Nurse Ratchett's Alter Ego

It Came From The...

2007-12-08T12:43:00.000-05:00

I have a lot of talents, but housekeeping is not numbered among them.

As part of my move, I get a new fridge. So my 7 year old fridge goes to my bother, er brother, and his 10 year old fridge goes to my Mom because her garage fridge died after 20 years. And what Mom wants, Mom gets.

Of course, this is a good thing, but the big problem is that I have not actually done more than a cursory cleaning in the entire time I've owned it. Hey, it's cold in there, so it's not like mold and stuff can grow in it, right?

Wrong. I think I probably wiped out an entire new species of intelligent life. I had no idea (well, OK, I sorta did because I'd studiously avoided looking at it) how much sludgy stuff could collect in the bottom of the fridge under the drawers.

Luckily for my brother, I love him enough not to subject him to the horror of the flaccid grapefruit, the ancient tin of biscuits, the sickly wrinkled carrot, and the scary looking pickles which lurked in the back.

Let's just hope, for all our sakes, that the weather stays as cold as predicted...otherwise I am sure that the plague or some...thing newly come to conscious thought will emerge from my garbage can to terrify the world...

Tag! I'm It!

2007-12-03T14:26:00.000-05:00

The rules are simple:

Mention the person who tagged you and create a link back to them.
Copy-paste the traits for all the twelve months (see below).
Pick your month of birth.
Highlight the traits that apply to you.
Tag up to 12 people and let them know by visiting their blogs and leaving a comment for them, or emailing them.
Let the person who tagged you know when you've done it!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was born in November; that year Texas had a different Thanksgiving day than the rest of the United States (what a surprise, huh?) so I managed to be born on Thanksgiving. Hopefully everyone who knows me is STILL thankful I'm here!

NOVEMBER: Has a lot of ideas. I'd agree with this one; I have enough that I have a hard time staying focused.

Difficult to fathom. Not so much me; I feel like an open book.

Thinks forward. Sometimes.

Unique and brilliant. Yes to the first, probably not to the second.

Extraordinary ideas. Sharp thinking. Fine and strong clairvoyance. Sometimes I have out-of-the box ideas. My thinking is fuzzy; I rely more on intuition. Clairvoyance? If only.

Can become good doctors. Sure! If I wanted to do that much school...

Dynamic in personality. Maybe a little.

Secretive. Not so much.

Inquisitive. Knows how to dig up secrets. Oh yeah, baby! Can't hide it if I want to know it.

Always thinking. Nope.

Less talkative but amiable. Gotta say yes to this.

Brave and generous. No to the first, yes to the second.

Patient. Very.

Stubborn and hard-hearted. Very to the first, not at all to the second...one view of puppy eyes, and that's it. Every single person I know has learned to use the puppy eyes, darn it.

If there is a will, there is a way. Determined. Never give up. Yes, but I have to really, really want it.

Hardly becomes angry unless provoked. Definitely! It takes a LOT.

Loves to be alone. Sometimes.

Thinks differently from others. Seems to be true; there are a significant number of people who don't really "get" me.

Sharp-minded. Fuzzy minded more like it.

Motivates oneself. Yes!

Does not appreciate praises. Bring on those compliments and pile 'em higher and deeper, is what I say!

High-spirited. Often!

Well-built and tough. Eh.

Deep love and emotions. Romantic. Oh yes.

Uncertain in relationships. Only sometimes.

Homely. Oh Dog, I hope not!

Hardworking. Nope, creatively lazy.

High abilities. I'd like to make a pun here, but it would probably be too silly.

Trustworthy. Honest (yes!) and keeps secrets. I've only managed that a few times, please don't tell me any unless it's very, very important!

Not able to control emotions. Wrong!

Unpredictable. Only sometimes...and only when you least expect it!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here's the tricky part: past the fun of being tagged, the time has come to tag.
---

I'm not going to tag anyone here, but heck, I'd love to see what any of you now reading me have to say about yourselves.

---

If you don't have a blog, post your birth month with its highlighted traits as a comment. Feel free to tag within your comment as well but, rest assured, no doom will befall you if tags aren't passed along.

JANUARY: Stubborn and hard-hearted. Ambitious and serious. Loves to teach and be taught. Always looking at people's flaws and weaknesses. Likes to criticize. Hardworking and productive. Smart, neat and organized. Sensitive and has deep thoughts. Knows how to make others happy. Quiet unless excited or tensed. Rather reserved. Highly attentive. Resistant to illnesses but prone to colds. Romantic but has difficulties expressing love. Loves children. Loyal. Has great social abilities yet easily jealous. Very stubborn and money cautious.

FEBRUARY: Abstract thoughts. Loves reality and abstract. Intelligent and clever. Changing personality. Attractive. Sexy. Temperamental. Quiet, shy and humble. Honest and loyal. Determined to reach goals. Loves freedom. Rebellious when restricted. Loves aggressiveness. Too sensitive and easily hurt. Gets angry really easily but does not show it. Dislikes unnecessary things. Loves making friends but rarely shows it. Daring and stubborn. Ambitious. Realizes dreams and hopes. Sharp. Loves entertainment and leisure. Romantic on the inside not outside. Superstitious and ludicrous. Spendthrift. Tries to learn to show emotions.

MARCH: Attractive personality. Sexy. Affectionate. Shy and reserved. Secretive. Naturally honest, generous and sympathetic. Loves peace and serenity. Sensitive to others. Loves to serve others. Easily angered. Trustworthy. Appreciative and returns kindness. Observant and assesses others. Revengeful. Loves to dream and fantasize. Loves traveling. Loves attention. Hasty decisions in choosing partners. Loves home decors. Musically talented. Loves special things. Moody.

APRIL: Active and dynamic. Decisive and hasty but tends to regret. Attractive and affectionate to oneself. Strong mentality. Loves attention. Diplomatic. Consoling, friendly and solves people's problems. Brave and fearless. Adventurous. Loving and caring. Suave and generous. Emotional. Aggressive. Hasty. Good memory. Moving. Motivates oneself and others. Sickness usually of the head and chest. Sexy in a way that only their lover can see.

MAY: Stubborn and hard-hearted. Strong-willed and highly motivated. Sharp thoughts. Easily angered. Attracts others and loves attention. Deep feelings. Beautiful physically and mentally. Firm Standpoint. Needs no motivation. Easily consoled. Systematic (left brain). Loves to dream. Strong clairvoyance. Understanding. Sickness usually in the ear and neck. Good imagination. Good physical. Weak breathing. Loves literature and the arts. Loves traveling. Dislikes being at home. Restless. Not having many children. Hardworking. High spirited. Spendthrift.

JUNE: Thinks far with vision. Easily influenced by kindness. Polite and soft-spoken. Having ideas. Sensitive. Active mind. Hesitating, tends to delay. Choosy and always wants the best. Temperamental. Funny and humorous. Loves to joke. Good debating skills. Talkative. Daydreamer. Friendly. Knows how to make friends. Able to show character. Easily hurt. Prone to getting colds. Loves to dress up. Easily bored. Fussy. Seldom shows emotions. Takes time to recover when hurt. Brand conscious. Executive. Stubborn.

JULY: Fun to be with. Secretive. Difficult to fathom and to be understood. Quiet unless excited or tensed. Takes pride in oneself. Has reputation. Easily consoled. Honest. Concerned about people's feelings. Tactful. Friendly. Approachable. Emotional temperamental and unpredictable. Moody and easily hurt. Witty and sparkly. Not revengeful. Forgiving but never forgets. Dislikes nonsensical and unnecessary things. Guides others physically and mentally. Sensitive and forms impressions carefully. Caring and loving. Treats others equally. Strong sense of sympathy. Wary and sharp. Judges people through observations. Hardworking. No difficulties in studying. Loves to be alone. Always broods about the past and old friends. Likes to be quiet. Homely person. Waits for friends. Never looks for friends. Not aggressive unless provoked. Prone to having stomach and dieting problems. Loves to be loved. Easily hurt but takes long to recover.

AUGUST: Loves to joke. Attractive. Suave and caring. Brave and fearless. Firm and has leadership qualities. Knows how to console others. Too generous and egoistic. Takes high pride in oneself. Thirsty for praises. Extraordinary spirit. Easily angered. Angry when provoked. Easily jealous. Observant. Careful and cautious. Thinks quickly. Independent thoughts. Loves to lead and to be led. Loves to dream. Talented in the arts, music and defense. Sensitive but not petty. Poor resistance against illnesses. Learns to relax. Hasty and trusty. Romantic. Loving and caring. Loves to make friends.

SEPTEMBER: Suave and compromising. Careful, cautious and organized. Likes to point out people's mistakes. Likes to criticize. Stubborn. Quiet but able to talk well. Calm and cool. Kind and sympathetic. Concerned and detailed. Loyal but not always honest. Does work well. Very confident. Sensitive. Good memory. Clever and knowledgeable. Loves to look for information. Must control oneself when criticizing. Able to motivate oneself. Understanding. Fun to be around. Secretive. Loves leisure and traveling. Hardly shows emotions. Tends to bottle up feelings. Very choosy, especially in relationships. Systematic.

OCTOBER: Loves to chat. Loves those who love them. Loves to take things at the center. Inner and physical beauty. Lies but doesn't pretend. Gets angry often. Treats friends importantly. Always making friends. Easily hurt but recovers easily. Daydreamer. Opinionated. Does not care what others think. Emotional. Decisive. Strong clairvoyance. Loves to travel, the arts and literature. Touchy and easily jealous. Concerned. Loves outdoors. Just and fair. Spendthrift. Easily influenced. Easily loses confidence. Loves children.

NOVEMBER: Has a lot of ideas. Difficult to fathom. Thinks forward. Unique and brilliant. Extraordinary ideas. Sharp thinking. Fine and strong clairvoyance. Can become good doctors. Dynamic in personality. Secretive. Inquisitive. Knows how to dig up secrets. Always thinking. Less talkative but amiable. Brave and generous. Patient. Stubborn and hard-hearted. If there is a will, there is a way. Determined. Never give up. Hardly becomes angry unless provoked. Loves to be alone. Thinks differently from others. Sharp-minded. Motivates oneself. Does not appreciate praises. High-spirited. Well-built and tough. Deep love and emotions. Romantic. Uncertain in relationships. Homely. Hardworking. High abilities. Trustworthy. Honest and keeps secrets. Not able to control emotions. Unpredictable.

DECEMBER: Loyal and generous. Sexy. Patriotic. Active in games and interactions. Impatient and hasty. Ambitious. Influential in organizations. Fun to be with. Loves to socialize. Loves praises. Loves attention. Loves to be loved. Honest and trustworthy. Not pretending. Short tempered. Changing personality. Not egotistic. Take high pride in oneself. Hates restrictions. Loves to joke. Good sense of humor. Logical.

A Bouquet of a Dozen Red...

2007-11-22T22:26:00.001-05:00

Today was Thanksgiving dinner at my sister's house; I was delegated to bring mashed potatoes, so last night when I picked up my son, Gavin, from university, we stopped at the store to pick up a bag.

On the way back to the house, my son was looking at the lumpy bag and said, "Roses are overrated. Sure, they're beautiful, but they die in a couple of days. They're all show and no substance."

He was silent for a moment and then continued, "Potatoes, now...potatoes are romantic. They're everything you want love to be. They may not look like much, but they're sustaining and nourishing. They stay good a long time. And they're useful! Why, you can even use one to make a potato clock! Much better than roses!"

Now, Gavin has never dated, and says he's not ready yet. But those are some pretty deep thoughts about love (well, maybe not the potato clock part).

I hope someday he meets his soul mate; someone who can appreciate sustaining, nourishing, useful love, wrapped up messily in a very eccentric package.

And I don't think I'll ever look at potatoes in quite the same way.

Double Yuck!

2007-11-13T23:09:00.000-05:00

DON'T read this if you get queasy easily. Really. You've been warned.

I've said it before, but it's worth saying again: I was never, ever going to be a nurse. It's my family profession, pretty much, and I was NOT going to do it. I used to become lightheaded from looking at hypodermic needles, once fainted at the sight of blood, and could not tolerate the least of bad smells.

Then I had pets. And kids. And every bodily fluid that could be spilled on me, eventually was. Silly me, I thought I was inured to disgusting stuff, so when I realized how much a nursing degree would benefit me, I dived right in.

I was SO wrong. During nursing school, I'd occasionally encounter something that would make me vomit (this did NOT thrill my patients) and once passed out during a surgical procedure that involved cauterization (between the sizzling sound and the smell, I just couldn't take it).

So I learned that there were certain things I couldn't look at, and certain things that I should avoid smelling if at all possible (a little Vick's VapoRub right under the nose works wonders).

This week, I encountered one of those smells, and I don't think Vick's would have helped, even if I'd had any.

I'm doing a study which requires fecal samples. Now, in general, I can send a kit home with my patient, and the patient will collect the sample and send it in. And I figured I'd never have to collect one, because really: who poops on command?

Evidently, at least one person in the world CAN and DID.

The disorder I am studying often makes for fatty, oily stools which have (to say the least) an intense stench. And this particular person was far more intense than most, so that the entire clinic seemed to choke on the fog of fumes issuing from the bathroom. With my eyes tearing from the noisome smell, gagging and retching furiously, I dashed in and collected what I needed and then flushed the rest.

Of course, EVERYONE in the clinic could hear me gag (and some of them were ALSO gagging). When I emerge, triumphant, my sample sealed in its container, the patient's family all look at me and start to laugh.

Patient's dad: "Hey, it could be worse! You should have been on the plane the year we went to Disneyland!"

Patient's mom: "Yes, the smell followed him out of the plane bathroom -- it was so thick you almost thought you could SEE it."

Patient: "Yeah, you could sure tell as soon as it got to the each row of seats! People started gagging!"

Patient's dad: "You should have seen the stewardess run back there!"

All three then laugh and high five each other...I am so glad it's a source of humor, and not a source of shame...and I'm also very glad I was NOT on that plane!

And also this week, my daughter, Alex, called with her own story of supreme yuckiness.

She's taking microbiology this semester, and for one of her labs she had to grow some bacteria at home. So she swabbed one of her dog's ears and put it in the culture medium, and it was growing quite nicely, with lumpy and smelly, yellow, black, green and red fuzzy crud covering a dinner plate.

Yesterday, one of her dogs jumped up on the table and licked the plate clean.

Not only is she avoiding dog kisses until she gets over the ick factor, but she gets to tell her instructor that "The dog ate my homework!"

Phlebotomy Bites

2007-11-06T17:40:00.000-05:00

Kids are supposed to be the easiest group to hypnotize, and that's been my experience until today.

Picture this: a short and slight, gap-toothed, touseled hair, cherubic preteen with more than a hint of mischief in his eyes -- completely adorable.

He was here to participate in a study, but he was unsure about the blood draws, due to past bad experiences, so I offered hypnosis, and he was agreeable.

First, he wanted to know about my skills. "Do you have a license?" I was a bit taken aback at this unexpected interrogation by a half-pint, and explained that I had a year of school specifically for hypnotherapy and that this state doesn't require a license. So that was OK.

Then we got down to the actual hypnosis session. Sitting on mom's lap, his funnybone was tickled pretty early on, and he couldn't stop laughing (although he really did try). I was sweating it (literally! drops of sweat beading on my forehead) as I crooned my best hypnotic voice and racked my brain for my next stratagem as he failed to slip into hypnosis with my best inductions: "eyes heavy", "relaxation breathing" and "magic story".

It wasn't until I made him do the "relaxation count" that I finally put him under, and even then he counted to 25 (most people don't make it past 5).

And success! He finally collapsed into a little heap and took all my suggestions readily. And when it came time to test it out -- no pain, no pressure, no problem...and he even watched when I put the needle in.

Afterwards, he said, "I'm going to hypnotize all my friends now!"

Oh dear. What have I done?

Wheeee!

2007-11-02T15:21:00.000-04:00

Every once in a while, I get a nice perk with the job. This time? Five days in Puerto Rico, with only one day spent in meetings!

Not only that, but it's in January, so I get a brief escape from winter!

You Must Be This Tall to Ride...

2007-10-30T18:37:00.000-04:00

Get a Cash Advance

Or at least this intelligent to stick around!

My Swinging Lifestyle

2007-10-30T00:24:00.000-04:00

Two months ago, I started doing one of the things I've always wanted to do -- learn to dance. I tried a couple of different types (salsa, waltz), and finally settled on West Coast Swing.

Swing is a partner dance. It's energetic, fast and fun, and you can inject a lot of your own personal style into the moves. It's really kind of a show-off, look-at-me dance.

Everyone learns the same essential moves, but because it can be so individualistic, you have to dance with lots of partners to really be good at it. My Swing Club has practice dances after all the lessons, with a mix of students from beginners to dance champions...and I make it a point to dance with all of 'em.

I have my favorites...there's the young muscley blond guy with the shy smile who has a great lead; the stylish gay guy with the fancy footwork; the enthusiastic older guy with thinning hair who never, ever gets tired and never says no; the tall skinny middle-aged guy with the handlebar mustache who seems as happy to dance as I am, even though he's slow to catch on; and the little short guy who is so breathtakingly GOOD that he makes all his partners look great.

Not only are we a mix of experience, we are a mix of ages and lifestyles and races, and dancing is our common ground.

None of it matters, only the dancing. The music and movement give me something that I just can't get anywhere else.

And...after 8 weeks in the beginner class, I passed the dance test to move up to advanced beginner...and the notoriously uncomplimentary test giver even told me that I'm light on my feet!

Anyone Home?

2007-10-27T00:16:00.000-04:00

Gee, it's kind of dark and echo-y. It's been a long time. There are cobwebs in the corners.

Things have changed a lot, but at the same time, in many ways things haven't changed at all.

I miss this place. I miss the people who used to sometimes meet me here. I'm not quite sure why I stayed away so long, and I'm not quite sure that I won't disappear again.

But I think it's time to write a bit more.

Do You Hear What I Hear? Probably not...

2006-12-25T21:40:00.000-05:00

I have a theory that some people who have a severe and chronic psychiatric illness or addiction cease to mature emotionally at the onset of the illness. It's true that people with severe psychiatric illnesses tend to be very concrete in their thinking, unable to grasp even the simple metaphors we use in proverbs; often have trouble making decisions using good judgement; often tend to have magical thinking; and often revert to childhood behaviors when they are frightened or stressed. While some of these behaviors may be true for all of us at times, for people who are severely emotionally ill, these can be a way of life.

That's one reason why I like to work Christmas Eve night on the psych ward. Those who have trouble sleeping all the rest of the year will often go to bed willingly, as though this is their last chance to be good before Christmas. Not only that, but it's rare to get admissions then.

This year, though, when I arrived at the unit, I was afraid it was going to be much different than I expected.

On entering the unit, I was accosted by a diminutive white haired lady, who walked right up to me, pointed her finger at me and (in a broad twang) said accusingly, "I know who YOU are!"

"Oh?" I said.

"You're the one who's been ropin' cattle with Big Hoss down at the ranch. That's who YOU are!"

She glared at me for a moment, then turned and stalked down the hall to her room.

The next patient to talk to me, a distinguished looking man, glared at me and then proclaimed (in the best booming TV preacher voice I've ever heard), "I SEE it! I see SIN written all over you! SIN! In BIG RED LETTERS!" And then HE turned around and stomped down the hall to his room.

And it was STILL the quietest night I've had on the adult unit in months. We didn't have to give a single medication, no one got out of bed, and the only incident was the woman who faked a seizure (trust me that a person who is jiggling her legs under the blanket and calmly telling you she's having a seizure, is NOT having a seizure). Even she wouldn't have been awake, though if it wasn't for the order to wake her up and give her a snack.

