C

She was the kind of broad I aspire to be.

I met her at the end of her life, when time had blunted some of her sharp edges, but her incredible intelligence still shone through. We talked, but it wasn't like the conversations I've had with other hospice patients . . . there wasn't much chit-chat with her, oh no. During our first conversation we talked about how deja vue is actually a disturbance in the temporal lobe of the brain.

That was the shape of things to come.

She was incredibly intelligent, but she grew up in a time when it wasn't socially acceptable for women to hold jobs outside of the home. They were expected to be housewives, and if they DID have jobs they were supposed to be clerical in nature. Teaching was the most skilled profession women were allowed to have.

So, she taught. However, she did it in her own way. She majored in Chemistry and Physics - both traditionally male subjects - and she taught first to High School students, then when she'd gone to graduate school and attained a PhD, she taught college students.

She said that she never saw her gender as a hinderance, that she saw it was a weapon to be deployed when she needed to use it. Her family showed me photographs of her when she was in her prime, and man alive was she ever hot. Smoking hot, to be exact. I can imagine her using her body and appearance to break down the walls that her gender created. I admire her for doing that, for not taking no for an answer and for working with what she had to get to where she wanted to be.

She married and had babies, but she still taught, right up until she was in her 70's. When she retired, she enrolled in some graduate classes and was very proud of the fact that she was 40 years older than some of the other students.

Usually there is a great deal of talk about the spiritual and supernatural at the end of a person's life, but she, in her typical style, would not entertain or tolerate what she described as 'nonsensical mumbo-jumbo'. She said that she was perfectly comfortable with the knowledge that life was all there is and that she didn't want any tears or talk of having gone to a better place. "I've done what I wanted to to and I've made my mark" she said "that's enough for me".

Time wore her down; it aged her body but her mind was still there. When she couldn't read texts because she couldn't see the words, she had someone dictate them to audio tapes and she listened to them instead. It seemed as if her headphones were permanently attached to her head; she was wearing them every time I saw her.


She died very quietly and peacefully after having lived for a century. She donated her body to a medical facility, which I find fitting: she loved science and in the end she literally gave herself to her cause.

Against her wishes, I cried.

$.02

I have to say something about Haiti.

I'm in a unique position; The Hubs is directly involved in the humanitarian relief efforts and has been working all kinds of hours to get the job done. I get information that, whilst it's not classified, isn't common knowledge, either.

My initial reaction was that I wanted to go, that I wanted to go work as an EMT and help the injured. I speak French, I could at least translate...I wanted to go. When I mentioned that to The Hubs, he gave me a look that I simply cannot describe and he said "No. Absolutely not. Scene safety, K."

He's right. As medics, we are told time and again that if the scene isn't safe, we don't enter it. Haiti wasn't exactly stable to begin with; now it has no organized infrastructure whatsoever. It's literally anarchy on the streets there and it's not safe.

Imagine the largest mass casualty incident scenario your medic instructor gave you to triage when you were in class. Now, multiply that by 100,000. Now, try to triage that...triage that whilst looking over your shoulder for assailants, and try and treat the injured with minimal supplies. Try and do your job with literally nothing, in the midst of decomposing corpses and people who haven't had water or food for three days.

It's a horrible situation. It is a logistical nightmare, a clusterfuck of epic proportions. I've heard horror stories of combat medics coming across people with crush injuries to their limbs, who are developing compartment syndrome and who are in desperate need of surgical intervention....intervention that simply isn't available. I've heard it described as trying to treat patients with one hand tied beind your back.

It's so frustrating to see a need, know that you have the capability to help solve that need, but not be logistically able to render assistance.

The likes of Pat Robertson and Rush Limbaugh don't do anything to relieve that frustration, either. Why are they still on the air? How can any human being with even an ounce of common sense actually believe what they say? Why do we as a society tolerate such blantantly hateful statements? Pat Robertson is a doddery old fucker who is clearly demented, and Rush Limbaugh is a bloated, narcissistic, pill-popping tool who actually believes his own hype. It pisses me off that they breathe the same air as me....as far as I'm concerned, they're both wastes of human flesh.

It's supposed to be a three-day weekend here. The Hubs worked all day yesterday, came home to eat, went back until midnight, is working until midnight tonight, tomorrow night, monday night...there isn't any downtime slated for the near future for his section. They are all busting their arses to get the missions manned and get the aid where it needs to be, when it needs to be there.

Apparently we learned NOTHING from Hurricane Katrina.

She's Found.

Annie had Alzheimers.

She was pleasantly demented; she wasn't ever combative or mean. . .she was agreeable and easy to care for an just a joy to be around. She was one of my favorite patients when I first started working, a sweet, funny, gentle soul housed in a confused little old lady body.

She wandered. Perpetually. Eventually, I had her tag along with me when I made my rounds. She was content to go from room to room with me and it was a win win situation: she was occupied and calm, and I knew where she was. Even if she wasn't assigned to me, she'd still tag along. The routine helped her.

