I'm an ornery ol' cuss.
Oh, I know on the outside I look pretty harmless- a half century old hippie chick with long graying hair, smile lines around my bi-focaled eyes, and gravity obviously luring my "pointier parts" back into Mother Earth. My wardrobe's from Goodwill, I am loathe to wear anything but flip flops, I spend no money on makeup, manicures or haircuts, and wear jewelry I've made out of natural stones plus a few cherished but simple pieces.
Not a very formidable front.
But on the inside I've always held that Sicilian Mama belief that most things in the world flat can't run without me at the helm. No one can cook like I can. No one can clean the house like I can. No one can pay the bills, organize our son's schooling, run my place of employment and the home farm like I can.
Without me supervising, my entire family would be wandering around outside, unfed, unbathed, probably pants-less.
If anyone offers to help with any of the above, my answer has always been "No thanks- I'll take care of it".
And I did, for a very long time.
And I still do, mostly.
But something happened about 4 years ago. My husband's health needs made it impossible for merely me to take care of everything. We were required to spend large amounts of time away from home, and that took me away from the helm, the rudder, the gist of the matters and left me relying on...other people.
This rankled. Alot. For I still thought I could handle everything alone.
But much as I wanted to- there was no way to feed and care for the farm while I was 200 miles away from it. Friends and neighbors stepped in and even though they did not do everything exactly as I did, nothing died. In fact, a few things they did differently were so sensible, I smacked myself upside the head in wonder that I'd been doing them otherwise for years.
And much as I wanted to- there was no way to be at my place of employment at the same time I was at the hospital with my husband. So I learned to delegate, and found that my employees were not only willing to help, they were happy to help out and take on additional duties for the duration. And the business did not go to hell in a handbasket.
And even when we ARE home, I've learned that my family consists of intelligent, innovative humans who have both complex thought processes AND opposable thumbs and that they are capable of helping out on the home front.
The boys cooking dinner with the help of Mrs. Stouffer's every so often will not kill us.
Boys who dust AROUND knick knacks instead of lifting them and dusting under them do not cause a rift in the time-space continuum.
My husband can, and does, teach our son with a patience and imagination I could never achieve.
They can even (mostly) remember to wear pants outside of the house.
The most difficult thing of all had to do with money.
Alot of our friends and family live far away and cannot come give actual, physical, haul the hay collect the eggs scrub the toilets help. But they want so badly to ease our pain, our hurt, our difficulties that they send their love in the form of cash.
This bothered me more than anything else, this sending of money. It smacked of neediness, of helplessness, of weakness.
So I'd refuse politely but firmly, sending money back to the gifter while simultaneously worrying about how to pay for the next medical disaster.
Until.
One of my friends lost patience with my bullheadedness.
She railed at me in frustration- demanding me to put myself in their shoes, to reverse the roles. "What would YOU do? If any one of us needed anything you'd be there to help in a heartbeat, and if you couldn't come personally- YOU'D SEND MONEY and be offended if it were returned".
She told me that by not allowing my friends to help us, I was doing THEM a great dis-service, denying them the only option open to them to ease my family's distress, our worry, our hardship.
I learned to say "Thank you" graciously and sincerely.
When asked what we need, I've learned to answer honestly with our current concerns instead of saying "Nothing, we're fine", when we so clearly are not.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm still a nit-picky eagle-eyed terror on medical staff and am daily an unreasonable harpy to my family.
But I've learned now that I don't have to shoulder the entire load the entire time the entire way- that the only one who even expected that of me was...me.
photo
photo by Sheri Dixon
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Homeless and Hopeless in Hermann Park
Houston Texas has a huge homeless population. Not surprising since it's the 4th largest city in the US, and it's blessed with being in a very mild climate.
You see them everywhere, if you pay attention.
Under overpasses cardboard walls crumple in on meager possessions that only look like refuse to most of the rest of us.
Tucked into empty lots, backed into doorways, people lost from within and invisible from without wile away the days that all must run together in a never-ending procession of nightmare and surprise.
We noticed the Houston Homeless on our very first trip there. Those first years' pilgrimages to the cancer hospital included our little dog who would go to Doggy Daycare while we were otherwise occupied, and Doggy Daycare was past the hospitals, past Hermann Park, and just past the Museum District.
That first morning we were stopped at a stoplight in front of a church. Not Sunday morning, yet the entire yard was filled with a queue of humanity quietly silently awaiting entrance. It's a soup kitchen.
Where the Homeless go during the day I'm not sure, but one winter evening we were retrieving our little dog just after dark, and though the parents and children, bikers and joggers had long left Hermann Park, the Homeless had appeared like Ghost Moths- hovering lightly and and almost luminously in their nocturnal perches.
I was so preoccupied with my husband's health, I didn't give much thought to the Homeless of Hermann Park till we were faced with an Incident.
Illness has taken a great financial toll on our family- we no longer have a credit card, and very little cash. I try to bring as much extra cash as I can, "just in case", and this particular trip I had brought 7 days' worth of cash for what was supposed to be a 4 day trip. My husband contracted MRSA in hospital and we were there 10 days, not 4. Not 7. Ten.
Now, the hospital allows patients to cash a personal check a day for up to $50.
Our hotel room was $65 per day.
I was able to cobble together enough to survive, stay in the hotel, eat, and coast home on gas fumes, but that little episode gave me pause and I couldn't help but wonder
How many of the Hermann Park Homeless have family members in one of the many hospitals of the Hospital District? We came perilously close to "camping" in our auto that last few nights. What if I'd been OUT out of money, not just ALMOST out of money? What if my husband had been delayed by MONTHS instead of days?
In the last 8 years we've been with insurance, without insurance, and on medicare. Ward's been employed and unemployed. We've had medical trips when we've had money and medical trips when I've literally felt like I've gone begging for funds.
