I learned to stand and take it calmly, quite easily. It was part of a voluntary deal. I chose to enlist, and knew Basic would be hard, and had agreed to the terms of the game. In effect, I had given my permission, so I was in control, even during those two months when I had no control over what I wore, ate, or how much sleep I lost. Like going on a roller coaster, I had a choice. I now emulate my Drill Sergeants, and raise my voice for volume only, tightly controlled, emotionless - in as much as possible in a given situation.
When I am truly frustrated and stressed, I get very quiet, or cannot speak at all. Then someone will invariably say,
"Are you ok?" softly and sympathetically. I crumble. Involuntarily, and shaming, my voice chokes and my face blotches red, the tears pour. I do my damnedest keep calm, to hide, I ask witnesses to ignore it. I walk away if I can, or get back to work, get busy. I find the tears dry up if I am allowed to simply keep going. I blame allergies for the red face and stuffy nose, to non-witnesses. I would never cry again, if I had any control over it.
I was weighed down by hostility, baffled by angry people, especially if they had any say in my life. I slid out, conceded, ran, quit. It was easier, and I had little idea how else to act, when chaos stared at me. I hated feeling like a victim.
I learned how to confront, how to, as the pamphlets say "Deal with difficult people" from a patient in a nursing home. She had a long history of schizophrenia, decades institutionalized, a selfish and brutal version of intelligence, angry manipulative, no doubt a very effective self defence mechanism. I had to take care of her. Warned about her, I stood my ground, tried to 'stay on her side' and appear to assume good intentions on her part, was consistently kind and insistent. While shivering in my sneakers. Over the course of a year, she came to trust me and depend on me, often only doing something (like not yelling at her roommate) because "Nurse says so." I never stopped being afraid of her. I never liked her. But I credit her challenges with my becoming steadfast, and firmly insisting.
I use all of these techniques at work, but only a few surgeons have ever lost control -at- me. Yelling in the room doesn't count. Getting in my face does. The first, and worst, I no longer deal with. I figured out that when he yelled "Shut Up!" - he knew I was right. I feel dragged down by those who elicit my contempt, a reaction, a judgement I avoid as mutually destructive. Childish bullying from professionals is deeply frightening.
I watch COPS! with a clinical eye, examining how police deal with angry, drunk, out of control folks. I've had a lot of my own experience reinforced by that show. (That is my justification for the voyeurism, and I'm sticking to it.)
There is a scene in one of the Sharpe's series, where Sharp asks his newest recruits, "I know you can fire three rounds a minute, but CAN YOU STAND?" Then fires cannon over their heads. It's a funny bit. When I must argue, I stay very calm. I fight fair. I listen. I will confront. I will stand. But that cannon still goes off inside my head.
The Army training, which is to say Drill Sergeants, was different. Such professional shouting, in iron control, impersonal. Got my adrenaline going, but did not hit that childhood sore spot. I learned to stand and take it calmly, quite easily. It was part of a voluntary deal. I chose to enlist, and knew Basic would be hard, and had agreed to the terms of the game. In effect, I had given my permission, so I was in control, even during those two months when I had no control over what I wore, ate, or how much sleep I lost. Like going on a roller coaster, I had a choice. I now emulate my Drill Sergeants, and raise my voice for volume only, tightly controlled, emotionless - in as much as possible in a given situation.
When I am truly frustrated and stressed, I get very quiet, or cannot speak at all. Then someone will invariably say,
"Are you ok?" softly and sympathetically. I crumble. Involuntarily, and shaming, my voice chokes and my face blotches red, the tears pour. I do my damnedest keep calm, to hide, I ask witnesses to ignore it. I walk away if I can, or get back to work, get busy. I find the tears dry up if I am allowed to simply keep going. I blame allergies for the red face and stuffy nose, to non-witnesses. I would never cry again, if I had any control over it.
I was weighed down by hostility, baffled by angry people, especially if they had any say in my life. I slid out, conceded, ran, quit. It was easier, and I had little idea how else to act, when chaos stared at me. I hated feeling like a victim.
I learned how to confront, how to, as the pamphlets say "Deal with difficult people" from a patient in a nursing home. She had a long history of schizophrenia, decades institutionalized, a selfish and brutal version of intelligence, angry manipulative, no doubt a very effective self defence mechanism. I had to take care of her. Warned about her, I stood my ground, tried to 'stay on her side' and appear to assume good intentions on her part, was consistently kind and insistent. While shivering in my sneakers. Over the course of a year, she came to trust me and depend on me, often only doing something (like not yelling at her roommate) because "Nurse says so." I never stopped being afraid of her. I never liked her. But I credit her challenges with my becoming steadfast, and firmly insisting.