Occasionally, she would get away from me. I'd hear a commotion from a room down the hall and I'd hurry down there to see what was going on. The complaint was always, always the same:

"She's in my bed!!!"

Annie was unable to differentiate between rooms, so when she felt weary or thought it was bed time, she'd enter a room, pull down the covers, take off her shoes and pants and get into the bed. She thought every room was HER room.

I tried all kinds of things to help her. First, I made a sign with her name on it and put it on her door.

"What does that say?" I'd ask.

"Why, that says 'Annie'! That's me, isn't it?" she'd respond.

"Yep!" I'd say "that's how you tell this is your room! Your room has your name on it!"

"Oh! I see! My room has my name on it!"

It worked for a couple of days and I'd think we'd found a solution to her wandering. Then, I'd hear a ruckus from a room and the familiar cry of "she's in my bed again" and I'd go retrieve Annie and show her the sign on the door and put her to bed in her own room....and 5 minutes later I'd feel a tug on my scrubs and turn and see her standing there, smiling at me.

When it became clear the the name wasn't working, I took a picture of her, enlarged it, framed it, and hung it on her door above the name tag.

"Who's that?" I'd ask.

"Why, that's me! Don't I look pretty?! Goodness, what a nice thing you did for me!" She'd say.

"This is how you tell this is YOUR room, Annie" I'd say "All you have to do is look at the door. Annie's room has Annie's picture on the door"

"Oh! What a good idea!" She'd say.

The photo idea actually worked for a few months. There were incidents where she forgot to look at the door and clambered into someone else's bed (once she got into a man's bed when he was still in it. It's a good thing he still had his wits about him and called for help - if he'd been demented who knows what would have happened) but for the majority of the time the photo was enough to remind her that she was in the right spot.

I went back to college and found working full time and academia were not a good mix for me, so I quit that job. I went to visit Annie occasionally - I don't think she remembered me, but she was always smiling and seemed pleased to see me.

The last time I saw her, she was in a wheelchair with a cushion tray in front of her and an alarm clipped to her blouse. It wasn't restraints per se, but it did prevent her from getting up alone. Apparently her wandering had become problematic and the staff felt the need to confine her.

She was wilted. She sat with her head in her hands, face slack and expressionless. I knelt beside her chair and took her hand in mine.

"Hey, Annie. . . how are you, my sweet?"

She made no attempt to resond to me. She stared at the cushion in front of her, a light glaze of drool covering her lower lip. I took a kleenex from my pocket and wiped it away. I craned my neck further downwards, trying to meet her gaze, hoping that another human face in her field of vision would stir some response in her.

My eyes met hers. . . and there was nothing in them. No recognition, no sign of life. Nothing.

She was in there, but she was unreachable.

I saw her name in the obituaries this morning and for a brief moment I felt an icy stab of grief in my chest. . . but it was quickly replaced by relief and a sense of joy. She's free now, you see. I don't know what happens to us after we die; I don't know if we go on to another place or if this, this world and existence, is all there is. All I know is that Annie is not here anymore, that the torment that was her daily existence has ended.

She's not lost anymore. However you look at it, whatever you believe, one thing is true: she's not lost anymore.

She's found.

I should have known better...

...than to look at http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/ first thing in the morning.

I often wonder if people look in the mirror before they leave the house. I mean, how can a person possibly think this looks good?! The sight of this put me off my breakfast.

Speaking of looking in the mirror before leaving the house, I also found this:

What the fuck? It looks like she put a coffee cup over her eyes and used it as a template - then drew on her face with magic marker. I don't understand how she can think that that looks acceptable. Does she not look at other people and think 'hmm. My eyebrows don't look like the rest of the human race's eyebrows. Maybe I should rethink what I'm doing'?

I guess that people staring and pointing was not enough to give these women a clue that their appearance is ridiculous.

I really don't get people sometimes.

I have neglected you, gentle reader (I hesitate so say 'readerS' because I fear all but one of you have left me - and I don't blame you a bit!). I'm sorry - I have no excuses, so I'll just say I'm sorry and leave it at that.

Finals week came and went, and so did a nice gastrointestinal virus that the 'lings got. Nausea and vomiting and fever, oh my! I knew the littlest 'ling was really quite ill when I offered him a phenergan suppository and he didn't run screaming. My final grades were: Algebra C, Art A, English B, Philosophy B, Political Science B. My GPA is 3.37 - not bad, but I'd really have liked to have had a solid 3.5. I'll do better next semester. I'm taking Geometry, Chemistry, another English class, and Psychology this time - I was going to take a 5th class but was advised against it. Chemistry is a 5 credit class, and a 5th class would have pushed me over the 18 hr max. So, I'm sticking with 4 classes.

I have been knitting up a storm. In addition to knitting, I've started writing my own patterns. This is an example of one of my creations:

That's what I like to call a clog sock. I decided to put the cable on the back so that it's more visible when I wear Birkenstocks. It's knitted in worsted weight 100% virgin wool on size 3 needles.

That's what I knitted for Hubs' birthday. I also knitted my MIL a pair in a traditional Aran yarn for Christmas. I love the pattern.