But the one thing that's been lurking at the back of my mind- behind the weedy shrubberies and crouched next to an old shopping cart- is the knowledge that like so many people who are "one paycheck away from eviction", without our safety net of family and friends, we'd be truly and honestly "one medical procedure away from living in Hermann Park".
What happens when the money runs out before the medical emergency is fixed? We're currently here 2 weeks and with no foreseeable date to go home- ground to a halt by a snowballing hairball of unexpected complications. We thought we'd be here 5 days- 7 at the most. We've got options, and support, and more love than a family can absorb without overflowing, and we're OK. We can weather this storm under roof and with full tummies.
But what if we didn't have those options, support and love?
What if we didn't have a computer that linked us with people around the world who care about us? What if I'd been working several jobs to keep ahead of disaster while caring for a family and ill husband and didn't have the time, energy or heart to make and keep friends who we could fall back on?
What if we were truly alone, as so many families are in our fragmented society?
I refuse to leave Ward here, trapped helpless and afraid in a hospital bed. If I had to, I'd live on a park bench to be with him every day.
How many of the Hermann Park Homeless are doing just that- is that why they seem to disappear during the day? Are they next to the bed of a loved one- holding a hand- reassuring them that everything is alright although it's anything but?
The Hospital District in Houston is the largest in the WORLD- just this cluster of hospitals employs 65,000 people- every one of those hundred or so waiting in the soup line could slip into any one of those great maws of medical care and be totally not noticed in the crowds.
And how many have left the hospital for the last time- mechanically leaving the empty shell of the worn out patient- going through the motions of walking, navigating hallways and crosswalks on automatic pilot- their bodies weighted to the earth while their sanity frantically flutters after the soul of the one just lost- up, up and gone- not caring what happens now to their own broken-hearted shell.
I wonder about these things.
But I'm mortally afraid to know the truth.
You see them everywhere, if you pay attention.
Under overpasses cardboard walls crumple in on meager possessions that only look like refuse to most of the rest of us.
Tucked into empty lots, backed into doorways, people lost from within and invisible from without wile away the days that all must run together in a never-ending procession of nightmare and surprise.
We noticed the Houston Homeless on our very first trip there. Those first years' pilgrimages to the cancer hospital included our little dog who would go to Doggy Daycare while we were otherwise occupied, and Doggy Daycare was past the hospitals, past Hermann Park, and just past the Museum District.
That first morning we were stopped at a stoplight in front of a church. Not Sunday morning, yet the entire yard was filled with a queue of humanity quietly silently awaiting entrance. It's a soup kitchen.
Where the Homeless go during the day I'm not sure, but one winter evening we were retrieving our little dog just after dark, and though the parents and children, bikers and joggers had long left Hermann Park, the Homeless had appeared like Ghost Moths- hovering lightly and and almost luminously in their nocturnal perches.
I was so preoccupied with my husband's health, I didn't give much thought to the Homeless of Hermann Park till we were faced with an Incident.
Illness has taken a great financial toll on our family- we no longer have a credit card, and very little cash. I try to bring as much extra cash as I can, "just in case", and this particular trip I had brought 7 days' worth of cash for what was supposed to be a 4 day trip. My husband contracted MRSA in hospital and we were there 10 days, not 4. Not 7. Ten.
Now, the hospital allows patients to cash a personal check a day for up to $50.
Our hotel room was $65 per day.
I was able to cobble together enough to survive, stay in the hotel, eat, and coast home on gas fumes, but that little episode gave me pause and I couldn't help but wonder
How many of the Hermann Park Homeless have family members in one of the many hospitals of the Hospital District? We came perilously close to "camping" in our auto that last few nights. What if I'd been OUT out of money, not just ALMOST out of money? What if my husband had been delayed by MONTHS instead of days?
In the last 8 years we've been with insurance, without insurance, and on medicare. Ward's been employed and unemployed. We've had medical trips when we've had money and medical trips when I've literally felt like I've gone begging for funds.
But the one thing that's been lurking at the back of my mind- behind the weedy shrubberies and crouched next to an old shopping cart- is the knowledge that like so many people who are "one paycheck away from eviction", without our safety net of family and friends, we'd be truly and honestly "one medical procedure away from living in Hermann Park".
What happens when the money runs out before the medical emergency is fixed? We're currently here 2 weeks and with no foreseeable date to go home- ground to a halt by a snowballing hairball of unexpected complications. We thought we'd be here 5 days- 7 at the most. We've got options, and support, and more love than a family can absorb without overflowing, and we're OK. We can weather this storm under roof and with full tummies.
But what if we didn't have those options, support and love?
What if we didn't have a computer that linked us with people around the world who care about us? What if I'd been working several jobs to keep ahead of disaster while caring for a family and ill husband and didn't have the time, energy or heart to make and keep friends who we could fall back on?
What if we were truly alone, as so many families are in our fragmented society?
I refuse to leave Ward here, trapped helpless and afraid in a hospital bed. If I had to, I'd live on a park bench to be with him every day.
How many of the Hermann Park Homeless are doing just that- is that why they seem to disappear during the day? Are they next to the bed of a loved one- holding a hand- reassuring them that everything is alright although it's anything but?
The Hospital District in Houston is the largest in the WORLD- just this cluster of hospitals employs 65,000 people- every one of those hundred or so waiting in the soup line could slip into any one of those great maws of medical care and be totally not noticed in the crowds.
And how many have left the hospital for the last time- mechanically leaving the empty shell of the worn out patient- going through the motions of walking, navigating hallways and crosswalks on automatic pilot- their bodies weighted to the earth while their sanity frantically flutters after the soul of the one just lost- up, up and gone- not caring what happens now to their own broken-hearted shell.
I wonder about these things.
But I'm mortally afraid to know the truth.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Spare Me the Drama, Mama- I Crave Some Mundane
I vividly remember our most recent family hug.
It was Sunday night, four days ago now.