I think the "preacher", though, must have had some inside information, because it was painfully obvious that once again, Santa had not shown up to shower me with expensive presents (Gavin made out like a bandit, though). At least I got to eat the cookies and drink the milk. Take that, Santa!

HUHO -- Traps for Fruit Flies & Fleas, No Poison Necessary!

2006-12-03T21:07:00.000-05:00

Lauren at Faux Real has started a carnival of Help Us Help Ourselves, for those of us who have struggled through life and found some nontraditional and cheap solutions for our problems.

As a pet owner and banana lover, I've had the occasion to rid the house of fruit flies and fleas at various times, and have managed to do so without poisons or exterminators. Sure, it takes a little longer, but these solutions are practically free and even better, they work.

First the fruit flies:

Materials needed:
Clear glass jar or drinking glass that you don't mind throwing away
Sheet of paper
Lots of clear tape
A few banana or apple slices, the riper the better

Curl the paper into a cone with a tiny hole at the bottom and tape the side, leaving the hole open.

Put the fruit slices into the bottom of the glass (I am currently out of bananas so my picture doesn't show any fruit in there).

Put it point down into your clear glass receptacle but don't allow the paper to touch the bottom or the fruit.

Use lots of tape to fix in place and completely shut off any way out of the receptacle except for that tiny hole (if you don't have the wider tape, plastic wrap can be used in a pinch).

Set it out on your counter. The fruit flies will be attracted to the fruit, they'll fly in through the tiny hole and then try to get out through the clear glass sides.

When you don't see any fruit flies outside the glass, put the glass in your trash outside. If you want to keep the glass, you can open it up -- but make sure you do it outside.

Now the fleas:

Materials you will need:

Small sturdy lamp or nightlight with a bulb of at least 20w (use the nightlight if you think your pets will knock over a lamp)
Large bowl or Rubbermaid type container
Soap
Water

Fill the bowl with soapy water. Turn on the light and position it over the bowl (if you are using a nightlight, then position the bowl under the nightlight). Put one of these in every room in which you have fleas.

The fleas will be attracted to the warmth of the light. They will jump to it and then fall into the bowl. The soapy water keeps the surface tension high enough to prevent them jumping or swimming out.

This takes a week or so but works very well with very little mess. Just be sure to put out plenty of clean water so your pets won't be tempted to drink the soapy stuff.

50th Birthday Blues

2006-12-02T23:51:00.000-05:00

Now, most people would think that title means that being 50 is hard, and that I don't like getting older.

On the contrary, as a dear friend used to say, "Every day above ground is a good one!" I was excited about this birthday, a watermark day, a half a century achieved, happy with myself and my life. I've been practicing for 50 since I was 45 (you know, you tell people you're 50, and by the time you get there, it's old hat. In another couple of years, I'll be practicing for 60).

On my 40th birthday, when I woke up I wished for something different. I was not happy. I did get my something different; I got a divorce (look in the archives if you're curious; I have a better divorce story than anyone else I know), I enrolled in nursing school while working full time (and graduated, and passed the NCLEX in 30 minutes), I had full responsibility for two preteen kids, dated a lot, and finally moved back to Oklahoma. It was a roller coaster ride of a decade.

I am still happy. But I am also very sad.

When I got my divorce, my ex-in-laws told me that I would forever remain an honorary member of the family, and even if I wanted to leave, it was NOT allowed. Instead of in-laws, I have out-laws, and one of them, Deborah, even loaned me the money to divorce her brother.

So yes, I love them, and my life remains entwined with them to some degree, but I am most fond of Deborah; she even considers herself my daughter's second mother.

Deborah's husband Robert went to the doctor the Wednesday before Thanksgiving with headaches.

The doc was smart enough to order an MRI, which revealed a brain mass, and surgery was scheduled for the Friday after Thanksgiving.

It was a malignant tumor, and they took it out.

After the surgery, he was on my sister's ICU unit and when I asked her, she fixed it so Deborah could stay with him instead of only staying for visiting hours. Such a small thing, but the only thing I could do.

By Sunday, he was in a coma and on life support. By Thursday, he had died; 36 years old, leaving behind a wife who adored him and two small children. He was the funniest and most open minded of all my out-laws and I will miss him.

My 50th birthday was Wednesday. Yes indeed, every day above ground IS a good one. Every day is a gift and a treasure. I only wish Robert could have many more of them.

Share the Wealth

2006-09-18T13:51:00.000-04:00

Last week, one of the MDs I work with said, "I wish I had your zest for life."

It's a gift, this joy, and I think I was given that to balance the sorrow that an extremely tender heart often gives me.

Things that seem small to others -- birds chirping, blue skies, a friendly face -- make my heart sing; while that's a trite way to put it, that's exactly how it feels.

At the same time, other things which people seem to manage to avoid thinking about -- a squashed squirrel, a sad face, an obituary of a stranger -- these leave an ache. When I can help, I don't hurt; but when I can't help, it hurts.

My children are the same way; when they were younger, even though we all knew the animal on the side of the road was dead, we'd all reassure each other with, "It's resting. Just resting. Fast asleep." It was our conspiracy of kindness for each other, helping us protect our emotions...and in helping each other, the original hurt we couldn't help was soothed for us.

Sometimes I think I should have helped my children learn to be emotionally tougher, except that I'm not sure how I would have done that...or that I would have been happy with that result in the long run. I have to admit that it gives me great delight to see my son rescue drowning earthworms, or to hear about my daughter coaxing a scared lost dog from the highway into her car and then finding it a home.

Learning to understand my sadness was my key to finding joy.

So Doc, I hope you can find your zest for life; I've talked with you enough to know you have the sadness down. Perhaps you need your own conspiracy of kindness, and find your delights in the world around you. They're here -- open your eyes and look.

Rate Your Pain

2006-09-17T18:50:00.000-04:00

Pain is the 5th vital sign (after BP, pulse, respirations, and temp), according to what I was told in nursing school. Pain is an indicator of things gone wrong, and it's also ethically wrong to leave a patient in pain if it can be avoided.

At one of my jobs (head and neck), pain is taken very seriously, and strong drugs are prescribed on a fairly regular basis, because a lot of what we treat is cancer, which is very painful. At my other job, however, pain is often ignored, because some (not all) psych patients desperately want the high that pain meds can give.

Last night, we happened to have a patient with compartment syndrome. Of the four of us working, none of us knew what this was, so we looked it up. Compartment syndrome is a condition in which an area of the leg will be injured (possibly by having circulation cut off), and this results in chronic, long-term pain which is much worse than the condition seems to warrant...yet the psychiatrist had only prescribed Tylenol, and nothing stronger.

So we started talking about pain, and pain ratings. Normally, we ask patients to rate pain on a scale of 0-10, with 0 being "none" and 10 being the "worst imaginable".

Most cancer patients rarely rate their pain as high as 10. Most psych patients rarely rate their pain as less than 10, perhaps because they are afraid they will not be taken seriously...or perhaps because they are desperate for the brief relief from reality that enough morphine or demerol will give them. And most psych nurses have no patience with med-seeking behaviors.

One of the long-time psych nurses said, "When they rate their pain as a 10, I always want to say, 'if someone stuck a dagger in your heart, would that hurt worse? Yes? Then it's not a 10, IS IT?'" While none of us would ever say this, even to a patient who appeared to be drug seeking, it struck us as very funny. Of course, at 4:30am, with my 3 coworkers each nearing the end of a double shift, everything is funny.

When I came home, Gavin happened to be awake, savoring the last of his weekend and already dreading Monday.

Gavin, groaning: "Oh, Mom, it's school tomorrow. Monday is like Tuesday, only it's evil. It's awful. Mondays HURT."

So, I asked him to rate his pain on a scale of 0-10, and when he rated it as 10, I asked, "If someone stuck a dagger in your heart, would that hurt worse?"

Gavin: "If someone stuck a dagger in my heart, I wouldn't have to go to school! I could join the circus and be the 'Dagger in the Heart Boy' and everyone would pay to see me! And no school again, ever!"

Why is it that my conversations with Gavin always seem to veer off into weirdness? (I have to admit, though, I take a lot of joy in it...)

Crime and Punishment

2006-09-14T17:07:00.001-04:00

My children are spoiled rotten. And it's all their own fault.

Early on, both kids realized the futility of screaming, having fits, arguing, or any of those other negative ways to achieve desires.

I can hold out against those things forever; they only make me more firm in whatever decision I have made.

What I can't resist, though, are Puppy Eyes.

I think Alex was 6 or 7 before she discovered this -- in some mysterious way, her eyes would grow twice as big and slightly glassy (as though tear filled), her lips turn ever so slightly down, eyebrows slightly raised, head tilted to the side, chin tilted down, and her brow furrowed...and she'd gaze up at me as though her last hope had just disappeared.

It was a look that would break the hardest heart. It turned me to mush in an instant, and after that, "No" became "Maybe" and finally, "Yes".

After that, any discipline I was able to muster swiftly dissipated with each glimpse of Puppy Eyes.

And then Gavin learned the secret too, and I was lost.

Luckily, they have never abused their power. They've learned to use Puppy Eyes for Good instead of Evil.

It's funny, though, to have a 6 foot tall, scraggly-bearded, 17-year-old boy on the cusp of manhood make Puppy Eyes at me. How can he be taller than me and STILL manage to be gazing up at me while we're both standing?

It's all part of the Puppy Eyes magic. And it means I'm bringing home pizza after work.

Freaks

2006-09-11T18:44:00.000-04:00

I joined Netflix a couple of months ago, and Gavin and I have been indulging ourselves once a week or so with the classic, old, or strange movies that we could never find at Blockbuster. Gavin's a fan of the noir genre (partly because of the ultra cool hats), and I've always liked old films, so we have a good time with it.

We saw a movie I've wanted to see for a long time -- Freaks -- and it was even darker than I thought it would be. If you've never seen this movie, it's about a circus in which there are two distinct groups: the "normal" people and the "sideshow" people and the interactions between the two groups. There are no special effects; the sideshow folks play themselves.

Since this is a pre-PC movie, I feared it would be belittling or sensational (especially since it also involves an attempted murder), but it wasn't. The physical differences are portrayed in a matter-of-fact way, and by the end of the movie, it's plain that the "freaks" are those so-called "normal" people who have emotional and ethical handicaps.

I've noticed, over the past few years, my increasing invisibility as I age. Stranger's eyes slide over and past me without stopping; most don't talk unless I talk first. In fact, the people who most usually interact with me spontaneously are other women my age.

I am not quite sure I can put down in words the elusive thoughts that connect my feelings of invisibility to the movie. The connections are there, tied up in societal definitions of beauty and our current narrow definition of it. I know so few women who are truly happy with their bodies, truly comfortable within their own skin..."I have to lose a few pounds"..."look at this fat roll"..."my nose is too big"..."I can't stand this cellulite".

I look at my friends, though, and they are gorgeous. *We* are gorgeous. We've earned every one of our years, sometimes at high cost, and we've persevered. We're the survivors of our generation and we have much to share with the world around us.

When I look at women's magazines, the "beauty tips" are all about "this year's face" or "this year's look". Do we really all have to look the same to be attractive? Because that's the thing about older women: we look lived in. Who and what we are is written on our faces and our bodies. There's no "this year's look" for us; we have each found our own way to look, and our own style, and sometimes I wonder if that's why society doesn't want to deal with us. Like the "freaks" in the movie, we're individuals. As young adults, we could try on different personas, different ways to look, and we could blend in with the crowd if we wished. As we get older, though, our individuality becomes too great to hide behind similar makeup and similar fashions. Our life experiences have marked us. We don't all fit in the same tidy package...and most of us don't want to anymore.

Or maybe it's just me, and I'm doomed to become the crazy cat lady down the block.

Define "Boring"

2006-09-06T23:47:00.000-04:00

Gavin: Mom, would you buy me a copy of Dante's Inferno?

Me: Sure. Do you need it for school?

Gavin: No, but my psychology class is really boring...and if I hide it inside my textbook, then Mrs. Harris won't realize I'm actually reading something else.
Besides, I've always wanted to read it.

------

Gavin has the most surprising choices of reading material (the last thing he asked me to buy was the Tao Te Ching)...and yes, I bought it. If he wants to read The Inferno instead of listening to the high school psychology teacher expound on telekinesis (yes, that was one of their units), then I'm all for that.

Curiosity Didn't Kill the Nurse -- but it was close...

2006-03-24T16:32:00.000-05:00

I had to have a "procedure" yesterday, nothing difficult, just a same day surgery to make life a little easier and maybe get the whole menopause thing to kick into a higher gear. I didn't even tell my daughter until the night before because it just wasn't that important.

Although I've felt better, I don't feel all that bad today...although I would have taken today off work if I didn't have a cart full of charts and a deadline in which to review them.

I wouldn't even have blogged about it, if it weren't for the mystery.

Who sent me flowers? 10 red and white roses, to be specific. Delivered to my desk in my department this afternoon and signed only, "Thinking of You".

They're not from Roger. I called the florist, and they can only tell me that someone from out of town sent them. My daughter didn't send them (although she says if she'd thought of it, she would have). Mom would have signed the card "Love, Mom". My brother would have signed it "ooga-booga" or "The Greatest Steve the World Has Ever Known". Robyn would have sent me something she made (she makes incredibly cool stuff). Gavin lives here (and has no money and wouldn't know how to go about ordering flowers). My sister lives here. My nieces don't have a clue where I work. A vendor or pharma company would surely have put something different on the card. My exhusband won't even send me his half of Gavin's dental bills, much less flowers. It's unlikely that any of my other friends from out of town know that I work in this department...so who the heck sent them?

Curiosity makes me crazy. All my life, I've understood just how the proverbial cat felt.

Even so, someone's apparently random act of kindness sure made my day (and has the whole department talking -- and it's fun to be the object of office envy for a day). So, Mysterious Person, thank you!

Extreme Volunteering

2006-03-20T17:19:00.000-05:00

I spent most of the day Saturday working with a pet rescue group, getting ready for OKC's Giant Charity Garage Sale.

Instead of working directly with pets (which I've found to be dangerous -- more on that later), I get to work with people's castoff stuff...unloading, pricing, packing and stacking...in another couple of weeks, we'll move all of it out to the fairgrounds and then spend some very long days wheeling and dealing and amassing money by nickels and dimes for homeless animals.

This is a great thing to do in the springtime, in warm sunshine and balmy breezes, with a crew of similarly minded folks (pet rescue people tend to be a lot of fun). We work out of a storage unit facility, so there's no heating and no air conditioning, and little protection from the elements when the doors are open.

This Saturday it was 38 degrees and pouring rain. Most of the crew didn't show up (probably wimped out like my friend Bev), so those of us who did worked like...like...well, not any dogs I know. My dogs tend to spend a lot of time lazing on pillows, even acknowledging my return home with a couple of tail thumps and perhaps an ear perk if they're feeling particularly lively. I suppose I could say that we worked like nurses...

Surprisingly, though, the bad weather brought out the donors in record numbers. Maybe it just seemed like record numbers because there were so few of us to get the work done, or maybe because the rain made for lots of extra work because the Oklahoma winds drove it sideways and right into our faces; we had to work so far back in the storage unit that it was hard to move around.

One couple dropped off 10 to 12 big, heavy boxes of stuff. When we opened them, they all turned out to be trash -- empty plastic bottles, burned out electrical equipment, broken pots. I can't figure out why they did this, unless they wanted a tax receipt without actually donating anything.

Most people, though, brought stuff that should be fairly easy to sell -- furniture, working small electrics, toys, craft stuff, clothes, shoes, dishes, pots, decorative and holiday stuff, even an English saddle...which someone marked $20 until I made them remark it. That riding stuff is expensive.

If you've gotten this far, you are probably wondering why I find it dangerous to work with the shelter animals.

Every time I do, I take one home. I just can't stand the thought of homeless dogs and cats. And since I'm down to two dogs and a lizard, I feel somewhat guilty that I haven't taken in another pet...all it would take would be pleading brown eyes looking into mine, or a hairy body leaning on my leg.

Nurse vs. Leprechaun

2006-03-17T10:40:00.000-05:00

St. Patrick's Day is inextricably linked for me with my friend Bev. She has classical Irish good looks -- fair skin, red hair, and green eyes -- and is very proud of her Irish heritage. For the past 7 years, we've been talking about taking a trip to Ireland once Gavin graduates from high school.

I hope we pull it off. We're looking at B&Bs, couchsurfing (which I have actually tried and enjoyed -- thanks to Adele of Albuquerque), and a bicycle or walking tour; we hope to stay for 2-4 weeks. Bev's quite a homebody (she has perfected the art of "if you can't find happiness in your own backyard, you can't find it anywhere") but she assures me that we will make this happen. We're within a year or two of talking this trip, and I'm starting to get the trip planning itch.

She and I used to work together long ago, doing schizophrenia studies. On one St. Patrick's Day, we were visiting our patients in the hospital, and this conversation ensued with a psychotic but gregarious young man. Bev was wearing an apple green blouse that day, which really set off her eyes and hair.

Patient to Bev: "Are you a doctor?"
Bev (head down, writing a note in a chart): "No."
Patient: "Well then, are you a leprechaun?"

Both Bev and I are very good at accepting whatever we hear without a blink, but I can't begin to tell you how hard we laughed at this. Luckily, the patient seemed to think it was hilarious too.

2006-03-09T18:01:00.000-05:00

His eyes are closed, long lashes black against the roses of his cheek. Golden stubble covers his chin where his beard has started to grow in. His chest moves up and down. The vein at the side of his neck pulses rhythmically. He looks peaceful; and it seems as though he is sleeping soundly, but might wake at any time.

Except that he won't; the scans all indicate that there is nothing left of Jeron's intellect. I hope his spirit stuck around long enough to see how much his family and friends love him.

They will turn the machines off tonight. He'd elected to give the gift of himself to someone in need, so perhaps he will spare another family the grief he has given his own.

Goodbye, Jeron. Someday I hope to see what you look like with your wings on.

2006-03-08T17:29:00.000-05:00

No good news -- Jeron still has no gag reflex, no pain reflex, little pupil reflex, and is breathing with the aid of a vent. More tests tonight, and my daughter and her husband are here.

In the past few days, I've begun to question my own kids' emotional stability. Well, that's not entirely true -- Alex is very free with her emotions, thoughts, and feelings, so it's never very difficult to know what her mood is and what she wants or needs...and she doesn't just give up if she doesn't get what she needs, either. She will get it one way or another. She is a very caring person, though, so she never tramples others to get her needs met.

Gavin, on the other hand, rarely ever shares his inner landscape (although he, too, is an obviously caring individual). If Alex is a force of nature, Gavin is the immovable object. A struggle of wills between these two is like witnessing worlds collide.

Since I figured he wouldn't tell me he was depressed even if I asked, I told him he was never allowed to commit suicide, hoping to determine his thoughts on the subject by his reaction to the question.

I shouldn't have worried.

Raised eyebrow, extremely surprised look: "Mom, why would I ever do that? Oh, wait...what if...[furrowed brow]what if...[suddenly speaking faster, words gushing out] what if I were captured by evil Commie Overlords and I alone knew the key chemical combination to make a biotoxin that would kill millions, and they were torturing me, and I was afraid I'd break down and give it to them...could I kill myself then?"

I gave him the Mom Look instead of an answer. But if it came to that, then yes, Gavin, you may kill yourself to save the Entire Free World. But even then, I'll still be mad at you.

