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!
Monday, July 18, 2005
Friday, July 15, 2005
It's Almost Here...
...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.
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...
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.
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.
Friday, July 08, 2005
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...
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
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.
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.
Monday, June 13, 2005
Adventures in Housekeeping
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.
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.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
The Evil Bees
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...
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
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.
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.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Sunny and Clear
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.
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.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
My New Wheels
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Bugs and Barriers
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...
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...
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Site Visitors
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
She's Baa-aack!
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.
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.
Friday, May 13, 2005
If there's a silver lining, I'll find it...
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.
But I'll be back (hopefully) Tuesday, after the procedure on Monday.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Meet the Mom
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.
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.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Anal Sphincter Reconstruction
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
The Real Reality TV
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
I'll Take a Little Cheese with my Whine
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
The Initiation
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...
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...
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