I use all of these techniques at work, but only a few surgeons have ever lost control -at- me. Yelling in the room doesn't count. Getting in my face does. The first, and worst, I no longer deal with. I figured out that when he yelled "Shut Up!" - he knew I was right. I feel dragged down by those who elicit my contempt, a reaction, a judgement I avoid as mutually destructive. Childish bullying from professionals is deeply frightening.
I watch COPS! with a clinical eye, examining how police deal with angry, drunk, out of control folks. I've had a lot of my own experience reinforced by that show. (That is my justification for the voyeurism, and I'm sticking to it.)
There is a scene in one of the Sharpe's series, where Sharp asks his newest recruits, "I know you can fire three rounds a minute, but CAN YOU STAND?" Then fires cannon over their heads. It's a funny bit. When I must argue, I stay very calm. I fight fair. I listen. I will confront. I will stand. But that cannon still goes off inside my head.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Advice
I am one of those people who gives advice. In part, because it is my job. Although, I will hand scissors and pens so that they can be immediately used, which confuses most folks, the job mostly bleeds off the excess tendency to meddle, to offer unwanted help. I have a weakness for advice columns. Not to follow their advice, but to be nosy. Which is much of why I watch COPS! I can, actually, defend it, as lessons in dealing with difficult people - and I have learned much from the show. But really, it's just prurient entertainment. I spend time talking to the perps, "No, no, just stay there and be calm. Now, see, that cop knows you're lying, just shut up. Don't make armed people nervous." And they never listen to me. As I would expect. Which is why I watch. With my friends, I try not to imply any imperative in my suggestions.
So, let me share with you some really good advice. Not the usual stuff like, Don't smoke, floss your teeth, wear seatbelts. All good, but everyone knows it already. No, I mean the stuff I didn't know when I heard it, and have not heard it very often.
Ibuprofin (Advil, Motrin) has a maximum effective dosage of 800 MG per 6 hours. Exceeding this will not help more with the pain, but will increase the risk of bad side effects. And taking the stuff daily over weeks could well give you a headache, and you will need to wean off of it. It is not a good drug to commit suicide with, you will wind up alive and looking very stupid. (As a strange girl I went most of the way through Basic with found out.)
Keep your bellybutton clean. If you are taken in for emergency surgery, much of it today is laparoscopic, and they use the navel as a reliable anatomical landmark. We will make fun of you if it has more than a day's worth of lint. And if it is very encrusted, it increases your risk of infection.
Smoking is highly associated with bladder cancers, which are often misdiagnosed for years as bladder infections, leaving them a lot of time to grow well.
A bit of cayenne in a hot drink, like tea or cocoa, does wonders for a sore throat. A paste of it will heal up cuts and scrapes. Just go easy, and don't leave it on for more than an hour, and be careful not to get it in eyes. Which means, don't use it for kids.
Vanilla, even the cheap artificial kind, will take the smell of fresh paint out of a room. Just a small dish, or saucer of it, will work very well. A boon to my childhood, when the house was painted all the time, and I was ill from the fumes often.
Wheat germ, eaten daily, works as well as the commercial bulk fibers, but tends to cause less gas. Good in muffins and with cream of wheat.
Try to be positive in speech, rather than not negative. Amazing what it does for the attitude.
If you get a tattoo, that gel ice is great for taking out the pain, as well as the subsequent itch. Those gel ices can be stored in the freezer, and I earnestly tell you, for muscle pain, Ice is your Friend.
Avoid contempt, it poisons any relationship it touches. Even if it is your idiot boss. Contempt never allows change, and only elicits disdain. Bemused frustration is sufficient, and leaves wiggle room for improvement. Don't feed anger, by the same token. It is insatiable and will devour lives. Let it pass through like air through a net.
Call your friends, keep contact with them, even if you are busy. Especially if you are busy.
Elope.
Buzz all your hair off at least once in your life.
Rubbing alcohol in a spray bottle works great for flying insects. Well, badly for them.
No, you don't have to.
So, let me share with you some really good advice. Not the usual stuff like, Don't smoke, floss your teeth, wear seatbelts. All good, but everyone knows it already. No, I mean the stuff I didn't know when I heard it, and have not heard it very often.