2006-03-07T08:42:00.000-05:00

Brothers -- Davin and Jeron.

2006-03-06T17:34:00.000-05:00

It's been a long time, and I needed the break; the holidays were tough, but I managed, and now it's spring and things are blooming, love surrounds me, and life goes on.

Except sometimes it doesn't, or it doesn't in the way you wish it would.

There's a guy who works here at the university. He's a janitor, a little older than me, short, overweight, adores his wife (who has some major health problems), always has something kind to say, remembers everyone's name, has a smile and a greeting for all, and never, ever complains. You look at him, and your thought is: Happy. He's content. He's glad to be alive. Yet another man in his position might resent the job, avoid the people, complain about his wife, and keep his eyes on the ground. Instead, he makes everyone's day a little brighter. You just know that he carries joy with him, all day long, and by giving bits of joy away, he gets even more back.

I like to call this the "Little Mary Sunshine" method of life motivation. It's not for everyone. There aren't that many of us out there, and most of them are far sunshinier than me, but that's OK, because it isn't a competition. It's a way of life. Life is good, even if it hasn't been quite what I expected, and even if it took way too many years to realize that and find the joy in every day. My off-the-straight-and-narrow-road adventures have made me the person I am today, and I'm not sure I'd trade that for an easier ride.

Last night, though, a 26-year-old man, the brother of my son-in-law, decided to try and cut his own life short. He's in ICU and no one can say if he's going to pull through or not; there is no way to know.

He's young, tall and handsome, never had to worry about his health. There are so many "if only"s from his family members, so many "why"s, "I wish"s or "I should have"s. I have them too, even though I was only peripherally involved with his life. We want to be able to blame ourselves, even though that won't make things better and will only make us feel worse.

It was a struggle for me to learn to live and thrive with the crap life has given me, but somehow I managed. Why isn't it easier to share that hard-won knowledge?

I wish I could have helped. While I know there wasn't anything for me to do, I still feel as though I have somehow let everyone down; and if I feel this way, how must his mom feel? His brother? His dad? Yet, in the end, there was really nothing any of them could have done either.

I'd give him all the years I had left if it would bring him back and allow him to understand that life is good. Even if all you can do is sit and feel the sun on your face.

If anyone out there is reading this and contemplating suicide -- please, PLEASE tell someone, and keep telling people until someone understands that you are serious. Give life a chance. Give your friends and family the chance to help you; asking for help is not weak, and it is not too much trouble, and you are not a burden.

For anyone else who reads this, I hope you take the time today to sit in the sun (or some other place that makes you happy) and enjoy that sense of being that is so freely given to all of us. Take joy in your life; I hope Jeron will someday, somehow find a sense of joy in his own.

The Second Oldest Profession

2005-10-17T21:22:00.000-05:00

My friend Bev likes to say that nursing is the second oldest profession. She's probably right.

Saturday night, I worked adult psych, 11-7. The unit's lost a couple of full time nurses, so instead of working child psych these days, I usually wind up with the grownups.

The moon was full, or almost full, and while research studies seem to indicate that the full moon has nothing to do with weirdness, I'm not sure I believe it.

We had a lot of people who couldn't sleep, who were up and down and pacing and talking. Nice group, though; everyone was polite and friendly.

Mary, the nurse I worked with, is an attractive older lady, late 50s, elegantly (if casually) dressed (if you work psych, you can wear street clothes if you want), with lovely jewelry, manicured nails, nicely coiffed hair...and like me, she has a "fluffy" body shape (as in, we used to have hourglass figures but they sunk to the bottom). She has a kind and caring grandmotherly air about her, and most of the patients love her.

So here we are, sitting in the day room, working on our paperwork, every now and then redirecting someone who's up and a little loud, when a very psychotic female patient touches a male patient (whom she had just met that day) VERY inappropriately. When Mary redirected her, the patient said, "You hussy! If you'd just quit your nude dancing, my husband here would come home to me!"

She sent both patients off to their (own) beds, then sat down and looked at me with a mischievous air.

"You do know that I'd probably make a lot more money nude dancing, don't you?" she asked.

I think, O-KAY! It IS a full moon...

And then she continued, grinning, "Because they'd pay a lot of money to see me keep my clothes ON!"

If Your Opportunity Alarm Clock is Ringing, Don't Hit the Snooze Button!

2005-10-10T22:06:00.000-05:00

"Does the Pope have more than one hat? If the Pope tells a monk to do pushups, does the monk have to do it? When the Pope dies, what happens to his hat? Does the Pope have a mechanic whose only job is to service the Popemobile? When the Popemobile is worn out, can someone buy the old one? If the Pope wanted to sing karaoke, could he?

"My history teacher says Walmart is run by Satan!"

"I bet if Harriet Meiers gets to be a Supreme Court Justice, she probably won't get invited to all the cool Supreme Court parties, just the boring ones, probably because she won't know how to hold the gavel, so all the other Justices will make fun of her."

There was more, much more...

Gavin spent the day listening to a motivational speaker at school (because of his schedule, he had to listen to it TWICE), and when I got home he started off by telling me how bad the speaker was (see title example) and then giving me examples of how he could do it better, complete with hand motions, body language, inane examples, and special voice effects.

Then, once he'd got started talking, he couldn't stop; probably because he hasn't had much to say for awhile. Between his school-work and my work-work, we've been pretty quiet here for a few weeks.

I've been working on an IND for a new study that one of the docs wrote. An IND, or "Investigational New Drug" is what has to be approved by the FDA everytime a new drug (or a new use for an old drug) is studied.

When I do a pharmaceutical trial, all this is done by the pharma company. But when I do this for the doc, I get to do all that lovely (ugh) paperwork, which is written in government speak. I think I wound up with 150 pages, and my brain feels soggy. Plus now I have to make up some data capture forms and make sure the doc and the residents fill them out each time, because when an IND is done by a site, then the investigator is ultimately responsible for EVERYTHING connected with it. So I have to make sure all our ducks are in a row...and then there's another study (written by the same guy, if he ever leaves I won't have anything to do) that I have to see if I can get donations of 7 different products (enough for 100 people), write a questionnaire covering all the data the doc wants to know, write a budget (with things like 800 spray bottles), and I had to have it all done, along with applications to 3 different on-campus entities, at 5 o'clock today...I did it with 5 minutes to spare...

I've worked late every night for 3 weeks and I feel like my brain has run a marathon.

So tonight was a treat. And yeah, I hope the Pope DOES get to sing karaoke if he wants.

She Wore a Raspberry....Guillotine?

2005-09-28T10:14:00.000-05:00

Why are adolescents so crazy-making to their parents?

Gavin and I just came off a week and half of the silent treatment...all because Evil Overlord Mom insisted that the lawn had to be mowed, and when it wasn't, draconian measures were instituted (gasp! no computer games for a week! oh, the horror of it all!).

Anyway, on the drive to school this morning, glaciers thawed, and Gavin informed me that one of his friends feels compelled to write the complete history of Candyland.

Candyland (for those of you who have successfully avoided or blocked out any memory or connection to toddlers) is a very simple board game which has been around for at least 40 years. Players roll dice and draw cards and move a gingerbread-man-shaped token through various kingdoms of candy, ruled over by monarchs such as Mr. Mint, King Kandy, and Queen Frostine.

Both my kids were fascinated by Candyland until they were about four. I finally got smart and started stacking the deck so that a) the child could win the game quickly (but not too quickly, otherwise we'd have to play again) and b) so that I wouldn't draw either Queen Frostine or Princess Lolly too early in the game, because either of those is pretty much a guaranteed win...and an early win is OK if it's the KID winning; if it's the parent's early win, then you may have to play it 2 or 3 MORE times.

OK, I thought; so he's interested in the history of board games and that one's been around awhile.

But no. No, this is a history of CANDYLAND, in which civil war erupts between Princess Lolly and Queen Frostine, Lord Licorice attempts to infiltrate King Kandy's domain by employing Mr. Mint as a spy, Grandma Nutt is consumed by Gloppy, the Chocolate Swamp Monster, and then the peasants revolt, kill all the heads of state with the Raspberry Guillotine...and eventually Candyland is subsumed into the Hapsburg Empire, sometime around 1600.

Maybe "The Candyman" was their national anthem?

I have to admit, it makes those seemingly endless games of Candyland much better in retrospect...

Tuesday Self Portrait -- Gemini

2005-09-27T18:00:00.000-05:00

Robyn and I have been friends since the 5th grade. Although she's lived in California for a very long time (while I'm here in Oklahoma), whenever we get to see each other, it's as though no time has passed inbetween. We considered each other's parents our own, never bothered to knock when entering the other's house, and traded clothes, notes, books, letters, and artwork. She's the most creative and artistic person I think I've ever met; especially when it comes to fabric arts (Rog comes close, though, and has the upper hand when it comes to pencil portraits).

We are twins of the heart.

I got to spend a few days with her when I went to Dana Point for the research meeting; I took her a suitcase loaded with fabric, and she took me to the beach.

Back in junior high, in the 70s, we were tan fanatics. This time, while sitting in the sand side by side, I was thinking about all the times we'd lie in the sun in our bikinis...that wonderful sensation as the sunshine lies heavy on your body and you just exist and soak up the rays...and she looked at my legs and said, "Jodie! Your legs are so white!" I think, OK, I know I look like a zombie, but do you have to rub it in? And then Robyn continues, "They are SOOOO BEAUTIFUL! I wish my legs were that white!"

You can know someone for all your life, and they can STILL surprise you.

Nurse: Superhero, Villain...or Vampire?

2005-09-21T21:24:00.000-05:00

Yesterday evening, after putting in a full day at my research job, I had to go to CAPE class for my second (psych) job.

Like many caregiver classes offered through the hospital, it was mandatory so we all get paid to take it, which is a good thing since it ate up six hours of my limited free time.

CAPE, or "Creating a Positive Environment", is more or less a method for deflating aggression, and if that doesn't work, using some skills to A) escape from a violent patient or B) help someone else escape from a violent patient. Unfortunately, it doesn't involve anything cool like kung fu moves or 007 style equipment.

First we got to practice using all the restraints in our arsenal, from the 5 point leathers (wrists, ankles, and waist) to the fabric restraints which are really more to help very old, ill, or confused patients from falling out of bed or a chair, to the restraints which are considered to be "medical immobilization" (such as restraining an arm for a minute or so while you put in an IV). The big difference between "restraints" and "medical immobilization" is that the nurse has to have an MD's order for a restraint, it has to be charted on frequently (depending on the type), and the patient has to be checked continuously for some and frequently for the others...while for a "medical immobilization", none of that has to occur.

We had to practice tying each other up in this stuff and then undoing it. Since you have to assume your patient doesn't want to have restraints, you have to realize you'll be trying to put these unwieldy things onto someone who's flailing and angry, so practice is good. It was a little spooky when my partner put leathers on me and I realized that even though the wrist restraint was on the smallest hole, I could STILL pull my hand out...which means a patient could, too. And we got to hear all the horror stories about patients who were put into the fabric restraints the wrong way and managed to suffocate themselves, which was NOT a cheery experience.

Then we got to practice our moves...what to do if someone grabs your arm, your clothes, your hair, bites you, grabs you in a bearhug, tries to choke you, puts you in a full nelson, tries to hit you with something, how to block a punch or a kick, how to hold a patient so they can't hurt you, how to trade off with another caregiver when you get tired, and how to hold someone really large with multiple staff members...and how to do all those things with the least harm to yourself or the patient.

We have to learn all this, but in the 15 years I've worked in mental health, I've never had to use it; and really, I've only had two patients who had difficult moments when I thought there might be trouble, but there wasn't. So I suppose I'm either lucky or doing something right.

Anyway when I got home, I was pretty tired. Gavin asked me how CAPE training went...and then asked "What level did you make, Mom?"

"Level?" I asked.

"Yeah, you know, like Superhero!" And he expansively waved his arms to indicate a graceful billowing cape as he leaped across the room while singing "Here I come to save the day!"...

...only to turn, his nose in the crook of his elbow, imaginary cape swirling around his feet, and his eyes narrowed, staring piercingly..."Or Vampire!" and immediately switching to a heavy Transylvanian accent, "I don't drink....vine..."

...then, in a half crouch, still with his nose in the crook of his arm, imaginary cape hiding half his face, twirling an imaginary handlebar mustache, with shifty gaze and deep commanding voice, "Or Villain! I'll tie you to the railroad tracks if you don't pay your rent, BWAA HAA HAA!!"

I'd MUCH rather have done that kind of "CAPE" training...and who knows, some of the patients might prefer that, too.

The Flying Zlorbian

2005-09-18T23:02:00.000-05:00

After being shanghaied by pirate ninjas (or was it ninja pirates?) for two weeks (one of which the villains stood over me and MADE ME GET ALL MY WORK DONE, made me wrap and ship 30-some-odd Ebay packages, and clean my house because my Mom was coming to stay with Gavin...and even pirate/ninjas respect the fact that the house MUST be clean for Mom. Especially since I have yet to live down the incident years ago of the moldy bread that somehow got pushed to the back of the cabinet...which Mom found, of course...I don't think penicillin factories have any more mold. At least it was still in the wrapper. Green fuzzy bread, anyone?). I left for California on Sunday after working 11-7 Saturday, arrived home on Friday and worked ANOTHER 11-7. I'm "too pooped to pop" as Dad always said. I still don't know what that means, but I love to say it.

I have a lot to say about my time in California (Hi Dave & Dorian, Alex, and Robyn!!!) but right now I want to talk about last night.

I worked Adult Psych, which is a whole different world than child psych. And adult psych at night can be even stranger...and a night with a full moon...well...

Now, I know that there have been studies (or so I have been told; I haven't read 'em) that purport to debunk the full moon weirdness factor. However, in this instance, Nurse Lore trumps PhD studies (especially as it is backed up by Police Lore, EMT Lore, ER Lore, and Night Convenience Store Clerk Lore), and besides, we all know that PhD really means "Pizza Hut Delivery". (Remember, this is NOT a slam at PhDs. I expect my brother to be one any time now, and I have to keep up, don't I?)

Anyway, Nurse Lore states that people and situations get stranger during the full moon, and it's not just psych.

Evening shift report indicated that everyone had had a good day, which is a tremendously wonderful thing on a psych unit, so the Charge Nurse (I've never had this term explained to me; while I assume it means "In Charge" maybe it really involves credit cards and Nordstrom's sales after one gets off work...wow, did she have nice clothes) and I hoped for the best and started our paperwork.

We had a steady procession all night of agreeable, pleasant, and polite, but extraordinarily psychotic patients who "just couldn't sleep" -- more than half of them were awake at one time or another. Of course, this had nothing to do with the loud buzzing noise the air conditioner made every time it went on, and nothing to do with the extremely loud and deep voice of our Mental Health Tech who has a BA in psychology and wanted to "do therapy" with the patients and kept cornering them; Charge and I kept redirecting him AND the patients in an effort to get everyone (well, everyone except us) some sleep. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing sometimes.

When I got back in this morning, Gavin asked me about my night. He's been fascinated by psychoses ever since I had a patient who'd found out my number and would call me EVERY NIGHT at 10 pm and tell me (or whoever answered, sometimes one of the kids) what the "angels" had said to her that day (almost always something bright and happy). I told him one patient told me he was possessed by aliens (I have to be careful about what I say because I cannot give out any identifying information...and trust me, this is a very, very small part of this patient's delusionary system).

Gavin immediately assumed this meant "alien ghosts" since possession must be a supernatural phenomenon...and aliens probably would be natural, not supernatural...except that Gavin was not allowing for the lack of reasoning ability in someone who is acutely psychotic. Since it wasn't alien ghosts, he decided that the patient must be possessed by some alien thing which skirts the realm of the natural and the supernatural...like the Flying Dutchman...Yes! It must be the Flying Zlorbian, forced to wander the universe and possess the minds of unwitting humans...

Oh dear. I don't know whether to worry about him or tell him to write a book.

2005-09-05T11:04:00.000-05:00

For anyone who wants to send a care package to an evacuee, the address here in Oklahoma is:

Any Evacuee c/o Camp Gruber
100 Highway 10
Braggs, OK 74423

I'm thinking about things to help stay busy, cards, games, craft kits, stamps, envelopes, paper, notebooks, writing utensils, small toys, books...as well as things people have to be asking for all the time...toiletries, treats, makeup, hair bands...I know there are some other things, I just can't think of them offhand. If you can think of anything I left off, please post in the comments!

I've sent them to soldiers and now I'll send them to evacuees, too. I'm sending at least one on Tuesday.

I just can't IMAGINE having everything swept away and having to rely totally on strangers.

Disaster Planning

2005-09-03T13:06:00.000-05:00

Last night I worked phone banks for 5 hours as a part of my state's medical reserve corps, which started after the Murrah Building bombing. I and my telefellows took calls from medical professionals who were interested in working with disaster victims.

The calls were interesting; we had a sprinkling of medical personnel, every type from embalmers and medical examiners to urologists and respiratory therapists, with the majority being nurses. These folks mostly stated they were ready to go with an hour's notice, and go where ever needed, in state or out of state, and at their own expense if necessary.

We also had a number of calls of people who had loaded vans ready to go to Mississippi or Louisiana and were calling us for what? The blessing of the state, I suppose, but bureaucracies don't tend to condone that sort of thing.

I enjoyed being a part of the process and seeing plans made and discarded and remade; frantic searches for safe places for large numbers of people to stay; calls from various city and state officials; calls to hospital administrators to find open hospital beds; and even the beginnings of long term planning.

With all the action, though, there were stretches where we waited, and then we talked.

It was surprising, the amount of "blame the victim" that went on. "I don't understand why everyone didn't leave." "I'd never let my kids go hungry." "Looters should all be shot. And we'll have to have people guarded while they're here because a lot of them will be looters."

I understand WHY people blame the victims -- it's fear. They cannot acknowledge the fear that bad things can happen to anyone. So "those people" must be different; not too bright, not able to solve problems, criminals, junkies...when the truth is that we could easily be in their shoes if something tremendous and horrible had happened here.

2005-09-02T12:13:00.000-05:00

The news from New Orleans is just awful. I've donated everything I can right now and it doesn't feel like it's nearly enough.

This evening I am working phone banks for the Oklahoma Medical Reserve Corps -- we are trying to set up teams of nurses and physicians to help in the area.

For those still trapped in the area, it is a nightmare, and I hope they will all be rescued soon. But even for those who evacuated early, or who escaped later, it is still awful -- everything just gone.

How do you put your life back together after something like that? I can't imagine.

The Ebay Queens Ride Again

2005-08-30T08:28:00.000-05:00

I discovered Ebay in 99, when I was halfway through nursing school, a year and a half out from the divorce and my finances were at an all time low.

At first I started buying things the kids and I needed; at that time it was like a big free for all garage sale that you could see from your living room.

Then I started dating someone who had a digital camera, and it transformed my Ebay experience.

I started out selling my jewelry and graduated to selling some of the old junk I'd bought at thrift stores over the years, and made enough money at it that it soon became a second income.

My friend Bev, who is the only person I've ever known who has reformatted a hard drive by accident, was intrigued...and eventually brave enough to buy a computer and a digital camera, just so she could try out ebay.

We've gone to estate sales, garage sales, snatched goodies out of each other hands, sold everything from rubber swim caps (who knew that THOSE were collectible?) to car parts.

It's only fair -- I wouldn't be a nurse if it weren't for Bev, and she wouldn't be selling on Ebay if it weren't for me.

A year ago, Bev slowed down and I stopped; a combination of boredom, whiny buyers, and people pricing garage sale stuff for the same price it would sell on Ebay. And it wasn't until a few weeks ago that we both started up again.