Much like any other of a million family hugs- Ward, standing tall and strong, myself wrapped in his left arm, his son wrapped in his right- the three of us twined into a human pretzel held together with comfort, love, and familiarity.
We were only slightly inconvenienced by the IV's and drains attached to Ward, and the IV stand didn't get in our way at all.
It was a good hug. Nay, a great hug- filled with relief and exhaustion and joy all mingled together. Ward was absolutely and completely light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel into healing after a very rocky week following what was supposed to be a pretty routine, albeit extensive surgery.
Alec and I left the hospital feeling good, Ward went to bed feeling good- we all anticipated Ward's release from the hospital by Wednesday at the latest.
Wednesday. Yesterday.
I'd fallen asleep fitfully- I'd caught a bug in hospital after a week of worry and sleeplessness and eating sparsely and horribly- and was just then feeling the full effects- dizziness, nausea- when the phone brought me suddenly, adrenalin-ly, sickeningly awake at 1am.
Ward needed emergency surgery immediately. In the middle of the night. But they assured me it would be a quick fix and he'd be back in his room by lunchtime Monday.
It didn't work that way and he's now lying in ICU attached to a ventilator and in congestive heart failure.
And I wonder whatever happened to "normal".
I asked my son yesterday if he could even, in his ten year existence, remember a time when our family life didn't consist of hospitals, operations, recovery, repeat. And though he made light of thinking it over, he was serious when he said "No. Not really".
I'm trying to come to terms with our new reality- not our beloved old knock-around house at the edge of Brownsboro TX (pop. 756)- chickens in the yard, turkeys on the porch, drifting off to sleep to the chorus of millions of spring peepers down by the pond, but this hotel room in the middle of Houston (4th largest city in the US of A)- the non-stop cacophony of helicopters and ambulances rushing to the hospital district glowing just a few blocks away.
And as crushing as living here with no set ending, no date we can circle on the calendar, is- we refuse to leave without Ward. He's here. We're here. They tell us it's going to be a "very very long haul" but that's fine as long as we're all here and all together.
I've known Ward for 16 years and we've been a couple almost 15. This is not my first go-around on the relationship/marriage train, but this is the only time I can honestly say there's never been one minute- one second- that I've ever thought "Hmmmm- this just isn't working out".
Ward's the best friend I've ever had, the best father I could ever imagine for Alec, and truly the Love of My Life. And even though I'm surly, argumentative and difficult, for some reason he feels the same way about me.
But while other couples- even those who still love each other deeply- stagnate and flounder a bit under the day to day child raising and working and bill paying, wishing for some excitement to knock the dust off of their routines, we crave the opposite-
Quiet. Normal. Boring. Stay-at-home Life.
I know, from tuning into every morsel of his being wrapped up, trussed up, invaded and hooked to machines that surround him carnivorously, that he can hear me. I hold his hand, and talk to him, and at sensible times there are signs- the twitch of his hand in mine, the raising of an eyebrow, the flicker of an eyelid, the rising or lowering of his blood pressure all tell me he's fighting as hard as he can- that no one wants to go home more than he does.
So we wait. And I keep him company, holding his hand and reading aloud to him in an almost insane caricature of normalcy. I pretend not to notice the nurses and others coming in and going about their medical business- the business of keeping my husband alive till his body is strong enough to once again keep itself alive.
And outside the hospital walls, I meet other people who complain petulantly about the irritating habits of spouses, or the boredom of their jobs, or the tiring mind-numbing chores inherent in the raising and training of children and they look at me like we're all in the same secret club and ask "Yanno what I mean?"
I think of what I wouldn't give right now to find beard hairs in the bathroom sink, or a collection of half empty soda cans abandoned around the house, or even to simply be at home in our own bed- together.
And I can't even feign thinking about it before answering, "No. Not really".
It was Sunday night, four days ago now.
Much like any other of a million family hugs- Ward, standing tall and strong, myself wrapped in his left arm, his son wrapped in his right- the three of us twined into a human pretzel held together with comfort, love, and familiarity.
We were only slightly inconvenienced by the IV's and drains attached to Ward, and the IV stand didn't get in our way at all.
It was a good hug. Nay, a great hug- filled with relief and exhaustion and joy all mingled together. Ward was absolutely and completely light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel into healing after a very rocky week following what was supposed to be a pretty routine, albeit extensive surgery.
Alec and I left the hospital feeling good, Ward went to bed feeling good- we all anticipated Ward's release from the hospital by Wednesday at the latest.
Wednesday. Yesterday.
I'd fallen asleep fitfully- I'd caught a bug in hospital after a week of worry and sleeplessness and eating sparsely and horribly- and was just then feeling the full effects- dizziness, nausea- when the phone brought me suddenly, adrenalin-ly, sickeningly awake at 1am.
Ward needed emergency surgery immediately. In the middle of the night. But they assured me it would be a quick fix and he'd be back in his room by lunchtime Monday.
It didn't work that way and he's now lying in ICU attached to a ventilator and in congestive heart failure.
And I wonder whatever happened to "normal".
I asked my son yesterday if he could even, in his ten year existence, remember a time when our family life didn't consist of hospitals, operations, recovery, repeat. And though he made light of thinking it over, he was serious when he said "No. Not really".
I'm trying to come to terms with our new reality- not our beloved old knock-around house at the edge of Brownsboro TX (pop. 756)- chickens in the yard, turkeys on the porch, drifting off to sleep to the chorus of millions of spring peepers down by the pond, but this hotel room in the middle of Houston (4th largest city in the US of A)- the non-stop cacophony of helicopters and ambulances rushing to the hospital district glowing just a few blocks away.
And as crushing as living here with no set ending, no date we can circle on the calendar, is- we refuse to leave without Ward. He's here. We're here. They tell us it's going to be a "very very long haul" but that's fine as long as we're all here and all together.