Ibuprofin (Advil, Motrin) has a maximum effective dosage of 800 MG per 6 hours. Exceeding this will not help more with the pain, but will increase the risk of bad side effects. And taking the stuff daily over weeks could well give you a headache, and you will need to wean off of it. It is not a good drug to commit suicide with, you will wind up alive and looking very stupid. (As a strange girl I went most of the way through Basic with found out.)
Keep your bellybutton clean. If you are taken in for emergency surgery, much of it today is laparoscopic, and they use the navel as a reliable anatomical landmark. We will make fun of you if it has more than a day's worth of lint. And if it is very encrusted, it increases your risk of infection.
Smoking is highly associated with bladder cancers, which are often misdiagnosed for years as bladder infections, leaving them a lot of time to grow well.
A bit of cayenne in a hot drink, like tea or cocoa, does wonders for a sore throat. A paste of it will heal up cuts and scrapes. Just go easy, and don't leave it on for more than an hour, and be careful not to get it in eyes. Which means, don't use it for kids.
Vanilla, even the cheap artificial kind, will take the smell of fresh paint out of a room. Just a small dish, or saucer of it, will work very well. A boon to my childhood, when the house was painted all the time, and I was ill from the fumes often.
Wheat germ, eaten daily, works as well as the commercial bulk fibers, but tends to cause less gas. Good in muffins and with cream of wheat.
Try to be positive in speech, rather than not negative. Amazing what it does for the attitude.
If you get a tattoo, that gel ice is great for taking out the pain, as well as the subsequent itch. Those gel ices can be stored in the freezer, and I earnestly tell you, for muscle pain, Ice is your Friend.
Avoid contempt, it poisons any relationship it touches. Even if it is your idiot boss. Contempt never allows change, and only elicits disdain. Bemused frustration is sufficient, and leaves wiggle room for improvement. Don't feed anger, by the same token. It is insatiable and will devour lives. Let it pass through like air through a net.
Call your friends, keep contact with them, even if you are busy. Especially if you are busy.
Elope.
Buzz all your hair off at least once in your life.
Rubbing alcohol in a spray bottle works great for flying insects. Well, badly for them.
No, you don't have to.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Embarrass
I am today not easily embarrassed. Partly because I do whatever I do with a conscious will to do my best. I am an honest person, with good will and integrity. I am not negligent or mean. When I am lazy, I announce it and flaunt it. "I am sitting down and not doing anything, you got a problem with that?" But only when I am sure there is nothing pressing to do. Mistakes and silliness are not reasons for embarrassment. Losing my temper, lashing out, is.
But what, exactly is embarrassment? That horrible feeling of being seen to be wrong or stupid, the sinking stomach, the blush, the heat. Shame is embarrassment when I feel I am wrong, stupid, worthless, or made to feel I am a bad person. Embarrassment -for this essay, is to feel that I have done wrong, and been caught. I have grown out of the impulse to be embarrassed when I have done nothing wrong- by the foolishness or shameful behaviour of others. I often apologize for the discomfort of others, but not out of blaming myself for other's lack of consideration.
As a child, I was painfully shy, I hated nosy attention, or being stared at. Oh, I wanted recognition, but only that, not praise or fuss. To hear, "Yes, that was done well." I cannot say that I have changed much on that. I will always duck out on public displays of honor, be it a graduation or an award. I was in an awful phone sales job, and someone found out I was at my one year wedding anniversary, and she made a big fuss with everyone gathered around. To me that was private, and they'd never met the guy, and I wasn't really such a blushing bride, not to mention I was having my doubts about marriage at all. They seemed to delight in putting me in a spot, and assuming they knew what I was feeling, "Aw, she's embarrassed, how cute!" Really I was angry at their presumption of intimacy with me. There was an element of embarrassment, like having someone walk in on me on the toilet, but it was more anger or irritation over an uninvited intrusion. Anger over people trying to shame me.
Another time I was at a friend's house, a whole lot of people that I didn't know or didn't know well, action movie playing way too loud way too late at night. I fell asleep -more or less, trying so hard to be tolerant for my dear one's sake, as they were mostly his friends. I finally had to move, as I was far too exhausted and the headache was too far gone, I was crying and upset, and I just wanted to go sit in the quiet of our rental car. One friend stopped me, tried to be consoling, I was embarrassed that I had been noticed-- and then lost all my self control, and I about bit his head off. I wasn't even that angry at the helper, so much as that he would not go away- trying too hard to be a good caring friend and doing all the wrong things. I felt I had to snarl to make him stop bringing everyone's attention to my loss of composure. My loss of control in front of friends was embarrassing.