Maybe it was just in the air, but Bev and I decided to go to some estate sales...and one of the four we decided on advertised fabric, $1 a piece. Bev put that one last on the list and away we went...

Those of us who sew know the ultimate truth, that "She who has the most fabric, wins." And this lady had to have been one of the front runners -- I have never seen so much fabric inside someone's house. It was piled 3-4 feet deep in every room of the home, and dated from the 50s to the 90s.

Bev doesn't sew, and doesn't know much about fabric...so I told her what to buy, and how to describe it, and she made $200 from her $30 fabric investment. And after all these years of selling on Ebay, she finally figured out why I like to sell fabric -- it's easy to store, easy to ship, it doesn't cost much for the buyer or the seller, and it's fun to look at and handle.

Last weekend, I was too busy to go out with her, and she found ANOTHER house full of fabric. And this time, she offered them $400 for all of it, and they took it...and the entire second story of her home is now full of fabric...so Bev wins, and she doesn't even sew!

My Affirmation for the Day

2005-08-29T23:09:00.000-05:00

Picture this: I'm at the post office with 19 packages from the Ebay stuff I sold last week. It's late afternoon, and there's one not-quite-civil servant working the desk. I'm the last one in line for a good 15 minutes. Finally, I'm at the head of the line and waiting my turn, and an elderly gentleman, dapper in a bright yellow zoot-style suit with brown stripes and matching hat, strolls up. Somehow, he's debonair enough to pull off this amazing outfit; the only other person who could have managed it would be Cab Calloway.

I'm clutching my armful of packages, well aware that I haven't filled out my customs forms for the foreign ones yet, and he has three letters...so of course I say, "Please go ahead of me."

In a mild southern accent, he says "Are you sure?"

How often do you have to persuade someone who wants only stamps to go ahead of you?

After a little persuasion, he finally acquiesces, and then turns to ask me, "What do you think of Nawlins and the hurricane? Don't you think that's going to cost us a lot of money?"

I say, "Well, if it were a tornado or an earthquake here, we'd be costing THEM a lot of money. I'd rather be warm and dry and pay to help them."

He looks me in the eye, grins, and says, "Miss, I LIKE the way you think."

I MUST be Really Wicked...

2005-08-29T06:31:00.000-05:00

because I'm not getting much rest these days!

I had a monitoring visit last week for my device study (the one I can't talk about due to HIPPA laws and industry privacy laws), but there's nothing that says I can't talk about the monitoring visits.

For a monitoring visit, the company sends someone out (this time, a young guy from Saskatchewan) who looks over my books, compares my stuff to the hospital and clinic chart, finds all the inconsistencies and errors, and also looks over the "critical documents" binder (already 6 inches thick) to make sure I have everything I'm supposed to have.

This sound complex, and harrowing, and a lot of work...but "harrowing" is a function of how easygoing the monitor is, and this guy was delightful, so it wasn't bad. The biggest problem was accessing all the charts.

Our campus is huge. A friend and I were trying to figure out the other day how big it is and I think we finally decided on 20 city blocks...when I worked in Kansas, the University was actually bigger as far as number of rooms and size of hospitals, but was crammed into about 6 city blocks. Which I think is the biggest culture shock people have when they visit -- everything is so spread out here.

Anyway, the hospitals and clinics no longer allow charts leave their premises (once upon a time you could check them out to anyplace on campus)...so we had to travel to 4 different buildings (none close to each other) because the patient had records at all four of those places.

Since I couldn't really just turn this poor guy out into the campus wilderness where there are no signs to tell you where you are going, and no way an employee can park anywhere other than assigned without getting a $20 ticket, we walked. And walked. And walked some more. Since I haven't been able to walk much this year with all the problems, I can't tell you how TIRED and sore I felt until today.

The monitoring went all right, though, and the next patient will be easier.

My other good news is that my daughter is visiting from San Diego and will be here for another few days!

Tuesday Self Portrait -- Nose to Fingertip

2005-08-23T20:55:00.000-05:00

Did you know that if you stretch a piece of fabric from one fingertip to your nose (turned away from said fingertip) that it's so close to a yard measure that you don't need a real measure? It's true -- Mom taught me that. And here I am in my kitchen, measuring vintage fabric...and if you click on the picture to make it bigger, you can see the dust on top of my cabinets. :D

Night of the Zombies

2005-08-22T22:19:00.000-05:00

Lately, hospitals here in town have been frenzied in their efforts to improve employee health. We have walking initiatives, weight loss groups, stress reduction classes, and of course (as of July), no one can smoke on hospital grounds -- not doctors, not nurses, not patients, not family members -- which has not added any joy to adult psych, I might add.

I don't know if last Saturday night had anything to do with health initiatives...I hope not, because it can only lead to millions of night-shift nurses on the march, waving bedpans threateningly...

I don't work night shift all the time, but I find I can manage it -- barely -- with a steady dose of caffeine up until about 4:30 am. However, on Saturday night, when I went to make my first pot of coffee right after report, I found two cases of decaf and NOT EVEN ONE package of caf. Luckily, there's a coke machine on the same floor...but when I punched the "Coke" button..."Caffeine Free Coke" rolled out...and with my final dollar bill, I tried Dr. Pepper...only to get another "Caffeine Free Coke".

It was NOT good. By 4 o'clock, I felt I really needed those cartoon toothpicks that hold your eyelids open. By 5 o'clock, I was drinking ice water so that shivering would keep me awake, and by 6 o'clock, I was actually thankful when one of the difficult kids got up early in a bad mood...but even that lasted only 10 minutes and didn't wake anyone else up.

After a cat nap in the car, I drove home. I don't know if the lack of caffeinated beverages was planned, or if it was a comedy of errors...but if caffeine-freeness is the next step in the health arsenal...well...I'll be smuggling it into the hospital. Now I know how the smokers feel.

Back to School Again

2005-08-18T08:57:00.000-05:00

Back to school again
He just can't wait for back to school again
The life he loves is high school with his friends
He can't wait to get back to school again...

For some reason, Gavin did NOT enjoy my version of classic Willie Nelson on the way to the first day of school (although I did eventually make him laugh).

Poor dear, I probably shouldn't have been so evil; this first semester he has computer programming, US history, trigonometry, and physics. Makes me tired just thinking about it.

Self Portrait Tuesday

2005-08-16T19:09:00.000-05:00

Tired Dogs

Oh, the Tragedy!

2005-08-15T21:06:00.000-05:00

"The School killed it. School killed Summer. School killed Summer with a knife. School killed Summer with a knife bought from the wallet it stole from Summer." -- A partial excerpt from Gavin's rant on school starting this Thursday.

Rants don't always have to make sense, do they?

And speaking of things that don't make sense...yes, I'm thrilled, but WHY?

Perchance to Dream

2005-08-15T09:34:00.000-05:00

I rarely remember my dreams. I must have them, because (at least some people think) I'm fairly sane, rarely irritable, and have as much energy as a single mom approaching 50 ought to have. Since I have so few, the ones I do have are usually heavy with meaning.

At some early point in my life, I learned that if I had a problem, I could think about it, examine it from all angles, put it away, and then -- almost magically -- I'd wake up and there would be my solution, fully formed and ready to be utilized.

I don't know WHY it works that way. All I know is that it's saved me a lot of worry over the years; why obsess over something when the answer will arrive?

Anyway, my highschool reunion has been on my mind (in a good way!) and I wanted to blog about it, but the words just weren't there...and then Tim posted his thoughts
here, and said many of the things I'd been thinking but couldn't articulate.

Last night I dreamed. I was in a flower garden. In my dreamstate, I knew that it had once been a pretty but pedestrian formal garden with tightly budded plants (a few already promising beauty) carefully put in their own sections, pruned and trimmed and all conforming to a rigid plan. The once tidy garden had become overgrown, though, with formerly tiny or stunted plants growing large and bushy, sending out runners and twining stems and vines -- showing up in unexpected places or overrunning other areas so that the finely drawn lines were gone. And the blooms which were only hinted at in the early stages were full blown, a surprising wild riot of exotic colors and complex scents.

Mrs. Kleinsteiber (3rd? 4th? grade teacher) would be so proud. I woke up with a metaphor for our reunion. And yes, I really enjoy seeing how we're all blooming.

2005-08-11T12:17:00.000-05:00

At my second job, where I work psych, I'm a "floater" -- while this always makes me think of swimming pools, what it really means is that I work wherever I am needed.

Almost always, I'm needed in child psych. There are several reasons for this; one is that there are quite a few child psych units (segregated by age and whether or not the illness is acute or longterm) and only one adult unit. In addition, unlike the child units, the adult unit has a full complement of nurses.

Someone wanted to take some vacation, though, so last weekend I worked adult psych.

It's a lot different on the adult unit than it used to be, even 5 years ago. Then, patients stayed for a week, or two weeks, or a month...sometimes months. Now it's 3 days for many, and rarely longer than a week.

While I'm sure that someone, somewhere has a reason for this (and it probably has a lot to do with costs and insurance), from my end it doesn't appear to be working well. Just as someone is starting to feel stable again, s/he is sent home; maybe to return again in a week, or two weeks, or a month.

I do understand that our adult unit is for "acute" cases and people who need very long-term care can go to the state hospital or a group home, and there are home health nurses for those who need help with medications. But I still think that most people would benefit more from a week or 10 days.

Emotional or mental illnesses aren't like cancer, or wounds, or any of a number of illnesses or disorders in which progress can be quantitatively measured -- lab values, size, redness, swelling, color, quantity, reflexes -- which is what makes psychiatry difficult. There are outside observations (which may differ with the person observing) and patient report.

What we nurses look for are hygiene, appropriate interactions, appropriate emotional responses, full facial responses (for example, when you smile do your eyes crinkle up too?), appropriate gestures, appropriate conversations...in addition to what the patient says and what the patient DOESN'T say.

Not only that, but since there is no particular "normal average person" to base appropriateness on, it can be difficult to say, "Yes, that's abnormal" because "normal" emcompasses a wide range of behaviours.

So when you only have someone for 3 days, how do you know what's normal for that person? Swearing like a sailor (do sailors swear all that much? I've always wondered) is normal for my friend Bev, but if it were me, you'd know something was really wrong.

The other thing I want to say about adult psych? The only real difference between me and you and almost all of my patients is that I have keys.

I Killed Another One...

2005-08-09T22:58:00.000-05:00

Yes! I finally had a patient enroll in my alternative surgery study for head and neck cancer (that's about all I can say about the project since I had to swear a blood oath in which I agreed to sell my children into slavery at the device company if I leaked any information).

People often ask if my job is exciting. Well, it can be -- once I was stalked by an apparently very lonely male research patient (whose mom took away the car so he couldn't do it any more) -- and another time, a patient actually picked up my fishbowl (with fish and plant in it) and DRANK out of it, and then there was the time the electricity went out in my building at 5pm while I was interviewing a double amputee and we were on the second floor with no ramp...Oh, and don't forget the needle stick injury (of course, from the bisexual IV drug user...who luckily tested negative for EVERYTHING, as did I).

Oh wait.

Maybe it's "exciting" as in cutting edge, new treatments, late nights at the lab pioneering new fields, scientists poised at the threshold of arcane knowledge? Oh, well, maybe tiny bits of that here and there.

Mostly, though, research is waiting. And paper. Lots and lots and lots of paper.

I have a new study patient. And yes, part of this has been very exciting -- I got to sit in on a 13-hour surgery, a delicate, difficult surgery; too far back in the oral cavity (or "mouth", for non-medical people -- hehe) to go in that way. So the only other way to get at the area while still preserving as much function as possible is to go up from the neck, peel back the side of the face, and cut the jawbone.

One of the reasons I had to be present for the surgery is to write down everyone who worked on the patient, the amount of time each person spent, the medications given the patient...for the entire time. Even though all that will be in the medical record, I've learned through years of doing this that you just don't rely on anyone else to gather data unless they are being paid to gather data.

It's amazing, really, how many people you can fit in a surgery suite, and how many of them come and go, especially nurses and surgical techs. But I did get to watch the attending anesthesiologist do odd tricks (apparently he wasn't getting enough attention) and listen to the docs sing along with 70s tunes. Plus my docs are cool enough that they didn't mind my frequent and sometimes goofy questions...what can I say, I'm a total nerd.

At week 2 of the study, I have already filled 50 some odd pages of data, PLUS pages my own notes and observations, PLUS physician notes, PLUS copies of previous and current tests and history. The file is already pretty thick, and this is a two year study.

Everything went beautifully, my patient is recovering nicely and is in good spirits.

And that headline? It's a tree. All that paper...I killed another tree.

Back Tack

2005-08-04T23:06:00.000-05:00

I previously blogged about BackTack, an online craft swap in which one person sends fabric and trims and a second person makes up a notions holder who then sends it to yet a third person. There are a lot of links here, but you'll find some very creative people on the other end.

I know, it sounds complicated, but it was a heck of a lot of fun. First I got to go through my fabric stash for the perfect thing to send to my first BackTack Buddy (who, BTW, made this for HER buddy)...then I waited patiently to receive the totally gorgeous fabric my second BackTack buddy sent me...in the meantime reading the blog of my third BackTack buddy so I'd know what to send in her package to make her day...then trying to figure out what I was going to do with the gorgeous yet (to me) angst-producing slippery, hard to sew with fabric that I'd heard my mother complain about for YEARS.

Mom made most of my clothes, through high school in the 70s...and the 70s was one of the few decades that you could wear polyester and satin and panne velvet and all those other slippery fabrics and be right in style. And every fabric I wanted was a slippery one...and with every one, Mom would turn out something beautiful, but would complain frequently (OK, constantly, but I feel vaguely guilty now when I think about all the times I bought yet more slippery fabrics) about how hard it was to sew. So of course, I was terrified of the oriental brocade my buddy sent me. Although I haven't totally overcome my traumatic experiences with slippery fabric, I think eventually I could learn to like sewing with it.

My fourth BackTack buddy is absolutely awesome. Not only did she make me the coolest notions basket, but she also made a journal cover, a scissors holder, a nifty thread holder AND a pincushion...she also sent notions, and tiny canvases (for painting) AND chocolate (the chocolate is loooong gone).

All I can say is "Wow!" and "When can we play again?"

A Cautionary Tale

2005-08-04T22:11:00.000-05:00

Deprived of its domicilic prey, the green menace lies in wait as a hapless car inadvertently strays into its lair.

As the doomed car patiently awaits its driver, the creeping vegetation begins to sneak up on its unsuspecting victim.

The predator pounces and engulfs the car, ingesting it slowly over the next few days, when it will begin the quest for another victim.

2005-08-03T09:38:00.000-05:00

I have so much to blog about, and I've been too busy to do any of it, partly because of the neighbors.

My neighbors to the west are awful people. They appear to be a nice elderly couple, but like many minions of evil, appearances are deceiving. He is as mean as a snake, once threatened Gavin (peaceably mowing the lawn) with a golf club (he bullies other neighborhood kids as well), knows (and uses) every epithet in the book for no reason I can see, throws trash over my fence, and calls the city for the tiniest infraction -- he measures people's grass lengths, makes sure everyone's fences are far enough from the street, cars are not parked too far from the curb or (in a driveway) not too close to the street. He even called the city on the neighbor who didn't get a garage sale permit .His wife is probably a nice lady, but she has Alzheimer's and is paranoid; she likes to send registered letters to people about their tree limbs (which are still attached to the trees, but what if they fell off?). I try to ignore them, but since the golf club incident, there is a strip of grass between our houses which is No Man's Land. I'm kind of surprised he hasn't called the city yet...my excuse will be that it's "decorative".

The people who lived in my house before I bought it were very fond of ornamental shrubbery. Unfortunately, they bought the wrong kind, and despite my best efforts, the 10 bushes/trees/shrubs morphed into a sort of gigantic house-eating vegetative mass which towered over the house and crammed into the eaves and soffits. I've been trying to figure out how the heck I was going to afford a tree trimming service since I'm not really sure I want to find out if I can use a chainsaw without cutting off any body parts (I'm afraid the answer to that would be "no").

Little did I know that the neighbors to the east of me were angels in disguise. I was mowing my lawn Saturday, and the older gentleman and his wife (in their 70s) were out walking around the block and stopped to ask very gently if I needed help with my shrubs. I said that I could use all the help I could get and before I knew it, he and his wife were hauling over ladders and a chainsaw and all kinds of nippers and trimmers and clippers...and then Rog came over to help as well.

And we nipped and trimmed and clipped and sawed for DAYS until at last my house has been saved from ingestion by mutant greenery. The shrubs, now chainsawed into submission, cower beneath the eaves and tremble at the sight of the daily parade of walkers around our neighborhood.

Since the neighbors from Hell are west of me, and the neighbors from Heaven are east of me...that must mean I'm living in Limbo. Which explains a lot.

Words Tomorrow...

2005-07-24T23:58:00.000-05:00

Photos tonight -- my 30th high school reunion... http://flickr.com/photos/84414176@N00/

Those Final Preparations

2005-07-18T20:15:00.000-05:00

I like to know we're all on the same page, just in case.

My kids already know I want to be cremated when the time comes, and that's what my daughter wanted the last time I asked her (although now it's her husband's responsibility).

I didn't know, though, what my son wanted, so I asked him...and you can read below, in his own words (as best I remember them)...

Gavin: "In my coffin, I want a cassette recorder that plays, "braaaaiinnnssss.....braaaaiinnssss..." over and over. And I want to be wrapped up like a mummy, only not really mummified, just look like one. Oh wait! No, I want an actor in the coffin, who'll occasionally jump out and yell 'Boo!' at people.

"Oh, yeah, and I want to be buried under a pyramid with boulder traps and jewels and stuff, on top of Mt. Everest. And there'll have to be solid gold statues of me, at least two of them, and if you touch them, you're electrocuted. No, wait...if you touch them, you fall into a pit of piranhas. And it'll have to be guarded by ninjas."

Me: "Won't the ninjas get bored?"

Gavin: "No, they can feed the piranhas and do ninja stuff. Like ninja training.

"And I want a plaque...a plaque with something on it."

Me: "Like a quote? What quote?"

Gavin: "It'll have to be something by a famous poet. And original...and let's see...oh, I know, you can get a bunch of scientists to clone Robert Frost, and after he's written something, then they can wall him up in the tomb with me.

"Oh, and I'll have to have an eternal flame that can be seen from outer space.

"And if you can't do all that, just have me stuffed and put me in front of my computer for all time."

O-Kay!

It's Almost Here...

2005-07-15T13:06:00.000-05:00

...my 30 year class reunion! Before next weekend, I really ought to lose (unspecified but large number of) lbs, become a CEO of a major corporation, land a starring movie role, have a complete face and body lift, buy a brand new Lexus, and sell a book for several million dollars (guaranteeing bestsellerdom).

Heh.

These are people I rarely see now, but many of whom I've known since I was 8 years old.

Only they share my memories of the teacher who tied a rowdy student into a chair with a jump rope, the principal who purportedly had a paddle with nails for the truly bad kids (none of whom, of course, were in OUR grade), who saw me win a track ribbon in 5th grade (trust me that no one would believe that now), who experienced the weirdness of the biology teacher who cried in class, the band leader who threw his baton at the tuba players, the strangeness of marching band practice in early morning frost, Secret Solarians, Tri-State festival, shooting pop bottle rockets into the lake (it's really cool when they explode underwater), the main drag (always ending in Sonic)...and so much, much more.

It's been a long time.

And my classmates will like me anyway, even though I'm no longer thin, haven't changed the world in any significant way, and still can't dance worth a darn. And I like them too; I only wish more of them would come.