I've known Ward for 16 years and we've been a couple almost 15. This is not my first go-around on the relationship/marriage train, but this is the only time I can honestly say there's never been one minute- one second- that I've ever thought "Hmmmm- this just isn't working out".
Ward's the best friend I've ever had, the best father I could ever imagine for Alec, and truly the Love of My Life. And even though I'm surly, argumentative and difficult, for some reason he feels the same way about me.
But while other couples- even those who still love each other deeply- stagnate and flounder a bit under the day to day child raising and working and bill paying, wishing for some excitement to knock the dust off of their routines, we crave the opposite-
Quiet. Normal. Boring. Stay-at-home Life.
I know, from tuning into every morsel of his being wrapped up, trussed up, invaded and hooked to machines that surround him carnivorously, that he can hear me. I hold his hand, and talk to him, and at sensible times there are signs- the twitch of his hand in mine, the raising of an eyebrow, the flicker of an eyelid, the rising or lowering of his blood pressure all tell me he's fighting as hard as he can- that no one wants to go home more than he does.
So we wait. And I keep him company, holding his hand and reading aloud to him in an almost insane caricature of normalcy. I pretend not to notice the nurses and others coming in and going about their medical business- the business of keeping my husband alive till his body is strong enough to once again keep itself alive.
And outside the hospital walls, I meet other people who complain petulantly about the irritating habits of spouses, or the boredom of their jobs, or the tiring mind-numbing chores inherent in the raising and training of children and they look at me like we're all in the same secret club and ask "Yanno what I mean?"
I think of what I wouldn't give right now to find beard hairs in the bathroom sink, or a collection of half empty soda cans abandoned around the house, or even to simply be at home in our own bed- together.
And I can't even feign thinking about it before answering, "No. Not really".
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
When Just Being Thicker Than Water is No Damn Good At All
"Blood is thicker than water".
I never did know what the hell that was supposed to mean. I mean, first of all- duh.
Second of all, so what?
I've found that in a pinch, when push comes to shove, when your back's against the wall and when the shit hits the fan, merely being "thicker than water" doesn't cut the mustard. You need a rope, good and strong.
And in actual practice, most of those that could be defined as "thicker than water" have been about as useful as tits on a bull.
My folks have helped us out as they could- so they're excluded.
Ward's mom was an angel.
But by and large, when we've really needed help- and unfortunately that's been a frequent event- it's been our friends who've rushed forward to catch us, to hold us, to steady us and keep us from going over the edge.
So years ago, we stopped depending on our blood relatives, and started forming our "real" families of people we knew would be there for us.
That's not unusual. Alot of people do that. What is unusual, is that instead of banding together with others just like us, our "real" family is an amazing combobulation of religions, genders, nationalities, races, orientations, ages, and political scope. I credit the interwebs with allowing us to meet such a glorious lot, although my innate oddness would've ensured that our manufactured immediate family would not resemble our neighbors' at all.
Right now, my husband and his wife and son are in the most distress we've ever been in. He's in ICU at a huge cancer hospital and on a ventilator- not breathing on his own and in possible congestive heart failure.
Our home and farm are being cared for indefinitely by a huge bear of a man from Montana who's moved into our home and family- we've turned him into an old chicken herding hippie, and he's Friend to Ward, Uncle to Alec, and he has me packing a purse pistol named Thelma.
The friend our son thinks of as his brother drove down for the weekend and took Alec to NASA and a grand tour of the seedier parts of Houston.
My friend of over 30 years who lives in the Dallas area drove down after church to spend Sunday afternoon and evening with Alec.
Our friends who live in Houston are there always- on call- to take any or all of us out for distraction or into their home for comfort.
My home school moms are coming here tomorrow to be here for us.
Alec has had offers literally from around the country by people who want to take him into their homes- protect him, love him, support him while I deal with the mundane horrors of the cancer hospital.
Alec, Ward and I have faced 8 years of this mess together and together we'll face this go-round. Together. We're not leaving here without my husband and Alec's daddy.
People call me and email me and message me from around the world. We're being prayed for, candles lit, energies and jujus sent, and all gods and spirits called for strength for my family.
Friends we've met, hugged in real life, and those we haven't, from sea to shining sea, both new and one I've known for 35 years are there at the touch of a mouse, or the tapping out of a phone number.
We feel the love as a shawl around our shoulders- warm and sheltering.
Our friends ARE our Family- better than some sticky ooze that's claim to fame is being "thicker than water", our friends are our rope- and we cling tightly to them while being beaten down by the storms of illness. Over and over and over again.
They are stalwart. And true. And without them we'd have drowned long ago.
I never did know what the hell that was supposed to mean. I mean, first of all- duh.
Second of all, so what?
I've found that in a pinch, when push comes to shove, when your back's against the wall and when the shit hits the fan, merely being "thicker than water" doesn't cut the mustard. You need a rope, good and strong.
And in actual practice, most of those that could be defined as "thicker than water" have been about as useful as tits on a bull.
My folks have helped us out as they could- so they're excluded.
Ward's mom was an angel.
But by and large, when we've really needed help- and unfortunately that's been a frequent event- it's been our friends who've rushed forward to catch us, to hold us, to steady us and keep us from going over the edge.
So years ago, we stopped depending on our blood relatives, and started forming our "real" families of people we knew would be there for us.
That's not unusual. Alot of people do that. What is unusual, is that instead of banding together with others just like us, our "real" family is an amazing combobulation of religions, genders, nationalities, races, orientations, ages, and political scope. I credit the interwebs with allowing us to meet such a glorious lot, although my innate oddness would've ensured that our manufactured immediate family would not resemble our neighbors' at all.
Right now, my husband and his wife and son are in the most distress we've ever been in. He's in ICU at a huge cancer hospital and on a ventilator- not breathing on his own and in possible congestive heart failure.