Embarrassment involves a lot of anger for me, at intrusion and manipulation, thoughtlessness. I was in a high school play, and was to have my first kiss -on stage. I made my mother promise not to come, or at least not to let me know she was there-because I was feeling shy about my mother seeing my first kiss. Instead, she sat front and center with my father, uncle and aunt. I was furious. I still want to know what she thought I meant when I asked her not to come. I even gave her the option of coming for her sake, as long as I didn't see her, could keep my illusion of not her watching, and thought she had agreed. When I asked her after, she waffled, claimed she didn't think I meant it, or certainly - "Of course I had to come!" I am sure today she doesn't even remember.
Intentionally embarrassing anyone is mean, and thoughtless and manipulative, malicious humor. I do not act in a way I think is wrong, so any attempt to make me feel foolish is more about them than it is about me. My flaws and mistakes are honest, I have no illusions about them, and I can stand them being laughed at, since I can laugh at them myself. I have had lots of practice. As for when I have a come-apart and hurt those who are trying to help, I am still working on my anger, my temper, and keeping it from the undeserving. When I fail there, I am embarrassed.
But what, exactly is embarrassment? That horrible feeling of being seen to be wrong or stupid, the sinking stomach, the blush, the heat. Shame is embarrassment when I feel I am wrong, stupid, worthless, or made to feel I am a bad person. Embarrassment -for this essay, is to feel that I have done wrong, and been caught. I have grown out of the impulse to be embarrassed when I have done nothing wrong- by the foolishness or shameful behaviour of others. I often apologize for the discomfort of others, but not out of blaming myself for other's lack of consideration.
As a child, I was painfully shy, I hated nosy attention, or being stared at. Oh, I wanted recognition, but only that, not praise or fuss. To hear, "Yes, that was done well." I cannot say that I have changed much on that. I will always duck out on public displays of honor, be it a graduation or an award. I was in an awful phone sales job, and someone found out I was at my one year wedding anniversary, and she made a big fuss with everyone gathered around. To me that was private, and they'd never met the guy, and I wasn't really such a blushing bride, not to mention I was having my doubts about marriage at all. They seemed to delight in putting me in a spot, and assuming they knew what I was feeling, "Aw, she's embarrassed, how cute!" Really I was angry at their presumption of intimacy with me. There was an element of embarrassment, like having someone walk in on me on the toilet, but it was more anger or irritation over an uninvited intrusion. Anger over people trying to shame me.
Another time I was at a friend's house, a whole lot of people that I didn't know or didn't know well, action movie playing way too loud way too late at night. I fell asleep -more or less, trying so hard to be tolerant for my dear one's sake, as they were mostly his friends. I finally had to move, as I was far too exhausted and the headache was too far gone, I was crying and upset, and I just wanted to go sit in the quiet of our rental car. One friend stopped me, tried to be consoling, I was embarrassed that I had been noticed-- and then lost all my self control, and I about bit his head off. I wasn't even that angry at the helper, so much as that he would not go away- trying too hard to be a good caring friend and doing all the wrong things. I felt I had to snarl to make him stop bringing everyone's attention to my loss of composure. My loss of control in front of friends was embarrassing.
Embarrassment involves a lot of anger for me, at intrusion and manipulation, thoughtlessness. I was in a high school play, and was to have my first kiss -on stage. I made my mother promise not to come, or at least not to let me know she was there-because I was feeling shy about my mother seeing my first kiss. Instead, she sat front and center with my father, uncle and aunt. I was furious. I still want to know what she thought I meant when I asked her not to come. I even gave her the option of coming for her sake, as long as I didn't see her, could keep my illusion of not her watching, and thought she had agreed. When I asked her after, she waffled, claimed she didn't think I meant it, or certainly - "Of course I had to come!" I am sure today she doesn't even remember.
Intentionally embarrassing anyone is mean, and thoughtless and manipulative, malicious humor. I do not act in a way I think is wrong, so any attempt to make me feel foolish is more about them than it is about me. My flaws and mistakes are honest, I have no illusions about them, and I can stand them being laughed at, since I can laugh at them myself. I have had lots of practice. As for when I have a come-apart and hurt those who are trying to help, I am still working on my anger, my temper, and keeping it from the undeserving. When I fail there, I am embarrassed.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Violence
Despite hating, fearing it, my relationship with violence is complex, troubled, fearful and proud, guilty and sanctimonious. I have been swung at by patients, lived an abusive marriage. I do not hit people, not even in play anymore. I've shot M16s - Expert badge. I would never own a gun.