So, Luke Roberts and Andy Haynes, it's about time you showed up to one of these. Robyn Stonehill and Mike Johnston, you're welcome to attend, even if you DID wind up graduating from some other high school. Scott Wilson, you came to the first one; why not come back? I miss all of you. And this time, Scott, I PROMISE to stay in touch.

And I know at least one classmate who doesn't come because of an old grudge from high school -- or so I've been told -- isn't it about time to come and see how we've all changed? I wish you would.

Not for the Faint of Heart or Weak of Stomach...

2005-07-15T10:43:00.000-05:00

It's probably best not to read this unless you're a health professional or have a strong stomach.

Last Saturday night, I worked an inpatient psych shift. This time, I had the teeny kids (5-12); I rarely work on that floor because with little kids, the less change they have, the less angst they feel. Little kids like and need consistency.

Most of the kids were in the 5-8 range, and were LITTLE, about the size of kindergartners. A lot of kids in this age group haven't even gone to sleep-away camp, yet some of these children will be here for weeks or months without going home. It's a small unit, too, so it only requires one nurse and one tech.

The first 10 to 15 minutes of the shift are given over to report -- the outgoing nurse gives a brief overview of each child, so that the incoming staff members know what to expect. Along with all the usual stuff (early risers, potentially violent, potentially difficult if awakened), there was a report of a child who had painted a wall with feces. Unusual (though not unheard of).

The tech I worked with is a big and tough person who mainly works as a security guard, and has a hard time morphing from guarding to guiding. Why this person was assigned to this unit is beyond me, but mine is not to reason why...

The first half of the night was uneventful; we got our paper work done. The tech wanted to watch a movie (which really isn't permitted) and was a little irritated that I said no. Then the fun started.

One kid got up and asked if she could move her mattress out to the hall because her roommate was "stinky"...and since I had been smelling the flatulence from the nurses' station, that was OK by me, so I helped her move her bed. About that time, another kid, a tiny blond touseled hair boy (who weighed maybe 40 pounds), came up and told the tech his stomach hurt. His pants were soiled, and he admitted he'd had an "accident" in his bathroom...then clutched his stomach and ran to another bathroom and had another "accident" on the floor. The tech was irritated, with raised voice and angry face -- probably thinking of the feces painting kid from report.

Of course the kid was terrified. He was wearing the hospital supplied pajamas, which were way too big, and he hadn't been able to get them off, so the poo had just kind of gone done the pant leg and puddled on the floor. The tech didn't realize this and I finally just sent her off so I could help the kid.

I have to say that I have never seen so much poo out of one person in my whole life. The two piles together looked about the size of the kid, not to mention the stuff on the pajamas. Plus it was horribly stinky (worse than the flatulent kid) and yellowy green (see, told you not to read this) and not quite liquid but not really solid either (and yet you decided to continue reading! No lunch for you!).

Between this and the flatulent kid, my guess is there's a viral something or other on the unit. I hope the MD read my note the next day.

Trying to get the kid undressed, get him showered and still preserve some of his modesty was well nigh impossible, but I did the best I could. THEN, the only pajamas I could find to put him in were the adult sized pajamas (why were they even ON this floor??), but they were better than nothing...and he said his stomach felt better (why shouldn't it? There was nothing left in any of his digestive tract!) and he went back to bed.

The tech did not want to clean up either bathroom and I couldn't see waiting for housekeeping because the smell was so intense that the entire unit was already permeated with it. So I put on some gloves, got towels and cleaned both bathrooms.

Oh, it was AWFUL. Worse than anything in or out of nursing school, even the repiratory stuff I hated. I could not keep from gagging, and my eyes were watering. The poor kiddo got out of bed and watched me unnoticed and then tentatively asked, "Are you OK?" I looked at him and he had that bigeyed, scared look on his face that my kids always had when they accidently broke or spilled something and (mistakenly) thought they'd be in trouble. I suppose he thought I was angry with him, but I just said, "Sometimes bad smells make me a little sick." And he thought about that, and then relaxed and nodded. And went back to bed, and slept.

Some parents (and I hope they are the minority) act just like the tech-- things that aren't the child's fault are treated as punishable offenses. Little kids have dignity, too, and are ultra sensitive to the adults around them -- they have to be, because they are dependent on adults for everything -- their food, clothing, emotional needs, shelter...

To be fair, the tech is youngish, has no children or SO, and is well suited to the security guard job. Unless some changes take place, though, I hope that tech doesn't work on that floor again. That attitude may be tolerated by adults or older teens, but it does not work with little kids. They really don't understand the irritation or frustration of adults and are really much better off with firmness and loving kindness.

2005-07-08T11:39:00.000-05:00

Meepers tagged me some time ago for the Book Meme:

Total books owned, ever: I have no idea. It's a lot. I have boxes upon boxes of books in my attic, I give boxes of books away every year, and I have them stacked up all over my house and stuffed into every bare spot in my three big bookcases. I'd guess I've gone through enough books to have endowed a library by now. A really big one.

Last book I bought: 1602 (Marvel, Neil Gaiman). Imagine Marvel comic book characters in Queen Elizabeth I's reign. Now add in a dash of dark and inscrutable Neil Gaiman and incredible artwork. And then go read it.

Five books that mean a lot to me:

1. The Watchers at the Pond.
This was the first "adult" book I ever read, and I read it when I was in the second grade. It was a Reader's Digest Condensed book, and Mom gave it to me when I told her I had read everything I had and wanted something new to read. (After that, I plowed through every condensed book we had...we had a lot...and sometimes I'd even hide the new one from her so I could read it FIRST.) Having read it, that gave me the courage to approach the scary looking lady at the library desk to ask if I could look at the adult books -- which were in a different part of the library than the children's books (and seemed prohibited for that reason)...and not only did she turn out to be absolutely lovely, but she took me by the hand and gave me a tour of the nonfiction and fiction sections, and even helped me choose my first ever "adult" selections. Thank you Mom, and thank you Mrs. Dixon...and thank you to the author of Watchers at the Pond, whoever that may be.

2. My Father's Dragon.
I love the luminous pictures. I love the adventure. I love the way seemingly insoluble problems were solved and seemingly endless cruelty rectified by a very young child and a cat. If a child and a cat can do it, so can I.

3. A Dram of Poison.
Actually, this is a novella, and I read it during a very difficult part of my adolescence. It helped me to believe that no matter how bad things were, maybe it was enough to simply be able to sit in the sun. An "Aha!" moment for me -- yes, it's dated, but worth reading.

4. Alice in Wonderland/Pride and Prejudice.
I have read each of these books in excess of 20 times (probably a low estimate). If I were stranded on a desert island and only allowed one book, I would find it very hard to choose between these two. I often feel like Alice -- wandering in a strange and incomprehensible place which is constantly changing (although not particularly scary); I often also feel like Elizabeth Bennet, finding fun in everything, yet often have to examine my prejudices and really look beyond the surface (I get better at this all the time). Besides the wonderful writing, it is probably the identification with the protagonists which really adds to my enjoyment.

5. Les Jeux Sont Faits.
Another "Aha!" moment. I read this in college (in French), years ago. My entire class loved it so much that if the instructor didn't show up for class, we'd hunt him down and make him come in (any other class and we'd have left after the obligatory 10 minute wait). What this book said to me was that sometimes people will just do what they're going to do, mistake or no, and nothing one can do will change that. Basically, we are powerless to change someone else; only they can change themselves. Seems easy now, but it was a revelation then...and it has saved me from much guilt. I have no clue if that's what Sartre wanted his readers to get, but that's what I got.

Wow -- 2 posts in one day. And probably two tomorrow as well. I'm tagging Glod here -- and Anonymous, my backtacker friend...

Twilight Zoned

2005-07-08T09:07:00.000-05:00

I really didn't mean to be gone so long. Unbeknownst to me, I inadvertently moved to the Land of Adverse Events.

After my last procedure, the doc prescribed medication for chronic pain. Those words, "chronic pain" are frightening if you work in a health profession, because for too many people, "chronic pain" sometimes translates into "permanent and intractable pain".

The medication given to me is not really a pain reliever. And no one really knows WHY it works. The theory seems to be that in some types of nerve pain, the pain transmitters become irritable and transmit the pain sensations too quickly and too often, so that one feels more pain than there actually is...or may even be feeling pain that no longer exists. Theoretically, it slows the pain transmitters and eventually calms them. The medication is slowly increased to a high level, and then slowly decreased until the pain returns or the medication is discontinued. I am now in the decreasing stage.

Whatever the mechanism is, I can say that I experience little to no pain. However, I experienced some unusual adverse events (also known as "side effects"). The first one was sedation; the medication made me sleepy. In fact, it made it almost impossible to get up in the morning, even after I instituted a second alarm. And by the time dinner was over, I was so tired that I had trouble even reading more than a few pages before falling asleep.

I have always been the type of person who awakens before the alarm goes off (if I even bother to set one), springs out of bed in a happy mood, and sometimes, if I'm especially sunny, I even sing to awaken other people who have to get up. I know that this is extremely annoying to people who don't awaken easily, but it's irrepressible. (Really. And you should see the look on Gavin's face when I wake him up this way...heh.) So the sedation was problematical, but I could live with that as long as there was no pain. Especially since my workplace is flexible...to the point that I'm not entirely sure anyone would notice if I didn't show up. Luckily for them, I have a pretty good work ethic.

The second adverse event is rare enough that it doesn't show up in the PDR. I felt foggy all the time, like my thoughts were trying to swim through sludge. I would sometimes find myself spending several hours moving paper from one spot to another, without having actually done anything with it. I started projects only to be distracted into working on something else, sometimes even repeating something I'd already done because I'd forgotten I'd done it. I walked across campus several times (hurray for walking!) only to find I had forgotten why I went. I didn't really notice the cognitive deficit until after it started getting better (which is maybe the scariest part). I knew I wasn't getting anything done, but I couldn't figure out why I wasn't. And I couldn't figure out where all my time was going.

The time loss is compounded by feeling physically better and getting some housework done (despite starting something and being distracted and starting something else), Mom's birthday, trips to see Mom (yes, I was driving throughout this, also scary now that I think about it), starting my tile floor (pictures to come), working extra at the second job to pay for the healthcare bills, time with Rog, time with Betty (ex mom-in-law), and time with friends.

And then Buddy, cat extraordinare, leader of the neighborhood cat gang, able to swagger past snarling dogs with a bare twitch of his Manx stub to show his indifference, twiner of legs, lord of my keyboard, my lovely cat rescued from a life at the shelter...died. He was suddenly having trouble eating and breathing; when I took him to the vet, the vet didn't think he could save him, so Buddy had to be euthanized. The vet was curious, though, and did an autopsy...Mr. Bud had a tumor the size of a child's fist in his chest cavity. Yet he never acted like there was anything painful or wrong, until the day before I took him to the vet.

I do hope the first half of this year was the difficult half. I have high hopes for the second half.

I'm much less foggy now. If the pain comes back, it will be a tough choice between my physical well being or my intellectual well being. I hope it will not come back.

Thank you all for letting me know you missed me. I missed me too. And I missed you. And yes, Anonymous, mi hermano es muy loco.

It's Always Something

2005-06-16T09:38:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I forget that nonmedical people often are not aware of potential health disasters.

My ex-mom-in-law has diabetes. She's had it for years, and it's never under good control. She lives with one of her children (not the one I was married to, but uncomfortably similar), and he has a hard time denying her the high fat, high sugar foods she craves. And will then forget to check her blood sugar or give her insulin.

I don't see her often, although I am fond of her. I visited for a while after the divorce, but my exhusband used that as an excuse to not see her -- which upset her -- so I drive my son to see her, but I don't visit unless she's ill. And the ex STILL isn't seeing her, but now he has to think up other excuses.

She's gossipy, bossy, opinionated, barely literate, and believes everything the TV preachers and The National Enquirer tell her. She tries to do the right thing, though, and actually trusts me enough to sometimes take my advice -- amazingly, because in the beginning, she was very much against educated women; she changed her mind on that -- and other things -- over the last 28 years.

I have talked to her kids about diabetes. I have told them to check her feet every day. Her circulation is poor, and her feet are always purple, and sometimes blue.

Her daughter tries as best she can. But her sons just don't get it; they can't seem to understand that they can't wait and see if things get better when her health is so fragile.

A week ago, she complained to one of her kids that her foot hurt. Her daughter checked it, and there was a tiny sore. No one checked it again FOR A WEEK...mainly because the daughter was out of town...and only when she was unable to walk, did they check it again.

The 1.5 inch wide, .5 inch deep tunneling wound on her heel was enough for the kids to realize she needed to go to the hospital. Which is a good thing, because if they'd waited even a day longer, she probably would have lost her foot or her leg -- and she may yet, if the debridement doesn't heal well.

And finally, FINALLY, the kids agree that she really needs to be in a nursing home, because they themselves have not been able to give her the care she needs.

Adventures in Housekeeping

2005-06-13T16:22:00.000-05:00

The pain got worse. So much so, that the doc found time in his busy schedule to perform another procedure last Monday.

It seems to have worked, although I have to say that the side effects of the conscious sedation lasted a lot longer this time. I managed to make it to work a couple of days last week, but that was about it...all I could manage was sleep.

Today I am almost pain free, for the first time in months. And this weekend, also for the first time in months, I CLEANED. I cleaned because I could walk, and bend, and move, and it didn't hurt. Of course, the crowd of people standing in the front yard with torches and pitchforks yelling "UNCLEAN! MONSTER! UNCLEAN!" had nothing to do with it.

There are plenty of people who could tell you what a lax housekeeper I am. This came to fruition about my second year of being married when I realized that he was never going to pick up his own dirty socks -- and I detest dirty socks -- so my philosophy became "if there aren't any bugs, and it's not a fire hazard, then it's OK". Then I had another 18 years or so in which I perfected this way of living...although, any time anyone else (like, gee, that guy I was married to who was the father of these kids and who insisted I work fulltime, cook all the meals and do all the laundry) was willing to help clean, I was all over it. But if no one else was willing, why should I do it all?

Once I had my own space, though, it was better; but it was also worse. Better, because my attitude was better, but worse because I now had two children, two dogs, and a cat. And the kids were slightly worse at cleaning than the cat, and only slightly better than the dogs.

Throughout this whole leg pain affair, it's been Gavin, the dogs, the cat, and me. I couldn't do much, and if you've ever had teenagers, you'll know that in order to get them to do housework, they require either a) a lot of nagging or b) the ability on the part of the parent to enforce draconian measures.

I'm not good at either of those. While (mostly) the trash got carried out, and (mostly) the dishes got done, and (mostly) the height of the grass in the yard did not exceed 6 inches...well...nothing else was done except for the odd loads of laundry.

And just to set the record straight, Gavin's sister Alex was much, MUCH worse before she married. So I have to believe, for his future wife's sake, that it is strictly a teenager thing.

Both dogs have been shedding, and once I was finally able to vacuum, I think I acquired enough hair to make 5 more dogs about the size of Labradors. This is really impressive, because both of them still appear to have as much as they started with. In a couple of hidden corners, I found spiders had made homes and had started substantial graveyards of discarded insect parts. The patio was still covered in the last of the winter leaves, books covered every available surface (you can also substitute "dust" for "books")...and, well, you get the picture.

Plus my piles of tile are still waiting to be laid...and if I'm still feeling well in a week or two, that's next (I really don't want to get that started and have to quit in the middle).

There are a couple of really good things that happened because of this. One is that I really, really enjoyed cleaning over the weekend -- and it's been a long time since that was the case. The other thing is that Rog did not run away screaming...and over the past month has spent time with me in my house, despite the fact that he has allergies and drifts of dog hair were thick on the floor. He must be as smitten as I am.

The Evil Bees

2005-06-02T18:31:00.000-05:00

I have just been treated to what may be the most creative World Domination Scheme I have ever heard.

Gavin tells me that if he were to learn interpretive dance, he's sure he could use that to communicate with bees -- Africanized Killer Bees -- which would then become his willing slaves.

With these diminutive yet powerful minions, it would be "a piece of cake" to take power -- after all, the bees could be loaded up on trucks in order to infiltrate the Entire Free World.

He thought up and rejected several Evil Nemesis names (The Bee Keeper, Hive Master) until he decided on "Dr. B Evil", which he states, "works well on SEVERAL levels".

After some thought, though, he demonstrated " interpretive dance" for me and then said, "You know, it would be very hard for people to take you seriously if you have to be doing this sort of thing all the time" while leaping across the living room, drooping like a dying swan, and fluttering like autumn leaves.

Maybe Barysnikov could have pulled it off, but Gavin...yeah, he'd have to have whole countries jailed for laughing-- not just chuckling -- but loud, snorting, Coke-blowing-out-the-nose hilarity.

It's just as well, because I don't believe he thought through the whole winter/hibernating bees thing...

Balm of Sleep

2005-06-02T14:27:00.000-05:00

I spent the holiday weekend working at my other job (hey, gotta pay for all this health care stuff!), 11-7 at the psych hospital. And you can't beat time and a half for holiday pay, especially when the regular pay seems just short of exorbitant.

Both times I was assigned to a kids' unit. Unlike adult psych units, the child units are usually uneventful at night. The units are kept a little bit too cold, so the kids snuggle into their blankets and avoid getting out of bed.

About half the kids sleep in their rooms. The rest "sleep out"; that is, they drag their mattresses into the hall and sleep so that they are watched all night long by staff.

Sleep outs for are actively suicidal or self-harmful children. Also, children who are at risk of sexually abusing others. Sometimes kids who are afraid of the dark sleep out. And sometimes there's a sleep out whose roommate is so flatulent that even the nurses hold their breath just passing by in the hall.

Every once in a while, though, you get a child who can't sleep. And even more rarely, you get a child who won't sleep.

This time, I had a sleep out child who said he couldn't sleep...but he did everything he could to keep from falling asleep. He was so tired that his eyes kept closing on their own; he'd jerk himself awake, complain loudly; when that didn't work so well, he'd sit up; when he begin falling asleep sitting up, then he'd get up and shuffle around, get a drink, go to the bathroom...I'd finally persuade him to lie down and then he'd start all over again.

Some of you probably understand what this is all about, and why, if these hospitalized kids are going to go over the edge, it's usually at bedtime.

Bedtime or nighttime, those are the times abusers often choose to torment their victims. So the time that most of us use to recover from the day and recharge for the day to come is the time that abused children dread the most. So they are afraid to sleep. And after all, if home was never safe, and your parents didn't love you enough to keep you safe, then it's easy for a child to believe that there are no safe places, and that no one will ever love them enough.

I finally persuaded this kid to lie down and imagine what it would be like if he were a student at Hogwarts...and he added "Fighting Voldemort?"..."Of course," I replied...and asked him to start with the Sorting Hat assigning him to a group...and he fell asleep within minutes.

It's a little scary to me that a world with Voldemort feels safer to someone than sleeping under the watchful gaze of two caring adults.

2005-05-31T21:48:00.000-05:00

These are the beautiful fabrics I received from my backtack buddy; now I get to create a notions holder and send it to my OTHER backtack buddy!

The It Girl

2005-05-29T02:36:00.000-05:00

I've been tagged by the Pufferfish, so for your reading delight, I present the "Three" meme...

Three screen names that you have had:
Researchrabbit, Flyinfur -- those are really the only two I've used. Flyinfur happened when I was trying to find a screen name...but everything I tried was taken, and the kids were fighting, and the dogs were barking, and...well...the fur was really flyin' (as we say here in Okieland). Researchrabbit is for what I do and one of my favorite characters -- the White Rabbit -- who shares with me the inability to be on time for anything.