Our home and farm are being cared for indefinitely by a huge bear of a man from Montana who's moved into our home and family- we've turned him into an old chicken herding hippie, and he's Friend to Ward, Uncle to Alec, and he has me packing a purse pistol named Thelma.
The friend our son thinks of as his brother drove down for the weekend and took Alec to NASA and a grand tour of the seedier parts of Houston.
My friend of over 30 years who lives in the Dallas area drove down after church to spend Sunday afternoon and evening with Alec.
Our friends who live in Houston are there always- on call- to take any or all of us out for distraction or into their home for comfort.
My home school moms are coming here tomorrow to be here for us.
Alec has had offers literally from around the country by people who want to take him into their homes- protect him, love him, support him while I deal with the mundane horrors of the cancer hospital.
Alec, Ward and I have faced 8 years of this mess together and together we'll face this go-round. Together. We're not leaving here without my husband and Alec's daddy.
People call me and email me and message me from around the world. We're being prayed for, candles lit, energies and jujus sent, and all gods and spirits called for strength for my family.
Friends we've met, hugged in real life, and those we haven't, from sea to shining sea, both new and one I've known for 35 years are there at the touch of a mouse, or the tapping out of a phone number.
We feel the love as a shawl around our shoulders- warm and sheltering.
Our friends ARE our Family- better than some sticky ooze that's claim to fame is being "thicker than water", our friends are our rope- and we cling tightly to them while being beaten down by the storms of illness. Over and over and over again.
They are stalwart. And true. And without them we'd have drowned long ago.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Hey Dr. Rice- Why Are You Such An Asshole?
It was rush hour in Tyler Texas- not New York City by any stretch of the imagination, but Tyler boasts a respectable almost 80,000 people and the Loop between 5 and 6:30pm is pretty well-traveled.
I was stopped at an intersection with a traffic signal along with say, 50 or 60 other autos, when I saw in the rear-view mirror a small, spotless and sleek sports-type car weaving in and out, jockeying to be in the front when the light turned green. As the car lurched impatiently forward past me, I saw the Vanity Plate- Dr Rice.
Really?
You drive like a completely insensitive selfish asshole and your car has your NAME on it? That adds like, a million points to your asshole score.
The sad thing is, we've become an increasingly UNcivilization.
Used to be, if we were engaged in conversation with someone, or at work- perhaps waiting on a customer, or watching a movie in a public theater, that one thing would be the most important thing to us at that moment. We would've been appalled if suddenly someone else had just popped into whatever we were doing and started talking about something completely different. How often were we told as children, and told OUR children "Don't interrupt. It's very rude".
And yet, that's what happens all the time now. Cell phones are everywhere, going off like so many buzzers, alarms, annoying snippets of popular or classical music, fracturing any semblance of whatever was supposed to be going on in the first place.
When did we all become so important that we have to be connected to everyone at all times and whoever is physically around us be damned?
Little horrible secret- we're not.
We're all suffering from grotesquely bloated egos, and truth be told, are damaging the most important relationships around us every day with carelessness.
Do I have a cell phone? You betcha. It is, in fact, my work phone- bought and paid for by my employer because as manager, I'm to be available to the workplace 8a-8p/7/365.
But here's the thing.
When it rings, if I'm otherwise occupied (and I often am), I hit 'mute', glance at the number and decide if it's urgent or let it go to voicemail. If I feel I must answer it, I excuse myself and leave the room- nothing is quite as thoughtless as someone yakkin' it up on their phones within earshot of everyone around them- essentially rendering them inconsequential and unimportant.
When did we become such a nation of sociopaths?
This afternoon, leaving the hospital, we were waiting for the elevator in the parking garage. My son and myself, a young adult woman, and an older couple- the husband using a cane. The elevator arrived, and the young woman stepped in first and pushed the button for her floor as the older couple moved slowly towards the door- only a few steps- we'd all been standing right in front of the elevator.
The doors closed and the elevator was gone.
When the next one arrived, my son and I entered first, and my 10 year old son- without being asked to- pushed and held the "open door" button till the older couple was on board. When we got off on our floor, he asked me incredulously "Didn't that lady SEE that they were old and needed a minute to get on??? Why didn't she hold the door open?"
I don't know.
I can't tell him why a grown woman would do that.
Maybe she was in a hurry. Maybe she was distracted with the worry over whatever relative she has in the hospital. Or maybe she's related to Dr. Rice.
I moderate an online forum, and every so often we get 'trolls'- those lovely people who live to annoy other people and push their buttons, frothing up and igniting entire cyber-populations. Here's what I can't understand- behind the anonymous curtain of the interwebs you can be anyone you want to be- you can be rich, good looking, brilliant, philanthropic, dynamic, and generally outstanding.
Why would you purposely CHOOSE to be an asshole?
Which brings us back to Dr. Rice. Like the lady in the elevator, I don't know if Dr. Rice was hurrying to some emergency surgery, or just late for cocktails with a colleague at the club. If the former was the case, I apologize for misconstruing your behavior, and I hope you got there in time.
If the latter is true, it concerns me not a little that you think you deserve to be at the front of the line by virtue of your social status.
It bothers me quite alot that this attitude may very well seep into how you treat your patients.
We're none of us all that important that we are given permission to discount those around us. We must put the civil bits back into civilization, or risk losing the humanity parts of being human.
I was stopped at an intersection with a traffic signal along with say, 50 or 60 other autos, when I saw in the rear-view mirror a small, spotless and sleek sports-type car weaving in and out, jockeying to be in the front when the light turned green. As the car lurched impatiently forward past me, I saw the Vanity Plate- Dr Rice.
Really?
You drive like a completely insensitive selfish asshole and your car has your NAME on it? That adds like, a million points to your asshole score.
The sad thing is, we've become an increasingly UNcivilization.
Used to be, if we were engaged in conversation with someone, or at work- perhaps waiting on a customer, or watching a movie in a public theater, that one thing would be the most important thing to us at that moment. We would've been appalled if suddenly someone else had just popped into whatever we were doing and started talking about something completely different. How often were we told as children, and told OUR children "Don't interrupt. It's very rude".