Small angry little girl, I beat up on my stuffed animals and dolls constantly. Threw them over the railing, smashed them into the floor, hit and stomped, with the intent of causing them pain, although on one level aware that they could not feel pain. In fact, that was why I beat on them, characters with an element of realness, but knowing I was not doing any real harm. My childhood anger was against the unfairness, the stupidity, the cruelty of my father. Although he never beat me, there were a few spankings, unjust ones, I learned nothing from them but that he was out of control, erratic, dangerous. They were not more than most parents at the time would have considered normal. I was not physically abused, it was the emotional bullying, the threat of strikes, the terror of an unpredictable authority, that has left me scarred. And grew in me an anger, raging violence, that lies there still.
I retaliated inside during his rages. Found out you can look at the bridge of a man's nose, and he cannot tell that you are not "looking at" him. I imagined hitting him, slashing at him with a knife, crushing his skull, and most satisfyingly, shooting a crossbow bolt through his mouth. Oh, I tried gentler thoughts first, prayers, images of martyrs, but nothing helped until I imagined the violence, shutting him up. When a man rages, throwing insane rants against you inches from your face for hours at a time, when you are a small child dependent on him for everything, the only defense is in your own mind. And a puny defense it is. I needed a more powerful weapon. My brother unwittingly provided it.
My oldest brother was beaten up in high school walking home from a dance, thug boys hit him in the head with a chain. A police officer found him and brought him home. Dave would be in the hospital with a concussion for the next week. When he got better, he learned all he could about self defense. And taught me. I would have been about 5. He frankly told me about fighting dirty, that if anyone bigger than me tried to hurt me, I was to fight however I could, gouge, scratch, kick, yell, go for the balls. Sometimes I think he got out some of his own aggression under the guise of teaching me, but I took the lessons anyway. My fear of being physically hurt was deep.
A girl in school decided she was going to fight me, I had no idea why - then or now. I was not going to put myself to the test for her idiocy, another irrational person trying to impose her will on me. I had no pride at all and made an uncharacteristic fuss to the teacher while lining up to go outside. That stopped the threat. I hated her for putting me in that ridiculous position. Most school teasing was more emotional, harassing me for being a "cry-baby," a true enough accusation, my labile temperament coming from my erratic home. Mostly, they were tears of anger, frustration. I would not escape the epithet until high school. I hated being picked on, of course, but it now pales in my memory. School taunts were like standing in ice water, while at home I was drowning in it. So if you bullied me in grade school, don't worry, I hardly noticed.
I had access to the library. I found the true crime section. I filled my head with the extremes of violence and perverse crimes. Read Helter Skelter, and a series of recollections by a homicide cop of his worst crimes. It filled my bloody mind, and salved some perverse part of me. Nasty images, that made my own hostility more normal. May have kept me from actually acting out my impulses, since the murderer was always brought to justice in stories. I stood behind my father one day with a knife in my hand, and hatred in my heart. I realized I wasn't sure where to cut, and I certainly didn't want to just make him mad. I would after consider what would happen, and the risks seemed much worse than just making it to 18 and leaving. The value of serious reading.
I grew up in Detroit, in a mildly poor area that would never see better days. Garages were broken into, gunshots were heard at night. When I went to college, it was at Wayne State, living a few blocks away from a notorious red light district. I saw drug deals taking place on the street. I walked all over campus, alone, at all hours. Never had any trouble. But it was always on my mind. An awareness, and a plan of what I would do.