Three things you like about yourself:
I can solve problems, grasp concepts quickly, and I have an infectious smile. Unfortunately, there is no cure or vaccine for the smile thing, but researchers are working feverishly.

Three things you don't like about yourself:
I like chocolate more than I like being thin, I like starting (but not finishing) projects, and I am an expert in the art of procrastination. "Not liking" is perhaps too strong a phrase here, but "things I probably ought to change but am just too lazy and comfortable to actually do so" is more like it.

Three parts of your heritage:
Cherokee, German, and I have the Weird Ward genes. My bother, er brother (Steve, did you see that? I make that typo EVERY SINGLE TIME. Freudian slip or TRUTH?) got a lot more of the Weird Ward genes than I did. Which is probably why he is soooo cool. Even if he doesn't have a blog yet.

Three things that scare you:
Something bad happening to one of my kids. Something bad happening to any other kid. Ever sitting in another interminable class with Mrs. Carlock, my evil 5th grade teacher.

Three of your everyday essentials:
Hot showers, newspaper comics and my own little squishy pillow to sleep on at night...which goes with me on every trip I take.

Three things you are wearing right now:
Wild Hawaiian print scrub top, scrub pants, and nurse name tag with my last name blacked out...something I've done ever since one of my psych patients in KS decided to start phoning me every night at 1 am.

Three of your favorite songs:
Think (Aretha Franklin); The No No Song (Ringo Starr); Sail Away/Orinoco Flow (Enya) ...or really, anything that I can belt out while I'm driving.

Three new things you want to try in the next 12 months:
Enamelling, teaching my kid to drive, and surviving teaching my kid to drive.

Three things I want in a relationship:
Right now, I have everything I want and more. :)

Two truths and a lie:
I'm tall, slender, and blonde. Um. OK, so two definite lies and one self delusion which is probably also a lie. Sue me. :D

Three things you can't do without:
The people I love, chocolate, and books.

Three places you want to go on vacation:
The next three places I am planning to go are my hometown, San Diego and Scotland, in that order. But this list is, apparently, endless. I want to go everywhere and see everything. Well, see everything except #2 on the "just can't do" portion just below this.

Three things you just can't do:
Be mean to animals or children, look at what comes up when one removes a nasogastric tube, or iceskate without falling.

Three kids' names:
Furry or non-furry? I only have two non-furry, so furry it is: Pixie the Wonderdog, Evil Wiley, and Buddy.

Three things you want to do before you die:
I've already done them. :) Anything extra is a gift.

Three Celeb crushes:
Alan Rickman, Cary Grant, Paul Newman.

Three people you want to know these things about: I don't want to tag anyone who doesn't want to play, but I haven't seen Meeps, 3rd Degree Nurse, or Rhodester do one of these...so I invite you to play if you wish to, or not if you don't. :)

Sunny and Clear

2005-05-29T01:22:00.000-05:00

The weather today was warm and sunny, and so was my state of mind.

Gavin actually mowed the lawn. And I didn't have to tell him to do it more than 20 or 30 times. He even applied for a job (although it's so close to summer vacation that he may be out of luck. We'll see). But he's still spending lots and lots of time playing Worlds of Warcraft...ah, to be a teenager with summer vacation on the way...

Rog and I went to a neighborhood arts festival this afternoon (Gavin was invited, but WOW was much more exciting than boring old art and boring old mom). It's an older area of town, and parts of it are very rundown, but the houses and business are charming, with many reflecting a 20s art deco style.

We parked what seemed like a bazillion miles away, but Rog was delighted to push my chair. He is much more careful than I, and didn't bark any shins or run over any toes...which I am afraid I have done more than once since I started wheeling around.

The art was OK, and so was the live music, but the people watching was superb -- and the beauty of the wheelchair is that most people don't look at you, so you can really, really look at them...and they never notice. So I got to check out cool tattoos/odd piercings on the Goth Kids, stare at some very strange Rich Lady hairdos, smile at the Avant Garde Artists clothing, and make funny faces at the kids in strollers (ok, that last one I do whether people notice me doing it or not).

I had to tease Rog a little, and said "I'm going to tell Mom that you've been pushing me around." But he's awfully quick -- he said, "Well, then, I'll have to tell her that I'm a dope pusher."

Heh. I have to admit, he's got me there -- can't have Mom thinking I'm Dopey, especially since, this time of year, Sneezy probably fits me better.

Oh, I know. That was terrible. But it's the middle of the night, and I'm working inpatient psych. That's the only time I'm ever up this late, and it makes me even goofier than I am normally.

My New Wheels

2005-05-26T08:31:00.000-05:00

My arms are tired...but it's really, really nice to be mobile again, and since I'm not walking much, my hip hurts less.

I figure if I do this long enough, at least I'll have very toned arms.

At some point I suppose I'll learn to gauge where the wheels are on the chair so I don't run into/over things. Or maybe not; I'm still running over curbs in my car (and I've been driving for 30 years now). People on campus better watch their toes.

There is no place on a wheelchair to hang a purse or a bag so that it doesn't bump against the wheels, unless it has straps long enough to span both handles. It's awkward to hold it on my lap; it keeps sliding off when I try to open doors. I am very thankful for my chair, but it could have been designed better for independent users. So I suppose I'm going to break out the sewing machine tonight (I have to start work on my backtack project too -- more on that later) and see what I can devise, since I have documents that have to be hauled all over campus that have been piling up. I can just see trying to balance a 10 inch stack of paper on my lap -- what a potential disaster! I have sent some things through campus mail -- which isn't terribly reliable -- but the big stacks of paper have to be hand carried.

Bugs and Barriers

2005-05-25T08:59:00.000-05:00

Alas, the pain relief from the procedure lasted two days...and I graduated to a wheelchair today. I am pleased, though, that my next appointment is next Wednesday, which is three weeks sooner than originally planned (but I had to be a very squeaky wheel to get that). And I guess surgery is the next option.

I do not know how people with chronic pain learn to live with it. The pain colors everything I do; dulls my thoughts, damps my enthusiasm, and makes me cranky (not that anyone really notices that I'm cranky, but I FEEL cranky). Not only is it difficult to find a comfortable position no matter what I do, but it's difficult to get from one place to another. Despite the handicapped access laws, there are still barriers that I never noticed before.

Our parking garage is shared by two buildings. Handicapped parking spaces for employees are situated next to the old building; I work in the new building. To get to my building, I have to use an elevator and then a glassed-in walkway which goes from the 2nd floor of the old building to the 4th floor of the new building...so the walkway is an incline, and not a gentle one. And there's a corner to get round right in the middle.

It's a workout to go up it in a wheelchair, especially since the glass double doors at either end are stiff and were hard to open when I could walk. What is really going to be fun, though, is getting back to my car. I can just see me splatted against the glass doors like a bug on a windshield...

When the Student is Ready, the Teacher Will Appear

2005-05-19T09:34:00.000-05:00

I have been lucky in life to have been open enough to learn much from many.

Rog and I are "going steady" for want of a better term -- neither of us want to see anyone else. He asked me last night if I were "good at picking men"...really asking me (I think) if I were sure about my choice this time.

I woke up this morning and realized that the previous two times I'd made a commitment, I'd done so out of fear.

When I found the man I would marry, I wanted a protector. I felt battered by life events beyond my control, and I found a controller. I KNEW he was not a kind person, but I thought he'd be different with me (mistake number one) and I married him. Didn't work.

When I found the man I later lived with, I wanted faithfulness, honesty, and freedom. I felt betrayed and controlled by my exhusband, and I found an honest man. I KNEW he was irresponsible, I KNEW he needed to move constantly, and I KNEW he had an anger problem -- because he told me all these things himself -- and I thought I could change (mistake number two). We lived together. Didn't work.

I wrote this last June. I knew I didn't want someone I had to change and I knew I didn't want someone who had to change me.

Then I met Lynn, when I bought a really cool painting from her on Ebay (see her current listings here). Since I was born in November (and therefore Sagittarius) and have always been fascinated by mythology, moonlight, and luna moths, I had to buy it...and for whatever reason, no one was willing to bid very high, and I was able to afford it.

Later, she posted another lovely and mysterious painting which bore a strong resemblance to my daughter, Alex -- who loves Jack Russell terriers...see the closeup here. Once again, it was affordable, although her works are usually more than I can manage. Alex LOVES it...although if she hadn't, I'd have been VERY happy to have kept it myself.

Since I'd bought a second painting from Lynn, this time we emailed back and forth a few times, and found we are about the same age and had some similar early experiences. But of all the things we wrote about, one stayed with me: she'd had a poor first marriage as well, and is (she states) deliriously happy this time around. She told me, "The first time I picked what I thought I wanted. The second time, I asked God to choose for me."

And this January, after that exchange with Lynn, that's just what I did.

Sometimes we never know the powerful influence that we have on those around us.

Site Visitors

2005-05-18T14:02:00.000-05:00

There are different types of research studies. There are nonfunded studies, federally funded studies, not-for-profit or nonprofit funded studies, and industry sponsored (both investigator initiated and company initiated) studies. I'm sure there are other types as well, but I haven't done those.

At this job, I work mostly with nonfunded studies, but we do have a few industry sponsored studies...and I am actually most familiar with those, since that's all I did for the 12 years I did psychiatric research.

When we do an industry sponsored study, the pharmaceutical or device company has to send out a couple of people to look us over and make sure we have what it takes to do the study. It's always seemed a little silly to me -- after all, this is a university medical center -- but I suppose they want to be certain that we really, really do have access to a lab, and ECG machines, and MRIs, and surgery suites, and a centrifuge, and surgery imaging...you get the picture. Before they give us any money, they have to be sure that we can do the study.

They also ask about a million questions about the credentials of the people who will work on the trial, the Institutional Review Board, the Scientific Committee screening process, how we plan to find people to participate, how many similar trials we've done...and on...and on.

That's what I did last Wednesday -- some folks from a Canadian company came and looked us over. And I got to give 'em the tour...which explains a lot about why my leg got so much worse last Thursday.

Usually they give us a list of what they want to see -- and often a peek through the door is sufficient -- but these folks wanted a thorough, indepth tour of several facilities, none of which they'd asked for in advance. They even OPENED the lab freezers to make sure there would be space for their stuff, noted the last inspection dates on the MRI machines, and asked for the imaging equipment to be demonstrated. I had to make some frantic phone calls, call in some favors, and eventually they did see most of what they wanted, although the ECG people did NOT allow us to tour. Which is typical for cardiology...they need to get over themselves, really.

At any rate, we're approved for this study now -- which means we have something else to offer our terminal head and neck cancer patients. This treatment won't cure them, but might make those last months easier...and doesn't look like it'll detract from quality of life...and might help someone else down the line if it works.

Not only that, but I get to take a trip to Toronto in early July for the start up meeting.

She's Baa-aack!

2005-05-17T17:06:00.000-05:00

The procedure went well, although (as usual) the surgery rooms were way behind so everything was delayed. My 1:30 procedure finally happened around 4, so I was home by 7. The doc used conscious sedation, which is better than a general anesthetic, but did leave me with a terrific headache for most of today. The good news, though, is that I'm walking with very little pain.

The bad news is that it STILL hurts to sit...I don't know why I thought sitting would be pain-free when the procedure consisted of a huge needle piercing my posterior...not once, but twice. But at least it's DIFFERENT pain and should go away. And I've vacuumed, and picked up, and done laundry and dishes...all the things that didn't get done last month without lots of nagging Gavin. Which means mostly they weren't done at all, because nagging makes me crazy.

The doc also tells me that the pain relief is almost certainly temporary, and really more of a diagnostic tool. Since the pain was relieved, that gives him a better idea of exactly what is wrong, and what he can do for a permanent fix.

But heck, I feel GOOD. So I'm happy.

If there's a silver lining, I'll find it...

2005-05-13T09:01:00.000-05:00

I can't walk now and it's too painful even to sit. So I'm going to lie in bed, listen to the rain and read books...lots and lots of books.

But I'll be back (hopefully) Tuesday, after the procedure on Monday.

2005-05-09T19:52:00.000-05:00

Here's Dad! -- Roger's sketch.

Meet the Mom

2005-05-09T13:34:00.000-05:00

I worked long-term adolescent psych Saturday night, 11pm to 7am. Kind of a strange prelude to Mother's Day as most of these kids don't have a mom (or dad, for that matter) who cares or is involved. The few that did were getting passes off the floor to visit a mom or a grandmother on Sunday; I can only imagine how the ones left behind felt about that.

A few of the kids have discovered that if they make abuse allegations about the people who work on the unit, that all kinds of havoc and trouble ensue...and since they mostly long for attention, good or bad, it's become a popular pastime. So none of us made rounds by ourselves; always two or more at a time -- one nurse in the hall watching another nurse with a flashlight make sure that all kids are breathing, in no distress, and in the correct beds.

The Plan for Sunday was that my brother, sister, and I would all go to Mom's for Mother's Day; it's been a tough year for all of us, but particularly for her, and we wanted to make it special.

I asked Rog to go with me...it's only been a month, but he's become a very important person in my life already. It's a little scary, but mostly it's wonderful and amazing, and I feel very lucky...in fact, I feel like I won the life lottery.

Rog agreed to go with me to meet my entire family...and then he also drove both ways (about 5 hours total)...since I was tired from working and my hip is still painful. And then he made Mom (and me) cry. He had drawn a pencil sketch of Dad, framed the original for me, and gave Mom a copy. Mom loves it. And it is wonderful; Dad gazes serenely out of the paper and right into your eyes, a bit of a smile on his face, as though to say, "It's going to be all right."

I'm crying again as I write this. But it's a good thing.

Anal Sphincter Reconstruction

2005-05-06T13:45:00.000-05:00

Today I had to walk to the Department Chair's office. It's not all that far away, but I'm moving awfully slowly. Which makes it MUCH easier to eavesdrop on hallway conversations. I admit it; I'm nosy.

Nosiness is what got me into research in the first place; I was offered a job in a research psychiatry group in which the shrink in charge stated "If you'll come work for us, you can do anything you want." So...there I was, a very temporary secretary, trained to teach French and Spanish, but this psychiatrist is willing to let me -- with no psychiatric training -- interview psychiatric patients of assorted disorders by asking for social, medical, and indepth symptom histories...and take as much time as I needed and ask any questions necessary...how could I say no?

Sometimes the Powers-That-Be move in mysterious ways. That offer and my acceptance shaped my life into something completely different than it would have been if I'd followed my plan to teach that fall.

Anyway, on my way to the Chair's office, I shared a long hallway with two youngish MDs who were discussing sphincter reconstructions in detail. Since I walk so slowly, and they were standing and talking, I didn't even have to loiter to hear almost all of the conversation, the pros and cons of this type of procedure for this or that patient.

They honored the intent, if not the spirit, of the new HIPAA laws; no names, but "the patient with the hair", "that tall guy", "you know, that woman we saw last Wednesday". Funny how we watch what we say these days.

And then, when I got to the door I needed, not one, but BOTH MDs came over and held it open. I was shocked, not because they were MDs (because the younger ones, even the surgeons, tend to be less Godlike these days), but because they'd been so deep in conversation, I didn't think they were aware of anything but what they were going to do for their patients.

Thank goodness all I have to do is get my hip fixed...and my only interactions with THAT group will be hallway listening.

The Real Reality TV

2005-05-04T09:16:00.000-05:00

Every morning, I drive Gavin to school. It's a whole lot easier than making him walk two blocks at 10 minutes till seven am and then riding the bus for 40 minutes. Plus (if he's not too sleepy) we have some interesting conversations in the car.

This morning we were discussing ways to pay teachers more, since Gavin is currently incensed that football players make millions while teachers have barely enough to live on. Gavin immediately turned to TV...

REALITY TV -- IT'S REAL, IT'S NEW, THE HEIGHT OF DRAMA AND SUSPENSE!

Thirty students. One teacher. And NONE of them may leave the room until they have LEARNED CALCULUS!

What the teacher DOESN'T know is that ALL of the students have ADHD*.

What the students DON'T know is that the teacher is an EX-MARINE.

How many will SURVIVE this harrowing experience? Tune in NOW!

*Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder
...

I have only myself to blame for Gavin's skewedness -- he learned to read with The Far Side and Calvin and Hobbes.

I'll Take a Little Cheese with my Whine

2005-05-03T08:35:00.000-05:00

Warning: Whine ahead. You've been warned.

Most of the nurses I know do not go to see the doctor unless they are in dire straits, and I am no exception. In addition, I have a streak of stoicness (is that a word?) and stubbornness when it comes to pain. But I have finally come to the point where I can barely function.

I would have thought that either natural childbirth or the impaired dentist who drilled my tooth with fake Novocaine (who has since been jailed and lost his licence) would have qualified for the "10" rating on the pain scale. My hip, though, is much, much worse. Two days ago, I stepped wrong and almost passed out (luckily I was with Rog and he was quick enough on the uptake to catch me before I fell. Thank God). I'm still going to work but once I get to my office, it's difficult just to get to the copier down the hall. Walking in from handicapped parking takes forever, and sometimes I can't help crying as I hobble because the pain is so severe.

Even with all this, the soonest the MD can do anything for me is the 16th of May. And that may not work. It's all very distressing, and I can't understand WHY it takes so long when I hurt this much.

It's harder every day to be positive, optimistic, and upbeat. But I'm trying.

Scrabble Fodder, Part Deux

2005-05-02T09:43:00.000-05:00

The Scrabble tournament was fiercely fought, but alas; victory was not to be mine or Rog's. After being plied with wine (probably the first strategic move), we began to play. I held the lead briefly, but Don pulled ahead to bring off #1, Bev beat me by 2 points, and poor Rog trailed the pack by about 20. Afterwards, Don told me that in his free time, he often reads the Scrabble dictionary "for fun". Heh. They've turned into Scrabble sharks.

Then the pictures began...Bev made signs a la the olympics for 1st, 2nd, and 3rd, and then presented Rog with a "Fodder" sign...she intends to blow that picture up to 8x10 and display it next Saturday, when we meet for a rematch.

Rog has plans, though, to raid his own Scrabble game and smuggle some tiles over in his sleeve.

Bev's hair not only stayed down, but Rog earned a 2 thumbs up. WOO HOO!

Scrabble Fodder

2005-04-29T09:48:00.000-05:00

My best friend has invited Rog and me to her house for Scrabble this weekend.

Scrabble has much less to do with how many words you know and much more to do with strategy, placement, and doing your best to deny your opponent a good opening.

I know lots of words. But Bev and Don (her companion) must channel Alexander the Great as they are masters at strategy. And I value the times I've managed to win, because I've really had to work for it.

So Rog and I will, more than likely, be mere fodder for the Scrabble masters.

The real point of all this, though (besides having a tremendously good time) is Bev's Hair Test.

If Rog doesn't make Bev's hair go up, then he's probably safe to keep dating...Bev's ability to pick out scary weirdnesses in people is amazing (my guess is that Rog will pass with flying colors). When I was married, she figured out my husband was having an affair without even having met him. When she DID meet him, her hair went up (at the time, I wasn't a true believer, and brushed it off...but I shouldn't have). She's not infallible -- but she's damn good.

The Initiation

2005-04-27T15:42:00.000-05:00

Much to my son's dismay, there was no wine to be drunk out of skulls. No pentagrams, arcane knowledge, or mysterious handshakes were shared.

Instead, there was a speech by a gentleman who had participated in the Ironman Triathlon. I have yet to figure out exactly HOW that connects to the National Honor Society (the group he'd been asked to join). But it does illustrate the power of sports here in Boomer Sooner Land.