And yet, that's what happens all the time now. Cell phones are everywhere, going off like so many buzzers, alarms, annoying snippets of popular or classical music, fracturing any semblance of whatever was supposed to be going on in the first place.
When did we all become so important that we have to be connected to everyone at all times and whoever is physically around us be damned?
Little horrible secret- we're not.
We're all suffering from grotesquely bloated egos, and truth be told, are damaging the most important relationships around us every day with carelessness.
Do I have a cell phone? You betcha. It is, in fact, my work phone- bought and paid for by my employer because as manager, I'm to be available to the workplace 8a-8p/7/365.
But here's the thing.
When it rings, if I'm otherwise occupied (and I often am), I hit 'mute', glance at the number and decide if it's urgent or let it go to voicemail. If I feel I must answer it, I excuse myself and leave the room- nothing is quite as thoughtless as someone yakkin' it up on their phones within earshot of everyone around them- essentially rendering them inconsequential and unimportant.
When did we become such a nation of sociopaths?
This afternoon, leaving the hospital, we were waiting for the elevator in the parking garage. My son and myself, a young adult woman, and an older couple- the husband using a cane. The elevator arrived, and the young woman stepped in first and pushed the button for her floor as the older couple moved slowly towards the door- only a few steps- we'd all been standing right in front of the elevator.
The doors closed and the elevator was gone.
When the next one arrived, my son and I entered first, and my 10 year old son- without being asked to- pushed and held the "open door" button till the older couple was on board. When we got off on our floor, he asked me incredulously "Didn't that lady SEE that they were old and needed a minute to get on??? Why didn't she hold the door open?"
I don't know.
I can't tell him why a grown woman would do that.
Maybe she was in a hurry. Maybe she was distracted with the worry over whatever relative she has in the hospital. Or maybe she's related to Dr. Rice.
I moderate an online forum, and every so often we get 'trolls'- those lovely people who live to annoy other people and push their buttons, frothing up and igniting entire cyber-populations. Here's what I can't understand- behind the anonymous curtain of the interwebs you can be anyone you want to be- you can be rich, good looking, brilliant, philanthropic, dynamic, and generally outstanding.
Why would you purposely CHOOSE to be an asshole?
Which brings us back to Dr. Rice. Like the lady in the elevator, I don't know if Dr. Rice was hurrying to some emergency surgery, or just late for cocktails with a colleague at the club. If the former was the case, I apologize for misconstruing your behavior, and I hope you got there in time.
If the latter is true, it concerns me not a little that you think you deserve to be at the front of the line by virtue of your social status.
It bothers me quite alot that this attitude may very well seep into how you treat your patients.
We're none of us all that important that we are given permission to discount those around us. We must put the civil bits back into civilization, or risk losing the humanity parts of being human.
Monday, April 5, 2010
When Even the Queen of the Universe Can't Fix It
It's now 11:27pm, and I've been up since 4am.
At 4am, my family got up, showered, and headed to MDAnderson Cancer Center for our 6am check in time for my husband's most recent surgery.
For eight years- over half the time we've been together, and for most of our son's life, my husband has been fighting with cancer and the after effects of that plus heart disease and diabetes.
We've had mostly good medical staff, some outstandingly brilliant medical staff, and just a few dismally inept medical staff, and I've learned something vitally important in all this-
medical staff are human.
They have many patients and must attend to technical important things like dosages, reactions, and proper protocol. There's not much time left in their day to consider that every body they tend is also a husband, mother, child, grandparent.
Patients are more than organisms in need of healing- they are cherished members of family circles.
In what continues to be touted as the best health care nation in the world, every patient needs, not as in "This sure would be nice", but as in "If the patient does not have this he/she may die", to have a patient advocate who is not afraid to ask questions, not afraid to speak up if something seems 'off', and who is Family- because no one cares for each patient as passionately as a family member.
Tonight, by chance, on our way out the door I happened to overhear the nurse say she had been given orders to administer Tylenol to my husband for pain. He's in the beginning stages of liver disease and should NOT take Tylenol. Ever. That was confirmed by bloodwork taken here, at this hospital, truly one of the best in the world, less than 4 days ago. I alerted the post-op nurse of this and she changed his medication instructions accordingly. If I hadn't been there, my already weak and compromised husband would've been given a whoppin' dose of the very medication that has wreaked havoc on his liver.
But I digress...
My darling was wheeled out of pre-op at 8am- headed for his third total grafting in less than 4 years. In between blood clots in his heart and having to go on insulin for his diabetes, today they did a total new graft on the area where they removed cancer (three times)- only one graft was done post-cancer- these last two have failed due to healing issues.
That area is up on his head- where his right eye used to be. It's been microsurgeried, enucleated, radiated, re-surgeried, and now grafted three times.
They've taken donor tissue (muscle and vessels)from his neck all three grafts, from his forearm once, his side under his other arm once,and this time from the leg that wasn't already harvested for veins they needed for his open heart surgery almost 15 years ago, and skin grafts now 4 times.
And every time he goes in with resignation I cannot believe and bravery I cannot fathom.
He keeps on not for himself- this is a man who never asks for anything, ever, but for us- his wife and his son- and we spend the entire time he's asleep, and in recovery, and till he's healed willing the medical staff to take care of him and willing him to be strong.
This time he was in surgery from about 9am till about 4pm, and had a more difficult time with recovery than the other times- he wasn't moved to a regular room till after 10pm. We're relieved that he didn't need to go to ICU even though he needed a transfusion for bleeding during surgery.
Many many people- family and friends of all of today's surgical patients- crowded the surgical waiting room today- starting all at 6am. By noon, about half of them were gone, and by 4 most of the rest were gone. Only a few of us were left then- the ones whose precious family members were undergoing 'extensive procedures'. He was one of the last out of the recovery room.