I moved in with a guy. After we were engaged, he had been drinking, and slapped me backhanded, because I disagreed with him. I was furious. He apologized, promised it would never happen again, it was because he was drunk, and I shouldn't contradict him like that.... We would get married. He would get drunk again, it would happen again, at the rate of about once a year. Too scarce to see as serious, to me, at the time. During the last year, after I had gone through Army training, with every intention of leaving him, it got worse- weekly. Between the pleas of 'trying again' and the eruptions of violence, I was terrified, and caught. He shot his gun into the floor once, "just to see". I would be slammed up against the wall, thrown to the floor, slapped, raped- or allowed myself to be raped as a trade-off for being hit. I did what every abused spouse did, I put on make-up and felt ashamed. I had never hit anyone in anger. But once, he wanted me to hit him, to bring me down to his level, he egged me on, and I punched him in the chest. Instantly felt ashamed, sure that I had done wrong, but he was pleased, proof I suppose that I couldn't really hurt him. I felt like I'd sinned, I had even pulled the punch. Realized also that was the place on a man to least inflict damage. Knew I'd been manipulated. Disturbing interchange
It took a year for me to tell a friend, because I wanted a witness, so I would not let myself be shamed by still being there another year. I got us to a therapist. The day before that, he hit me while dead sober for the first time. Slammed me up against the washer, bruising my back, and held me there, fists jammed into my chest, more bruises. All the lessons for fighting dirty went through my mind, knowing his gun was in the other room. I knew him for a berserker, that resistance might prove more dangerous. I chose. I crumpled and begged for him not to hurt me. I begged for my life. I wept piteously. It was only a very slightly acting. I had no pride, and it still bothers me. I made the smart decision, the right decision, and it still feels awful. I want to hurt him. I still dream of shooting him, smashing his head against a concrete floor.
In the following years, I was urged by my dear one to give up the anger, stop yelling at other drivers, reacting with such hostility to slow waiters, and snapping at him. I came to the insight that anger is a toxic reaction to frustration, or the disappointment that life isn't perfect or fair. That frustration is the emotion, but anger the damaging, controllable, reaction. Gradually, I got out of the habit of rages- echoes of my father's rages. Like any addiction, I failed at times, but I was motivated to endure. For my love, for my sanity, for my soul. Gradually, gentleness took over my life, and joy followed.
And now? Surrounded by gentle people that I trust, I have let go of most of the rage. Until I hear about a violent rape, and think of how I would fight dirty. When I walk alone at night, I finger my keys ready to smash them into a nose, a groin. Almost as if by keeping such bloody thoughts in my mind, I will repel the violence. I still feel the urge to squeeze too hard, to push and slice, kick, bite. I try to let them flow through instead of damming them up inside, giving them no haven in me. I don't want to even ask if this is normal, it is normal for me, and I guard my gentleness as it grows.
Small angry little girl, I beat up on my stuffed animals and dolls constantly. Threw them over the railing, smashed them into the floor, hit and stomped, with the intent of causing them pain, although on one level aware that they could not feel pain. In fact, that was why I beat on them, characters with an element of realness, but knowing I was not doing any real harm. My childhood anger was against the unfairness, the stupidity, the cruelty of my father. Although he never beat me, there were a few spankings, unjust ones, I learned nothing from them but that he was out of control, erratic, dangerous. They were not more than most parents at the time would have considered normal. I was not physically abused, it was the emotional bullying, the threat of strikes, the terror of an unpredictable authority, that has left me scarred. And grew in me an anger, raging violence, that lies there still.
I retaliated inside during his rages. Found out you can look at the bridge of a man's nose, and he cannot tell that you are not "looking at" him. I imagined hitting him, slashing at him with a knife, crushing his skull, and most satisfyingly, shooting a crossbow bolt through his mouth. Oh, I tried gentler thoughts first, prayers, images of martyrs, but nothing helped until I imagined the violence, shutting him up. When a man rages, throwing insane rants against you inches from your face for hours at a time, when you are a small child dependent on him for everything, the only defense is in your own mind. And a puny defense it is. I needed a more powerful weapon. My brother unwittingly provided it.
My oldest brother was beaten up in high school walking home from a dance, thug boys hit him in the head with a chain. A police officer found him and brought him home. Dave would be in the hospital with a concussion for the next week. When he got better, he learned all he could about self defense. And taught me. I would have been about 5. He frankly told me about fighting dirty, that if anyone bigger than me tried to hurt me, I was to fight however I could, gouge, scratch, kick, yell, go for the balls. Sometimes I think he got out some of his own aggression under the guise of teaching me, but I took the lessons anyway. My fear of being physically hurt was deep.
A girl in school decided she was going to fight me, I had no idea why - then or now. I was not going to put myself to the test for her idiocy, another irrational person trying to impose her will on me. I had no pride at all and made an uncharacteristic fuss to the teacher while lining up to go outside. That stopped the threat. I hated her for putting me in that ridiculous position. Most school teasing was more emotional, harassing me for being a "cry-baby," a true enough accusation, my labile temperament coming from my erratic home. Mostly, they were tears of anger, frustration. I would not escape the epithet until high school. I hated being picked on, of course, but it now pales in my memory. School taunts were like standing in ice water, while at home I was drowning in it. So if you bullied me in grade school, don't worry, I hardly noticed.