Even the cake afterwards did not make up for the lack of ritual, mystery, or scholar-related activities...

That (not so) Invisible Touch

2005-04-25T17:38:00.000-05:00

I've always touched people. My kids, relatives, friends, strangers, co-workers. Sometimes it's a simple "I'm here for you" touch on the hand. Or an "I need your attention" finger on the wrist. A "gee, I like you" or "thanks, you're wonderful" hug (reserved for people I know well). A "what a cool fabric" touch of a sleeve or maybe even a tie, if the guy is approachable and it's really nifty.

I never thought twice about any of these being inappropriate.

However, in the initial flurry of dating, it came up over and over again.

As I've said before, people tell me things, sometimes things they've never told anyone else. And each and every guy I dated did the disclosure thing, and each and every one of them got a hand touch.

And with a few exceptions, they were discombobulated by it (oh, how I love that word!).

I even had one email in which the guy wrote, "we were having such a nice lunch and things were going well, even though I knew I was talking too much. And then you touched my hand. What was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to think? What did you mean by that?"

All but 2 of the people I dated commented on it, indicating that they didn't know what to make of a simple touch to the hand.

So tell me: did they think this was an invitation of some sort? Why? Are men so hungry for touch that my fingers on the back of a hand was crazy-making? I might have suspected that of teenagers, but guys over 50? Or was it me, and I inadvertently crossed some invisible boundary?

Oh, and BTW: the only two who weren't strange about it were Rog and Harley Guy. When I touched their hands, each put his other hand briefly on top of mine in a way that said: "I'm glad you understand." At least I think that's what they were saying.

Middle Aged Women

2005-04-25T08:55:00.000-05:00

Rog and I went to see Kung Fu Hustle last night. It's funny (sometimes extremely funny) in a weird, sly, and goofy way. The film takes those kung fu movie stereotypes and turns them on their heads. If you're open to a little weirdness (okay, maybe a lot of weirdness), you should see this one.

One of the characters is a cranky, middle-aged woman with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, who mostly appears wearing curlers, robe, and houseshoes. She terrifies the people around her but at the same time apparently cares deeply for them while rarely ever showing any softer side.

She is a tiger.

I like that. I would like to have that kind of inner strength. But I suppose there is strength in gentleness, too.

Return of the Art Field

2005-04-23T21:47:00.000-05:00

Anne and I went back Friday night for another round of volunteering at the Arts Festival. We no longer wonder about the lack of volunteers for that time period!

Anne came with all three of her kids -- Gamine Marti, Emmy of the Amazing Hair, and Tyler (also known as Mr. Smartypants). Gavin got new games for his birthday and was glued to the computer, so I brought Mr. Laidback instead -- since I'd agreed to bring 4 volunteers with me --silly me thinking this would be a fun way to get to know each other.

It was a madhouse. There were a few wonderful kids and parents like those we'd had Tuesday night, but as time wore on, more and more parents were pushy and more and more kids were whiny, screaming, or demanding (sometimes all three -- and sometimes the parents were right there with 'em). It was all we could do to explain the crafts, dole out scissors, pens, glue, and other supplies, and STILL manage to assist the kids.

However, by the end of it, Mr. Laidback (or Rog, since I like him enough to let him have a real name now) admitted with a laugh that he'd had a wonderful time, and could he see me again?

Yes, yes, YES!

More Skeletons

2005-04-22T09:02:00.000-05:00

Hah -- it's finally out -- Mr. LaidBack has a deep, dark secret too, which he reluctantly confessed Wednesday night.

He's a Trekkie.

He's been to several conventions and even has the uniform...and a phaser...and since he's tall and slender, I bet he probably looks good in all that lycra.

Plus he loves bad puns (although he didn't have to tell me that -- I'd already figured it out).

This has the potential to be even better than I thought. :D

What the HELL is that?

2005-04-21T13:00:00.000-05:00

The tiny, skinny towheaded boy sat on the floor in a pool of sunlight, totally absorbed in play. In front of him, a favorite toy, a knitted jute octopus about the size of a grapefruit. Off to the side, a giant pile of green plastic army men.

One by one, the chubby fingers pick up a Joe and set it in front of the octopus, like a supplicant. And then the singsong chant..."What the HELL is that?"

And one by one, the entire pile of Joes pays homage to the octopus, each with the same refrain, "What the HELL is that?"

And mom, barely able to contain her amusement, comes a little closer to absolutely losing it with each repetition, finally having to run into the backyard to indulge in a fit of snorting laughter.

Much later that day, Gavin and I had a discussion about Barbarian Words and why we don't use them...but I wouldn't have missed that performance for anything.

Happy birthday, Gavin! 16 today and still marching to the beat of a different drummer...which in your case probably includes steel drums and marimbas.

The Art Field

2005-04-20T09:59:00.000-05:00

Last night, my sister and I (not to mention 3 of our kids) volunteered at the Festival of the Arts. We were relegated to the "Children's Art Field" which actually is not a field at all, but a tent full of stuff guaranteed to spark a child's interest.

Anne is 6 years younger, taller, and, much, much thinner than I am (she's a size 3 -- between us we would make two average sized people), with curly brown hair and a pretty heart-shaped face. She also has what my daughter calls a "butt chin" -- which, for all you more adult people, is a cleft chin. (my daughter has one too, so I suppose she is entitled to call it anything she wants) Anne's also much more serious and I think she worries enough for both of us. Even so, she is absolutely adorable and doesn't have a clue that she is.

We wound up at the headband/necklace table. Since the other volunteers had made their own (they claimed "to spark the kids" but I know better), we did too. Anne started off with a simple headband with a couple of chenille stems sticking out like bee antenna...but as time went on, she kept adding to it until at last she had a flower garden waving and nodding above her head. And she never stopped smiling the entire time.

The kids had fun too (Gavin had a chenille handlebar villain-style mustache suspended from his glasses) but not nearly so much as Anne and I did.

So we signed up again for Friday night. I can think of worse dates, and not many better ones.

It's Official...

2005-04-19T14:22:00.000-05:00

I'm now old.

Despite the over-the-counter and prescription pain relievers, the pain has increased to the point that my MD decided to give me a temporary handicap permit for my car.

This is a good thing because the parking garage at work is 5 stories tall, there's no elevator, and anyone who arrives late (like me) winds up parking far, far away.

So I got my permit today. The doc also told me to get a cane...so now all you young whippersnappers better look out.

Um, are there old whippersnappers?

9:02

2005-04-19T08:46:00.000-05:00

9:02 -- That's the exact time of the 10th anniversary of the bombing, and the time I will close my door and probably have a good cry.

It's also posted over the entrance to the OKC memorial; a giant gateway though which everyone passes to enter the park.

Inside, there is a still pool, that even in this windy city is never ruffled. 168 copper colored chairs -- 19 of them small -- glow against the green grass. And off to the side is the Survivor Tree, an elm which was blackened and broken 10 years ago but has grown and thrived year after year.

At the end of the park is another huge gate, and this one is labeled "9:03".

It was almost impossible to get to work this morning; Clinton and Cheney are in town and most of the main roads have been blocked off so their motorcades can get through safely. And I guess they couldn't tell the good citizens of Oklahoma City because that might have put them at risk.

The ceremony at the Memorial this morning is "by invitation only"; but the hearts and thoughts of many here are downtown anyway.

Skeletons in the Closet

2005-04-18T11:01:00.000-05:00

It's a funny thing, but people often find themselves telling me things they'd never tell anyone else. Strangers on a plane, people in line at the grocery store, patients, friends, family...not that I mind...partly I'm naturally nosy, and partly I like to help people sort things out. This was a valuable talent when I did psychiatric interviews; my trauma patients and paranoid schizophrenic patients -- the two groups my colleagues had the most trouble getting information from -- were always willing to talk to me. Antisocial personalities -- that's another story. They don't tell anyone any truths unless it will get them something.

When I was 5 or so, I read The Jungle Book. I was fascinated by the story and by the way Mowgli charmed the wolves by looking into their eyes and not looking away or blinking. And I started doing that myself. It wasn't until many years later that a friend told me, "Jodie, it really makes me uncomfortable that you make so much eye contact -- it's too intense."

Really, I think this is why people tell me things. And sometimes even they are surprised that they told me.

So this weekend, Mr. Sweetie surprised himself by telling me that he's been married 5 times previously. We then had quite a long talk about his need to do things for his exwife (after two years of being divorced, he is still mowing her lawn, doing her electrical work, fixing her car...you get the picture) and why he continues to need her approval. So, no, no, no.

The relationship with Mr. LaidBack, though, is shaping up nicely. He brought his portfolio to show me his work (and WOW -- he is very talented). We went to the park and walked slowly, sat often (my hip hurts way more than natural childbirth or having a tooth drilled sans novocaine -- both of which I have experienced) and talked much, everything from music to the incredible variety of iris flowers blooming there.

There's nothing quite like sitting on the grass under a shady tree, while light breezes caress you, the occasional sunbeam warms your face, and someone gives you sweet, soft kisses.

And the rose garden should be blooming next weekend...

In the Pink

2005-04-17T14:47:00.000-05:00

People who love me have taken to giving me flamingos.

Not the real, feathery kind, but odd things...the somewhat creepy folk art painting of a moonlit witch flying over a field full of flamingos is probably my favorite.

Several years ago, my friend Bev told me that she'd always wanted a plastic yard flamingo. Bev was born on Christmas Day, and hadn't had much in the way of birthdays as a child...so now birtdays are a VERY big deal for her.

So, at the end of summer sales I bought her a flamingo. Actually, I bought her FIFTY flamingos, one for every year old she was going to be and hid them in my garage.

Christmas eve, my friend Dean and I (more than a friend then, but not now) stole out to her house and stuck all fifty flamingos in the frozen ground in front of her house (not as easy as you'd think in the middle of the night and the cold).

She was awakened the next morning with her partner making a crack about flamingos on the lawn. She figured that I'd come through with her plastic yard flamingo and opted for breakfast instead of looking out in her front yard...and then started getting, as she put it, strange calls from her neighbors.

Once she did look outside, she says she laughed for the rest of the day...and a week later, 49 of those flamingos had mysteriously migrated to MY lawn.

The next month, 48 of them flew back to her house....and then to mine...and back to hers...and finally we decided that maybe they needed to visit another friend...and another friend after that...

Until we'd had a year of fun with them. I'm not sure where they've flown off to now, but I hope someone else is enjoying them as much as we did.

The funny thing, though, is that no one is buying Bev flamingos...they buy them for me. Not that I mind. :D

How the Heck Do People Get Hooked on this Stuff?

2005-04-15T14:06:00.000-05:00

My hip hurts. It's been hurting since the day after Dad died (which was also the same day the guy I'd been seeing for the past 4 years moved to Florida). At first (being a psych nurse and all, and the timing the way it was) I thought it was psychosomatic. But as time went on and it hurt more, I decided to go to the MD.

For those of you who aren't nurses and don't know any nurses, it's probably important to know that if you're in that profession, you are the least likely person to go to the doctor. Well...that's not quite true -- doctors are probably worse about not seeing doctors. But not by much. And they can write their own prescriptions.

First the doc sent me to Physical Therapy...which is expensive and hasn't helped. The pain is now so intense that it's almost impossible to walk to the building PT is in...so the next step was to have an MRI.

Thank goodness I am not claustrophobic and find small enclosed places comfortable. For 30 minutes I lay perfectly still inside a tube (with at most 2 inches of space between the tip of my nose and the inside of the tube) with all sorts of noisy clanking, buzzing, and hammering sounds assaulting my ears even with the ear plugs the tech was kind enough to supply. I kept my eyes closed after I realized that the inside of the tube was grimy. EEUWW.

I am still waiting for the results. In the meantime, my doc gave me some of the same stuff that Rush Limbaugh got into trouble with. And I don't understand why anyone would want to take drugs like this any longer than they have to. It barely takes the edge off my pain, I'm so fuzzy I can barely think, and I believe it contributed to the funk I was in yesterday.

I'd much rather be addicted to something that allows me to visit Wonderland, ride with Aragorn, run away from homicidal Luggage, or dance with Darcy.

Oh wait. I already am -- I'm addicted to books. Who needs any other mind expander?

WHAM

2005-04-14T18:51:00.000-05:00

The bright sun shines and the birds sing as you meander through your day...and then grief barrels out of the dark alleyway, bodyslams you, and suddenly it's all gone dreary. Today has been tough.

Herbal Remedies vs Traditional Medicine

2005-04-14T10:28:00.000-05:00

There's a lot of negative rhetoric on either side of this when really, the whole point should be "what can we do to help this patient?".

One of the problems is that both groups appear to be so insecure in their beliefs that if they were to give any credence at all to the other side, then somehow the other side would "win".

So, one group eschews manufactured medicines because they are not natural, and therefore suspect...those manmade chemicals cannot possibly be as safe as those active ingredients found and used in their natural state. The other group avoids herbal remedies because they have not been through the rigorous testing required for manufactured drugs and are therefore suspect, because how can you really know what it does unless it's been studied and quantified?

And these folks are the rational people on either side of the debate; it's really fun when either side jumps in with the paranoid conspiracies, which (have you noticed?) are becoming increasingly common in our society.

Those herbal remedies are being studied more and more. Some of them are just as wonderful as promised. Some are turning out to be placebos or actually harmful. But at least someone is taking the time to see what good is being done with herbals. One of the problems, though, is that it is hard to quantify the strength of an herbal ingredient unless it is refined (which leads back to that whole manmade thing). Two plants of the same species may have differing amounts of the active drug, depending on how or where it was grown...which makes it difficult for the investigators to quantify how much of the active ingredient is being utilized by the individual patient...and if the amounts are different, is that why Patient A did better than Patient B?

The other side has been villified for so long (remember those days long ago when MDs were gods and no one else mattered?) that it is very hard to trust anything from the medical establishment -- and because they have been excluded from the medical establishment, they don't follow the medical model...so it's hard to get acceptance. And after years of no acceptance...well...there are a lot of people who simply no longer care whether those remedies are accepted or not. I know people who will trust an untested herbal remedy over a tested pharmaceutical, simply because the herbal remedy is "natural". Well, deathcap mushrooms are natural, too.

At the same time, when I have a patient who has trouble sleeping, I have them try the 1/2 turkey sandwich & milk before bedtime; failing that, a cup of chamomile tea; then tryptophan; and only then go to the prescriptive sleep aids.

It's a lot like those liberals and conservatives. Both sides unwilling to give in, despite the fact that a combination of both may be what's needed for the good of all.

What brought this up? Today I'm researching a homeopathic remedy which one of my investigators wants to test for use in oral cancer patients, post radiation, to possibly help with mucositis (horrible mouth sores). If we do a study with it -- whether it works or not -- I see it as a gain for both sides.

2005-04-11T20:51:00.000-05:00

Alex and Emily, woodland sprites...

Sprites, Bombs, Art...and Evil Week

2005-04-11T09:42:00.000-05:00

Next week is the Festival of the Arts. Yes, there are artists, but what most people come for is the food -- Strawberries Newport, Funnel Cakes, Cheesecake, Gyros -- what, and there's art, too? There's also continuous live music by local bands, dance exhibitions, and it's all outdoors at the lovely, huge, downtown park. Mostly this part of Oklahoma is as flat as a pancake, but the park has actual hills and beautiful plantings.

My sister and I are hauling a kid each out to volunteer on opening night, April 19...the start of (according to my son) Evil Week, which ends with Hitler's birthday (and coincidentally, contains my son's birthday on the 21st).

Why is April 19th the start of Evil Week? Well, that's the anniversary of the the Murrah bombing, and this year is the 10th year -- so it's a milestone, a very sad one.

If you had lived in Oklahoma City for any time at all before the bombing, you too would have either known someone who died, or known someone who lost a significant person in their lives. The deaths that affected me were all second hand -- 1) the lost looking lady who had assisted my friend Bev in obtaining disability for her son as he was dying of cancer -- she worked on the first floor. 2) The husband of my daughter's daycare teacher -- he was in (I think) HUD on the 7th floor. 3) My ex-husband's boss' daughter -- a charming woman who worked in the credit union. And Monica, whom I worked with at the time, had just transferred her kids from that daycare to another one -- missing the bombing by a week.

How did it unfold for me? I was sitting on the table in the conference room in the Dept of Psychiatry (about 12 blocks away), being silly and waiting for a meeting when our building shook and there was a muffled rumble. We thought there was something wrong with the heating/cooling system but weren't particularly perturbed -- all our thoughts were bent around Bev, who was back to work for her first day after the death of her son, her only child.

One of the secretaries ran in -- "There's been an explosion downtown" -- and we all ran to the only TV on our floor. Monica started screaming, "It's the daycare!" And we kept telling her it couldn't be the daycare -- because none of us could wrap our minds around a daycare exploding.

Then the call came that all nursing personnel were needed in the ER -- although I wasn't yet a nurse at that time, I tagged along to help in whatever way I could. We loaded ambulances and waited...and waited...and waited...and then they started coming back empty. That was when we knew it was going to be bad.

My children were both close as well -- my son, Gavin, at a church daycare 6 blocks away, my daughter, Alex, at elementary school 10 blocks away. Gavin's daycare was evacuated. Alex's classmates thought a ladder had fallen down (some construction was being done on their building).

Psychiatry started getting bomb threats within an hour. To this day I believe that they were not malicious; I think some of our more paranoid patients became delusional and wished to protect us. We had a patient, so Bev stayed while the rest of us went home; later she said, "You know, I really didn't care at that point if I lived or died, it just didn't matter." The patient? Panic disorder. She later said that if she'd had any clue how bad it was, she'd have had a huge panic attack right there.

Alex's school, meanwhile, had been told that a different building had exploded -- causing one of her friends to have a screaming hysterical tantrum because her mom was in that building (her mom actually WAS injured; her office had a plate glass window which faced the explosion...luckily she had her back to the window and was filing at the time. She has some interesting physical scars but no emotional ones). Whitney, Alex's best friend (and one of the most intelligent people I will ever meet), had a mom in the Murrah building. Pam told me later that the floor broke off not two feet in front of her and she couldn't remember getting out of the building with her injured and blinded coworker...she showed up at the elementary school, covered in dust and had the principal drive her and Whitney home. Whitney later got a pass on a big homework project when she told her teacher, "My homework was blown up." If I could have had a third kid, I've have wanted it to be Whitney. She's going to be designing the next generation of hybrid or alternate power cars, BTW.

Had the bombing been two hours later, the area in front of the Murrah building would have been filled with schoolbuses full of 5th and 6th graders going to the Civic Center (just down the street) to see a Ballet Oklahoma performance of "A Midsummer Night's Dream"...in which Alex had a bit part as a sprite. She was so excited that her friends would get to see her dance in a professional company -- and it never was rescheduled.

It's hard to see how your life intertwines with others in innumerable ways until there is a huge disruption in which so many things are broken forever, whether large or small.

The year Gavin christened his birthday week as "Evil Week"? Luckily, Easter was in the same week that year...and eventually I was able to show him that good and evil exist side by side -- so that he at least doesn't feel it's inevitable that he become an archvillain. Of course, he can still make that choice. He's certainly got the evil laugh down pat.

Helping the Homeless

2005-04-07T11:01:00.000-05:00

Wow, I can't believe I let time get away from me like that -- a whole week since I've posted. Then again, I really wore myself out.