I'm exhausted. Our son is exhausted. I know my husband is exhausted.
We all just want to go home now, be a normal family and do normal stuff.
But we haven't had that careless scenario for a very long time.
The spectre of illness hangs heavy over our heads and it makes me crazy with worry, with frustration, with white hot anger at this curse on a man who deserves it less than any human I've ever met.
So we're here- ripped up by our roots from our beloved Pineywoods and thrust face-first into downtown Houston for the duration and many many re-checks to follow- in the last 4 years we've gone no longer than 4 months without a trip down here for one appointment or another.
As I'm typing, I just now told my son to close up his computer and try to get to sleep- he was playing a computer game with almost frenetic intensity after spending 15 hours cooped up in a cancer hospital. His computer was not fully closed before his eyes were and he's already sound asleep.
I'm headed to bed as soon as I make myself some tea, or maybe cocoa- I've spent all day trying to think of something to write here- something clever, or thoughtful, or important.
But in the end, this is it- what our family has learned at the expense of a 'normal' life- when even the Queen of the Universe can't fix whatever's wrong the only thing left is to love each other with a little more fervor, cherish each minute you can reach out and touch a loved one, be patient, and kind, and selfless.
Petty arguments and disagreements are time-stealers and we're all alotted a finite amount of minutes- grudges and revenge are abominations.
Tomorrow begins another round of recovery for my husband- closing my eyes all I can see are his poor ravaged features and opening my eyes I gaze on my sleeping 10 year old boy who's seen much more physical horror than most adults.
And yet they both look to me for strength- when the truth is my strength is a reflection of their character.
Love each other. Be strong for each other. Cherish each other.
I am the Queen of the Universe and I so decree.
At 4am, my family got up, showered, and headed to MDAnderson Cancer Center for our 6am check in time for my husband's most recent surgery.
For eight years- over half the time we've been together, and for most of our son's life, my husband has been fighting with cancer and the after effects of that plus heart disease and diabetes.
We've had mostly good medical staff, some outstandingly brilliant medical staff, and just a few dismally inept medical staff, and I've learned something vitally important in all this-
medical staff are human.
They have many patients and must attend to technical important things like dosages, reactions, and proper protocol. There's not much time left in their day to consider that every body they tend is also a husband, mother, child, grandparent.
Patients are more than organisms in need of healing- they are cherished members of family circles.
In what continues to be touted as the best health care nation in the world, every patient needs, not as in "This sure would be nice", but as in "If the patient does not have this he/she may die", to have a patient advocate who is not afraid to ask questions, not afraid to speak up if something seems 'off', and who is Family- because no one cares for each patient as passionately as a family member.
Tonight, by chance, on our way out the door I happened to overhear the nurse say she had been given orders to administer Tylenol to my husband for pain. He's in the beginning stages of liver disease and should NOT take Tylenol. Ever. That was confirmed by bloodwork taken here, at this hospital, truly one of the best in the world, less than 4 days ago. I alerted the post-op nurse of this and she changed his medication instructions accordingly. If I hadn't been there, my already weak and compromised husband would've been given a whoppin' dose of the very medication that has wreaked havoc on his liver.
But I digress...
My darling was wheeled out of pre-op at 8am- headed for his third total grafting in less than 4 years. In between blood clots in his heart and having to go on insulin for his diabetes, today they did a total new graft on the area where they removed cancer (three times)- only one graft was done post-cancer- these last two have failed due to healing issues.
That area is up on his head- where his right eye used to be. It's been microsurgeried, enucleated, radiated, re-surgeried, and now grafted three times.
They've taken donor tissue (muscle and vessels)from his neck all three grafts, from his forearm once, his side under his other arm once,and this time from the leg that wasn't already harvested for veins they needed for his open heart surgery almost 15 years ago, and skin grafts now 4 times.
And every time he goes in with resignation I cannot believe and bravery I cannot fathom.
He keeps on not for himself- this is a man who never asks for anything, ever, but for us- his wife and his son- and we spend the entire time he's asleep, and in recovery, and till he's healed willing the medical staff to take care of him and willing him to be strong.
This time he was in surgery from about 9am till about 4pm, and had a more difficult time with recovery than the other times- he wasn't moved to a regular room till after 10pm. We're relieved that he didn't need to go to ICU even though he needed a transfusion for bleeding during surgery.
Many many people- family and friends of all of today's surgical patients- crowded the surgical waiting room today- starting all at 6am. By noon, about half of them were gone, and by 4 most of the rest were gone. Only a few of us were left then- the ones whose precious family members were undergoing 'extensive procedures'. He was one of the last out of the recovery room.
I'm exhausted. Our son is exhausted. I know my husband is exhausted.
We all just want to go home now, be a normal family and do normal stuff.
But we haven't had that careless scenario for a very long time.
The spectre of illness hangs heavy over our heads and it makes me crazy with worry, with frustration, with white hot anger at this curse on a man who deserves it less than any human I've ever met.
So we're here- ripped up by our roots from our beloved Pineywoods and thrust face-first into downtown Houston for the duration and many many re-checks to follow- in the last 4 years we've gone no longer than 4 months without a trip down here for one appointment or another.
As I'm typing, I just now told my son to close up his computer and try to get to sleep- he was playing a computer game with almost frenetic intensity after spending 15 hours cooped up in a cancer hospital. His computer was not fully closed before his eyes were and he's already sound asleep.
I'm headed to bed as soon as I make myself some tea, or maybe cocoa- I've spent all day trying to think of something to write here- something clever, or thoughtful, or important.
But in the end, this is it- what our family has learned at the expense of a 'normal' life- when even the Queen of the Universe can't fix whatever's wrong the only thing left is to love each other with a little more fervor, cherish each minute you can reach out and touch a loved one, be patient, and kind, and selfless.