I had access to the library. I found the true crime section. I filled my head with the extremes of violence and perverse crimes. Read Helter Skelter, and a series of recollections by a homicide cop of his worst crimes. It filled my bloody mind, and salved some perverse part of me. Nasty images, that made my own hostility more normal. May have kept me from actually acting out my impulses, since the murderer was always brought to justice in stories. I stood behind my father one day with a knife in my hand, and hatred in my heart. I realized I wasn't sure where to cut, and I certainly didn't want to just make him mad. I would after consider what would happen, and the risks seemed much worse than just making it to 18 and leaving. The value of serious reading.
I grew up in Detroit, in a mildly poor area that would never see better days. Garages were broken into, gunshots were heard at night. When I went to college, it was at Wayne State, living a few blocks away from a notorious red light district. I saw drug deals taking place on the street. I walked all over campus, alone, at all hours. Never had any trouble. But it was always on my mind. An awareness, and a plan of what I would do.
I moved in with a guy. After we were engaged, he had been drinking, and slapped me backhanded, because I disagreed with him. I was furious. He apologized, promised it would never happen again, it was because he was drunk, and I shouldn't contradict him like that.... We would get married. He would get drunk again, it would happen again, at the rate of about once a year. Too scarce to see as serious, to me, at the time. During the last year, after I had gone through Army training, with every intention of leaving him, it got worse- weekly. Between the pleas of 'trying again' and the eruptions of violence, I was terrified, and caught. He shot his gun into the floor once, "just to see". I would be slammed up against the wall, thrown to the floor, slapped, raped- or allowed myself to be raped as a trade-off for being hit. I did what every abused spouse did, I put on make-up and felt ashamed. I had never hit anyone in anger. But once, he wanted me to hit him, to bring me down to his level, he egged me on, and I punched him in the chest. Instantly felt ashamed, sure that I had done wrong, but he was pleased, proof I suppose that I couldn't really hurt him. I felt like I'd sinned, I had even pulled the punch. Realized also that was the place on a man to least inflict damage. Knew I'd been manipulated. Disturbing interchange
It took a year for me to tell a friend, because I wanted a witness, so I would not let myself be shamed by still being there another year. I got us to a therapist. The day before that, he hit me while dead sober for the first time. Slammed me up against the washer, bruising my back, and held me there, fists jammed into my chest, more bruises. All the lessons for fighting dirty went through my mind, knowing his gun was in the other room. I knew him for a berserker, that resistance might prove more dangerous. I chose. I crumpled and begged for him not to hurt me. I begged for my life. I wept piteously. It was only a very slightly acting. I had no pride, and it still bothers me. I made the smart decision, the right decision, and it still feels awful. I want to hurt him. I still dream of shooting him, smashing his head against a concrete floor.
In the following years, I was urged by my dear one to give up the anger, stop yelling at other drivers, reacting with such hostility to slow waiters, and snapping at him. I came to the insight that anger is a toxic reaction to frustration, or the disappointment that life isn't perfect or fair. That frustration is the emotion, but anger the damaging, controllable, reaction. Gradually, I got out of the habit of rages- echoes of my father's rages. Like any addiction, I failed at times, but I was motivated to endure. For my love, for my sanity, for my soul. Gradually, gentleness took over my life, and joy followed.
And now? Surrounded by gentle people that I trust, I have let go of most of the rage. Until I hear about a violent rape, and think of how I would fight dirty. When I walk alone at night, I finger my keys ready to smash them into a nose, a groin. Almost as if by keeping such bloody thoughts in my mind, I will repel the violence. I still feel the urge to squeeze too hard, to push and slice, kick, bite. I try to let them flow through instead of damming them up inside, giving them no haven in me. I don't want to even ask if this is normal, it is normal for me, and I guard my gentleness as it grows.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Chaos
Some lovely balanced people walk around with a ball of calm in their belly. Wherever they go, whatever they do, they spread intelligence, calm, peace, joy, laughter. We gravitate toward them, when we notice them at all, since they frequently do this without anyone noticing them, without realizing themselves their power, their quiet. But their lives go quietly along, and they roll with the punches and go with the flow, and usually nothing too bad happens to them, because they do not attract stupidity.
And then there are the other kind. Swarming, confused, angry, disturbing folks. They carry with them a ball of chaos in their belly, and no one around them can think straight, despite them reminding everyone what to do. They can be charming, or obnoxious, but they disorder the world around them. Bad outcomes happen to them, because no one can think straight around them, and they make mistakes they would never make usually. It is always the fault of everyone around them, as they rhino their way through other people's lives. Everyone knows them, and everyone warns everyone else.