Numbah Two is doing relatively well. He got on to the wrestling team (as did his brother) and I think that the physical discipline and the camaraderie of his team mates is incredibly beneficial to him. He sees a therapist once a week and no longer associates with the drug using crowd. The kid that was dealing got a DUI, among other things, and is in a world of trouble, and one of the other kids that was using got suspended from school for drug related behaviour.

The 'lings go back to school next week, but I don't go back until the 19th. I'm looking forward to having some time to myself and I think I'm going to make a trip up to Springfield to see the Frank Lloyd Wright house that's there. I'm also planning visiting the art museum in St Louis again - I love that place.

Watching 'Hoarders' on A&E has made me want to de-clutter my house. I am always amazed at how some people live and I wonder how they can think straight surrounded by all the detritus. It amuses me to hear them say that their homes are "messy" when they are, in fact, fucking filthy. I'm sorry, but if you have 4' high stacks of used adult diapers all over your house, your living room resembles a landfill, there are skeletal remains of cats in the boxspring of your bed and you have to camp outside because of the bedbug infestation then your home is WAAAAYYYY more than just 'messy', Jack.

Ew. Now I'm all itchy...

Neighbors from Hell – again

Dear Neighbor,

Thank you SO much for ensuring my night was far from restful. I lay awake until 3am, listening to the 'thunka thunka' of the rap music emanating from your house. As a result I am tired and cranky today, which my family really appreciates.

We seem to have had similar conversations before, but you clearly have forgotten all about them. So, I'll remind you:

You have the right to do what you please IN your home, yes . . . but when what you're doing encroaches on what I'm doing, we have a problem. You don't live half a mile away from everyone else; we're in pretty close proximity – and so we have to respect other people's peace, quiet and privacy.

When your music drowns out my TV – despite all the doors and windows being closed in my house – then it's TOO FUCKING LOUD.

When your music is audible over the sound of a train passing by and blaring it's horn – then it's TOO FUCKING LOUD.

It wouldn't have been so bad if you'd have turned it down or off at a decent hour – midnight would have been good – but you didn't do that. Oh no, you went on and on until 3 o'clock in the fucking morning.

We went through this last year and the year before; around Thanksgiving you seem to lose your fucking mind and party every fucking weekend. Last year I called the police because you had left your 13 year old in charge of gawd knows how many kids whilst you were across the street drinking. She took a page out of your book and cranked that stereo up so loud that I couldn't hear The Hubs talking to me in a normal voice. I decided that rather than take abuse again (remember the last time I asked you to turn it down? I do. Vividly. You called me a fucking bitch) I'd simply call the Law Enforcement desk. I knew the cop who responded, by the way. He said that he could hear the music as soon as he turned onto our street and knew exactly which house it was coming from. Apparently I'm not the only one complaining about your noise.

You seem to have mistaken my tolerance for weakness and I feel that you're taking advantage of it. So, this is your official heads-up: I am implementing a zero tolerance policy regarding your noise. I'm not going to bother coming over and talking to you, I'm just going to call law enforcement and I'm going to do it every single time you disturb my peace. If it comes to it, I'm going to find out who your First Sgt is and I'm going to call him. I'm done with you, period. You think I was a bitch before? You aint seen nothing yet, assclown.

I want you to get a taste of what a pain in the ass you're being, so I hope you get hemorrhoids. Big, pulsating hemorrhoids hanging out of your rear end, so painful that you have to sit on an inflatable ring and can't shit without screaming.

Eat shit and die,

NM

A rock and a hard place

Well, now….this is about a bitch.

I have Bells Palsy. The standard treatment for Bells is acyclovir and prednisone. I can't tolerate prednisone orally, I have an ulcer and one dose of the oral stuff over the weekend set me off into belly pain hell. I have been given a choice: either take the oral stuff, increase the nexium I take from one dose a day to two and hope I don't develop a gastric bleed, or get admitted to the hospital for IV steroids.

Neither of those choices is an option for me.

Taking the oral prednisone puts me at risk of a gastric bleed, the consequences of which can be very, very bad indeed. Like life threatening bad. As in 'get an NG tube, endoscopic surgery and admitted to the hospital for a week' bad. Getting admitted at this point in the semester would mean I'd miss classes and would end up getting dropped and failing, and I'm not prepared to do that.

Getting admitted for IV steroids is not an option either – I'd miss lectures, would get dropped from classes and would fail. Not gonna do that; I've worked too damn hard to let that happen.

The other option that has been suggested by friends who are medical professionals is getting a PICC line with a heplock on it. I can still get IV steroids, but I don't have to be admitted – so I can attend lectures. I'm not sure how to go about getting that; my PCM has told me that if I can't tolerate the prednisone I have to go back to the ER. Do I ask for it there? Do I call my PCM and ask him about it? Do I tough it out and see what happens….and if I'm no better in a week ask to be admitted them (Thanksgiving break. I won't miss classes)? I don't know.

All I know is that I'm not failing this semester. Period.