The garage sale for charity was a lot of fun. All the volunteers were women (with the exception of an elderly antiques dealer who looked like an antique himself...a particularly dusty one that's been stuck back in the corner so long that it's been forgotten). I was assigned to "kitchen/housewares", which encompassed everything from junky gewgaws to ancient glass coffee jars, small kitchen appliances and everything you could imagine. We got all kinds of buyers -- fashionable ladies in expensive clothing to people with no teeth and filthy clothes. It's hard to believe that people will ask if they can buy something marked $5 for a nickel (and those fashionable ladies can be the worst) -- we got a lot of those -- but we also got the people who'd walk up and give a donation for the dogs without buying anything. I think the homeless dogs received about $7,000 from this sale, so at least they won't go hungry.

I did get hit on at the sale...while he seemed like a nice person, he just wasn't for me. But that has seemed to indicate some kind of turnaround in the dating department...some kind of cosmic karmic shift...all of a sudden there are men everywhere. Most of 'em not even close to the right man -- but I only want one, anyway, so it's all good.

There's Mr. Corvette. Nice guy, good ole boy, retires in 4 years and is off to see the world on his Harley. Obviously our longterm goals don't match, but in the short term, all he really wants is someone to see movies/theater/concerts with, go out to dinner with, and walk with; he really loves the outdoors. He doesn't seem to be materialistic, but he does love his wheels.

Then there's Mr. Manic, who can't sit still, talks too much and has some odd ideas -- but he was also very funny -- leading to outrageous, snorting, guffawing laughter. If I were into diagnosing my dates, well, he'd be the grand prize winner...not sure if I want to see him again. Maybe.

And Mr. LaidBack, who is this Saturday's blind date. Nice on the phone and email, intelligent, starting a new career as a graphic artist. Liberal politics, kind persona.

Lastly, Mr. Sweetie, who seems to be very tender-hearted. Politically conservative (eek), active in church, but just a little subversive within that structure. Plus he claims to cook and clean. Our political views are poles apart, but...only time will tell.

Not only that, but Jamie found someone she wants me to meet. Looks like my dance card is going to be full for awhile!

My Two Left Feet

2005-03-31T21:01:00.000-05:00

I'm not the most graceful person in the world. However, after watching the folks in our dance class, I know that things could be much, much worse. Our instructors are going to earn every single penny of our tuition...

Since this is a University sponsored class, we have a very diverse group. Everyone from the students (who look more and more like Doogie Howser as time goes by) to maintenance men, nurses in scrubs, MDs in suits (male and female), and a few women dressed to the nines in slit skirts and heels.

Guys, this is a GREAT way to meet women. Unfortunately, it is a lousy way to meet men...the few men were either dragged in with their wives or girlfriends, or they were instructors. The only two guys who didn't fit either of those groups were in their teens or twenties and wanted to learn how to dance so they could meet girls...funny that as we were starting out, they deliberately chose we ladies old enough to be their moms instead of the cuties in low rider jeans and tank tops. Guess we looked nonthreatening...

Anyway, it was FUN. If I'd been able to talk Marla into it, I think I'd have tried to find a salsa bar Friday night, just to practice. :) But I'm not quite ready to go it alone...and she's not quite ready to try out her steps for real (I'm not ready either, I just WANT to. Plus I figure if I spent a whole evening dancing salsa, I'd be pretty good at the end of it).

Ah well. Next Thursday we start swing...I can't wait!

And today I am grateful that the sky was blue, the sun was shining and the redbuds are ready to burst into bloom.

Pinky & the SnakeShakers

2005-03-30T20:59:00.000-05:00

We're having a research meeting on Saturday. I knew when I took the job that we'd do this 4 times a year, but I really, really thought they'd give me some notice (at least, more than a couple of days!).

Luckily I'm not working at my OTHER job Saturday night, but I am volunteering for what is billed as "The World's Largest Garage Sale". Of course it's not, but it does benefit charities here -- and one of the charities is an animal shelter, so I'm there from 12:30 to 4:30 (if I volunteer where I can't see any animals, I won't take any more home...this is a good thing. It wouldn't take much for me to be the eccentric cat/dog/lizard lady). But the original plan was to shop the sale from 8:00 to 12:00 with Bev and just make a day of it. So, no old junk/treasures/gewgaws for me. Instead I get to go to Java Dave's, drink really good raspberry iced tea and avoid the pastries even though someone else is buying.

It will give me a chance to get to know these guys I work for a little better -- seems as though all they do is run from one hospital to another.

However...since I'm working Saturday...that means that I can take an extra long break on Friday and see Pinky and the SnakeShakers -- who despite the name, are not a snake handling cult. Check 'em out -- http://www.snakeshakers.com/music.asp . "Good Girl Gone Bad" is one of my favorites...and they'll be playing downtown, about 10 minutes from where I work.

Since Bev's off that day, I bet I can talk her into going with me, even though she's the biggest homebody I've ever met. She's of the opinion that if you can't find happiness in your own backyard, you're not going to find it. And since she's found it, why go anywhere else?

Today I am grateful that I managed to recover this post after Blogspot developed an error while posting. (hey, less frustration is good, right?)

Dancin' Fools

2005-03-29T12:15:00.003-05:00

Marla and I are going to take ballroom dancing lessons beginning on Thursday. She's convinced this will be a great way to meet men...me, I'm not so sure but I've always wanted to learn, so it's all good.

Marla's my age and ultra feminine...she loves pink (in fact, most of her clothes are either pink, black, or a combination of pink and black). She aspires to accumulate more shoes than Imelda Marcos. Add a cute little girl voice, fluffy blond hair, voluptuous figure and an ever-so-slightly flirtatious girl-next-door personality...and maybe you will wonder, like I do, why she is still single.

Anyway, I have never taken dancing lessons, unless you count bellydance (which is a hoot but I don't know that I'd ever want to perform where other humans might see me do it -- it's bad enough when Pixie the wonderdog and Evil Wiley lie there and stare when I practice). My feet never want to do what I want them to do. Not only that, but I suffer from Directional Dyslexia. I first noticed this when I took aerobics lessons way back when...when told to turn left, well, sometimes that worked, and sometimes I was the only one facing the wrong way. Someone who directs while I drive is much better off if they point the direction...I once dated someone who really thought that pointing was about the rudest thing one could do, so he'd always say "left" or "right" if I were driving and he directing...and then get upset if I turned the wrong way. Whenever I wanted him to look at something, I'd use those lavish gestures Carol Marol used to use on the "Let's Make a Deal" show to indicate Door No. 1...and then he'd get bent out of shape. Hey, I was NOT pointing. Yeah, that next guy (if there is a next guy) really needs to have a sense of humor about things.

So anyway, it ought to be fun in a train wreck sort of way...

Oh, and today I am thankful for my brother Steve, who has turned out to be a pretty cool guy.

More Fowl Play

2005-03-25T11:33:00.000-05:00

It's almost Easter. When I was a kid, my parents would buy us those little colored chicks. Unlike most families, though, where those chicks soon bit the dust, ours almost always managed to make it to adulthood. The ones that lived were all roosters; I guess it makes sense to sell the non-egg-producers for the pet trade. So Mom and Dad would find homes for all but one, because otherwise they fight. I've never asked, but hopefully those "homes" were a nice chicken coop with hens somewhere, and not someone's freezer.

I learned a few things about chickens from this experience.

1. A Watch Rooster is much scarier than a Watch Dog.

2. Chickens apparently don't see very well so you have to verbally identify yourself if you want to enter the yard of a Watch Rooster. Otherwise, you are toast.

3. If you tuck a chicken's head under its wing and then rock it gently back and forth a couple of times, it will go to sleep. My mom learned that from her father...I'd really like to know where he got it from.

4. Roosters are so tough that not even a mauling from two Labrador Retrievers will slow them down for more than a couple of days.

Even now, more than 30 years later, I miss hearing that Er-er-er-awwwk! every morning.

And today I am thankful that there ARE mornings.

Fowl Play

2005-03-24T21:35:00.000-05:00

Jamie and I went out to lunch together today.

You'd know Jamie if you ever saw her -- she's just a shade over 6 feet tall, weighs 120 lbs and has wildly curling, bright red hair, freckles, and Paul Newman blue eyes. She and I used to work together in psychiatry research -- she's still there, and we try to get together once a week or so (she likes to vent about the job -- she's got the temper to match the hair).

So we're sitting in the cafeteria, and she said, "Do you remember the ducks?"

It was a spring day that day. I'd gotten to work late (as usual -- I operate on Jodie time so it's a good thing I've got a degree). There was a white duck in the parking lot, and it LOOKED frazzled -- feathers were standing up on the top of its head and it was quacking wildly and running in circles. If I hadn't known that only mammals get rabies, I'd have been suspicious about this duck.

So, being the curious person I am (my mom used to tell me that curiosity wouldn't kill me, but I'm not so sure), I had to check this out, and soon heard a very soft peep peep peep sound...which instantly made me bond with this mother duck whose ducklings were missing or trapped or SOMETHING.

After a bit of looking, I discovered they'd apparently fallen into a grate -- and I could see them, 5 feet below street level, looking up and wanting their mom.

So, since I was late already, I went into work and made a number of calls -- to the city, to University maintenance, to the police -- and NO ONE would come help these ducks out of the sewer. Jamie had been watching me do this all morning and finally said, "I bet we can figure out a way." So off we went.

I had no idea that two people could pull up a huge metal sewer grate cover, but we managed it, barely, and didn't even drop it on our toes.

Since Jamie's clothes were nicer than mine that day, I was the one elected to climb into the sewer and fetch the ducklings. And it was cobwebby, with scungy (an esoteric scientific term) stuff on the bottom, with huge ugly bugs. But heck, we couldn't leave them there...

There was just enough space to crouch down, but as I reached for a duckling, the whole crew got spooked and ran down the pipe, peep peep peep-ing frantically all the way.

So I climbed back out and the ducklings came back. Mom was getting crazier, making little darts at our legs as though she was working herself up to attack these monsters who obviously had nefarious designs on her babies.

I walked over to my car and opened the trunk, looking for inspiration -- and pulled out the spare tire cover, a nice sized piece of plywood. That fit over one sewer pipe hole. For the other one, the best I could do was a blanket that Jamie held so that it just covered the hole.

Back in I went, and by this time Mom had her courage up, so as Jamie held the blanket and I scooped fuzzy little yellow ducks, Mom pecked both of us unmercifully...until all 12 of the little darlings were safe. Then they all waddled off, Mom quacking as though she'd saved them herself (and maybe she thought she had). You'd have thought those little ducks were glued to her, the way they crowded up so closely.

Jamie and I didn't get anything else done that day. But you know, it was worth it.

Windy City

2005-03-23T10:46:00.000-05:00

We all have those days where nothing goes right. Well...apparently I am having one of those YEARS...but I suppose that will make my 50s (coming up soon!) look really, really good.

I was walking across campus on Monday to deliver a protocol to the VA (pronounced "vah" by those of us who go there a lot), since one of the docs wants to do his study here at the University AND at the Veteran's Administration Hospital. Of course, being a federal bureaucracy, they require yet MORE paper than the university. :) Yes, I have killed many trees for my profession and the end is not yet in sight...but I digress. Oklahoma is one of the windiest places in the world. Chicago can make all the claims it wants, but there has never been a mass exodus from Chicago due to wind...remember that whole Dust Bowl thing? Well, that's because the Oklahoma winds blew away all the topsoil. You never hear about THAT anywhere else.

So anyway, I was walking across campus, when suddenly a huge gust of wind blew some of that dirt right into my eye, which made my contact pop right out of my eye.

I've worn contacts for 32 years. I have lost (and found) my contacts on the floor, in the woods, and even in a pool. But this one must have been blown away to Oz because it was just gone.

Without correction to my vision, I am so nearsighted that I have to hold things a couple inches away from my nose to see them. And having had such excellent luck with contacts for so many years, I have to admit that I have no glasses and no spares. This is not conducive to driving.

I did manage to make it home on just one eye (that sounds funny) and found an optometrist who would see me Tuesday since my usual one couldn't...and it had been more than a year so I couldn't just get another pair of the same old prescription. And since I must wear hard contacts, they won't be done until Friday. So I am wearing soft ones until then...which makes everything just a little fuzzy around the edges.

You know, I am almost afraid to try this dating thing, since the way things are going, anyone I meet is bound to have had Ted Bundy as a mentor.

And d'oh! I forgot my best and oldest friend's birthday on the 21st. We've been friends since elementary school and she is the single most creative person I've ever met.

My friend Jamie, whose mother died last year, has advised me that I should be writing down, every day, something I am grateful for (she says this has really helped with her grief). So today I am grateful for my friends, who love me even when I forget their birthdays.

The best time of year

2005-03-21T10:01:00.000-05:00

I love days like today. It feels like spring, looks like spring, smells like spring. It's raining, but it's a mere mist of rain. The sky is dark gray, but light around the edges, as though it turn to sunshine at any time. Gusts of wind whistle around the houses and buildings, and the budding redbuds are luminous against the sky...ready to explode into blossom.

One of ee cummings poems about this time of year has a line about how you can't stop spring, "not even with All The Policemen In The World". And it's like that -- an unstoppable renewal, that will come whether you are ready or not.

I think redbuds must be my favorite tree. Smooth, medium gray bark makes up the trunk, which tapers into graceful, long limbs. Flowers that range from pinkish mauve to reddish purple (depending on the tree). The leaves are almost heart shaped, and are a medium to light leaf green. And when it is blooming, I like nothing better than to lie underneath one on a sunny day, and gaze up at the blossoms against the deep blue of the sky.

The Elusive Hypnopotamus Part 2

2005-03-20T20:27:00.000-05:00

I've been doing hypnotherapy for long enough that it no longer seems mysterious...but for those of you for whom it does seem exotic, mysterious, or maybe more on the lines of "woo-woo science"...well, I thought I'd tell you all about it.

Hypnosis isn't some unusual state. Most of us experience it several times throughout the day. It's that state that lies between being fully asleep and fully awake...it's driving your usual route and suddenly realizing you're a few miles down the road and you can't really remember the time in between, because you were thinking about something else and were driving on autopilot.

In a good session, the client remembers everything. In a bad session, the client falls asleep. Luckily, the latter doesn't happen often.

There are a number of ways to get there; this is called an "induction". Inductions can be as simple as a progressive relaxation exercise. This works well for most adults. A few people -- who feel the need to question everything -- can be confused into hypnosis (that's kind of fun). And a few very stubborn people, who really, really hate taking directions from anyone, can be persuaded into hypnosis by using a technique called "arm rising", which is more than a little strange and takes a long time, but it works when nothing else will. There are other techniques, but these are the ones I prefer to use. Kids, on the other hand, are easily hypnotized using a swinging object (you know, they way they always do it in cartoons).

Once you're hypnotized, then I can do a lot of different things. I've worked with stress, writer's block, fear of flying, weight loss, chronic pain, smoking cessation and I've even done past life regressions (more of my thoughts on this later). My favorite subjects, though, are children. And about my favorite hypnosis session is a "magic spot" for injections or blood draws, so the child feels only pressure and not pain.

Because I'm appealing to your conscious mind and your subconscious mind, imagery is important. And if the suggestions can be given as part of a story that taps into a larger symbolism, then they become more powerful. I developed a script for weight loss which uses the Cinderella fairy tale -- I'm very pleased with that one.

Those "past life" regressions are interesting. I don't know that it really taps into something from another life time...but I like to think of it (and explain it to my subjects) as the subconscious mind's way of reframing larger life problems into a different setting so that they are easier to think about, identify, and subsequently deal with.

Time seems to flow differently for the person who is hypnotized. It usually takes me 45 minutes to an hour for a session, but my subject generally thinks it's been about 10 to 15 minutes. And after the session, it feels as though you've had a nice, relaxing nap.

Oh, and that hypnopotamus? My daughter never could say "hippopotamus" correctly. And I always had this vision of this big river dwelling animal with swirly eyes creeping out at night to hypnotize unwary travellers for nefarious reasons...

The Elusive Hypnopotamus Part 1

2005-03-20T19:08:00.000-05:00

Yikes! What a week. Although I've been at this job since October, this week my coworkers suddenly realized that I am a hypnotherapist, in addition to all the other things I do. It's a little surprising, since it's not like it's been a big secret.

When I took this job, the Big Boss was very interested in smoking cessation for the head and neck cancer patients who continue to smoke, even when all they've got to smoke with is a hole in their throats. However, the docs are SOOOO busy that it just kind of got pushed to the side until last week, when one of my coworkers started bemoaning the fact that the campus is now smoke free and she just couldn't kick her smoking habit. So I offered her a free hypnotherapy session (I NEVER charge friends or coworkers, but I do ask them to refer people to me).

If people haven't considered it before, apparently it's pretty scary. And when you consider that in many places (including this one) hypnotherapy is unregulated by any state agency, well, maybe it OUGHT to seem a little scary. You don't want just anyone giving you suggestions and directions in a vulnerable state, even if hypnotherapy doesn't make you do anything you really don't want to do. So, she had to think about it. And then she discussed it with everyone in the office.

I spent most of Monday explaining over and over again to different people exactly what happens and exactly what can be done with the aid of hypnotherapy (I'm pretty conservative. You can find some truly bizarre stuff out there -- but I personally do NOT believe that it can make parts of your body bigger. Maybe I can persuade you to THINK those bits are bigger...but they won't actually increase in size). I like to think of hypnotherapy as harnessing the power and strength that we all have when we don't rationalize it away or deny that we have it. So, lifestyle changes, simple phobias, stress relief, temporary pain relief are the majors. Plus I've been known to do "past life regressions" -- more on that later.

Anyway, once everyone figured out that maybe it was not scary, the original lady decided that she'd give it a whirl...and she was thrilled afterwards...so I suddenly became VERY popular. :)

So I did smoking cessation, weight loss, relief of food cravings, stress relief, and self esteem sessions all last week...seems like every free minute, before work, after work, and at lunch, was filled up with hypnotherapy sessions. Not even any time to blog, since it was also spring break and my son wanted to do stuff every night when I got home.

And the more sessions I did, the more desireable they became, until after work on Friday, I did a mass session with 6 people who just couldn't wait til next week.

And the clinic director is suddenly seeing dollar signs...

Random thoughts...

2005-03-09T21:43:00.003-05:00

Is water polo played with seahorses?

At the orthopedist's office (the next office down), the patients stand in lines to check in...most of them on crutches, with casts, or other walking problems...why? Why not have 'em sit and have the receptionist come to them?

For that matter, why do most medical places have you stand in line to check in? Most people aren't feeling too well when they go to see a medical professional...

Did you know that if you want to bring blood or other body bits into the US, there's a special form for that? If you don't have it, Customs will confiscate your samples at the border. So to find this form, I called the Customs office. They, of course, don't issue those...you have to get it through the CDC. There are no telephone numbers on the CDC website that go to anything but recorded messages so I had to call Customs back. They gave me a number which was for computer support for the CDC. Computer support transferred me to the FDA, which does NOTHING with blood, and the lady on the other end was angry with me for even asking her for another number that might help. Tried the computer people again, since at least they tried to be helpful, and this time got an arm of the CDC that does public health...but all they do is provide brochures. So no luck. Finally decided to tackle it another way, and called a government agency that stores all kinds of human samples for the NIH (bet they've got some interesting stuff in their freezers!)...and the very very nice lady named Lori dragged their senior scientist out of a meeting to locate the form for me -- and then emailed me a copy.

HAH! Once again I triumph over the bureacracy! Oh heck. I can spell most stuff but this one escapes me. And I'm too lazy to look it up tonight. :)

Government agencies make me crazy.

I did get two studies submitted to the IRB, but one wound up with the dreaded Board 4...the board that rarely passes a study...sigh...