I had a surgeon with a chaos ball. I called him Dr. Evil. He was a brilliant surgeon, would take over cases no one else would touch, but his patients had the devil of a time getting hold of him for follow up care. He once stopped me consoling his patient who was crying because I had to take care of Him first. He would get tired and sloppy. He treated the staff shabbily enough to be suspended from the hospital for six months -unheard of. I loathed him. He would tell staff "Hurry, hurry, hurry!" and I once told him that it was counterproductive, and he said "I know..."
Last week I got yelled at by a husband who wanted his wife to stay on a gurney, not move to a recliner (they had put her on the wrong way in the OR, so I couldn't put her head up to drink.) Why he thought a gurney was more comfortable I have no idea. She had hives with Fentanyl, which I had picked up and had given benedryl in her iv within 5 minutes. He yelled at me for not getting her the right medication. The resident had written her the wrong prescription, which we were correcting. Thankfully I had the back-up of my fellow nurses immediately, and everything was smoothed over. The patient herself was a bit of a loon which I found out when she woke up enough for me to realize. But I expect all her worry and mis-reported history lead to the errors. Set up a series of errors, and more mistakes will follow as flow gets interrupted. Anxious, chaotic people carry their chaos around with them, and influence others to make mistakes.
I once was a drama queen of small proportions, tended to be fascinated by the charming chaos generators. Married one. Perverse urge to fix it, I guess. My life improved when I decided not to marry discord, not invite it in the house, and eschew stupidity whenever I could. Gradually, like a freighter turning, my life came around, with agonizing slowness to teach me patience on the way. I said "I love..." more than "I hate...", and I found more to give me joy. I became calm, and my friends were kinder, waiters got my order right more often. I learned the worth of flow and a well ordered life. Not regimented, just sorted and easier. Do the prep work and then ease up. I am picky about essentials, and lax when it really doesn't matter. I don't think I am quite a peace generator yet, but I no longer attract chaos.
I did not do any of this alone.
And then there are the other kind. Swarming, confused, angry, disturbing folks. They carry with them a ball of chaos in their belly, and no one around them can think straight, despite them reminding everyone what to do. They can be charming, or obnoxious, but they disorder the world around them. Bad outcomes happen to them, because no one can think straight around them, and they make mistakes they would never make usually. It is always the fault of everyone around them, as they rhino their way through other people's lives. Everyone knows them, and everyone warns everyone else.
I had a surgeon with a chaos ball. I called him Dr. Evil. He was a brilliant surgeon, would take over cases no one else would touch, but his patients had the devil of a time getting hold of him for follow up care. He once stopped me consoling his patient who was crying because I had to take care of Him first. He would get tired and sloppy. He treated the staff shabbily enough to be suspended from the hospital for six months -unheard of. I loathed him. He would tell staff "Hurry, hurry, hurry!" and I once told him that it was counterproductive, and he said "I know..."
Last week I got yelled at by a husband who wanted his wife to stay on a gurney, not move to a recliner (they had put her on the wrong way in the OR, so I couldn't put her head up to drink.) Why he thought a gurney was more comfortable I have no idea. She had hives with Fentanyl, which I had picked up and had given benedryl in her iv within 5 minutes. He yelled at me for not getting her the right medication. The resident had written her the wrong prescription, which we were correcting. Thankfully I had the back-up of my fellow nurses immediately, and everything was smoothed over. The patient herself was a bit of a loon which I found out when she woke up enough for me to realize. But I expect all her worry and mis-reported history lead to the errors. Set up a series of errors, and more mistakes will follow as flow gets interrupted. Anxious, chaotic people carry their chaos around with them, and influence others to make mistakes.
I once was a drama queen of small proportions, tended to be fascinated by the charming chaos generators. Married one. Perverse urge to fix it, I guess. My life improved when I decided not to marry discord, not invite it in the house, and eschew stupidity whenever I could. Gradually, like a freighter turning, my life came around, with agonizing slowness to teach me patience on the way. I said "I love..." more than "I hate...", and I found more to give me joy. I became calm, and my friends were kinder, waiters got my order right more often. I learned the worth of flow and a well ordered life. Not regimented, just sorted and easier. Do the prep work and then ease up. I am picky about essentials, and lax when it really doesn't matter. I don't think I am quite a peace generator yet, but I no longer attract chaos.
I did not do any of this alone.
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