Petty arguments and disagreements are time-stealers and we're all alotted a finite amount of minutes- grudges and revenge are abominations.
Tomorrow begins another round of recovery for my husband- closing my eyes all I can see are his poor ravaged features and opening my eyes I gaze on my sleeping 10 year old boy who's seen much more physical horror than most adults.
And yet they both look to me for strength- when the truth is my strength is a reflection of their character.
Love each other. Be strong for each other. Cherish each other.
I am the Queen of the Universe and I so decree.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Westward Ho! a.k.a. Romancing the (Grave)stone
I'm a proud member of a Homesteading Forum. The term "homesteading" loosely encompasses people in many different phases and incarnations- Those who are learning, or want to learn, how to become rural, those who are rural and dabble in agricultural pursuits, and those who make farming a livelihood.
To all of us, subsistence farming is a preferred way of life. Our main common thread is that we are devoted to being able to feed and shelter our families with as little dependence on outside sources as possible.
Knowing how to grow things, either plants or animals, and then turn them into food for the table both eaten fresh and preserved for later use, is paramount.
Having our homes set up to run well and comfortably even if the electric goes out gives us security and peace of mind.
Unlike alot of Homesteading Forums, though, ours is pretty laid back as far as membership requirements.
While a large number of forums are those who are mainly Survivalists aspiring to be hermits , or Fundamental Christians looking to escape from the evils of the secular world, or GlennBeckian Conservatives who are sure the whole shebang is headed for Hell in a Handbasket, we're pretty much a group of ol' hippie-types- Peace, Love, RockNRoll, pass the granola please.
As such, our group includes members of all the other types of homesteaders, and for the most part, we all try to see each others' points of view, get along pretty well and the name-calling and compost-slinging is kept to a minimum.
One of the only things that puts a hitch in my giddyup is when someone says
"I was born 100 years too late. I'd much rather have been a pioneer".
*Really?*
While I live in a 100+ year old house that's filled with antiques (other than us longhaired ol' geezers) and we own, use and love all manner of "old fashioned" things, I for one am pretty grateful I'm living now, in the futuristic 21st century.
If I had been born 100 years ago, I most likely would've died from one of the many bouts of toncilitis I had as a child. If I had survived to adulthood-
-the father of my older two children would've died at 35 from the heart failure he suffered
-my daughter would've died of the appendicitis she had at age 6
-my older son would've died from the severe colic he had as a newborn
-I would've had very little chance of traveling from Wisconsin to Texas where I met my current husband, who probably would've had very little chance of traveling from a different part of Wisconsin to Texas
-our son probably would've died from one of the many ear infections he had as a little critter. At the very least he'd be stone cold deaf from them.
-my husband would be dead of the cancer he was diagnosed with 8 years ago. Actually, he probably would've died of the heart attack he had right after we met (no, I did NOT cause it...)
-many people we love, and some we are proud to call "family" would've been completely unknown to us since we met them via the interwebs.
People who lived 100 years ago had a rough slog of it- never-ending work, little or no pay, precious bits of leisure time- a true hard-scrabble existence that makes my worst day look like a literal walk in the park.
Men could expect to live to about 45, if they were lucky.
Women could look forward to giving birth to many children but raising just a few, if they were lucky. Dying in childbirth was a very common way to exit this life.
Children- I don't even want to go there.
I'm grateful I live in a time where I have the CHOICE to live a "simple" life- although doing and cooking and living from scratch doesn't look simple to alot of people.
If I'm sick I can microwave dinner from the freezer, if it's raining I can toss laundry into the dryer instead of hanging it, and if I'm too tired to build a fire I can crank up the thermostat.
The point is, I CAN care for my family, and keep them safe thanks to a wondrous combination of old traditional ways and newfangled inventions.
Why on earth would I wish the drudgery and danger of a pioneer existence on people I love?
So while I'm happy and eager to LEARN pioneer ways, I'm pretty sure that if I could hop into a time machine and meet up with a real pioneer woman, showed her the way we live now and then told her "But I'd really prefer to live in YOUR time", she'd smack me upside the head, steal my time machine and leave me in 100 year old dust.
Because the pioneers may have been alot of things, but stupid they weren't.
To all of us, subsistence farming is a preferred way of life. Our main common thread is that we are devoted to being able to feed and shelter our families with as little dependence on outside sources as possible.
Knowing how to grow things, either plants or animals, and then turn them into food for the table both eaten fresh and preserved for later use, is paramount.
Having our homes set up to run well and comfortably even if the electric goes out gives us security and peace of mind.
Unlike alot of Homesteading Forums, though, ours is pretty laid back as far as membership requirements.
While a large number of forums are those who are mainly Survivalists aspiring to be hermits , or Fundamental Christians looking to escape from the evils of the secular world, or GlennBeckian Conservatives who are sure the whole shebang is headed for Hell in a Handbasket, we're pretty much a group of ol' hippie-types- Peace, Love, RockNRoll, pass the granola please.
As such, our group includes members of all the other types of homesteaders, and for the most part, we all try to see each others' points of view, get along pretty well and the name-calling and compost-slinging is kept to a minimum.
One of the only things that puts a hitch in my giddyup is when someone says
"I was born 100 years too late. I'd much rather have been a pioneer".
*Really?*
While I live in a 100+ year old house that's filled with antiques (other than us longhaired ol' geezers) and we own, use and love all manner of "old fashioned" things, I for one am pretty grateful I'm living now, in the futuristic 21st century.
If I had been born 100 years ago, I most likely would've died from one of the many bouts of toncilitis I had as a child. If I had survived to adulthood-
-the father of my older two children would've died at 35 from the heart failure he suffered
-my daughter would've died of the appendicitis she had at age 6
-my older son would've died from the severe colic he had as a newborn
-I would've had very little chance of traveling from Wisconsin to Texas where I met my current husband, who probably would've had very little chance of traveling from a different part of Wisconsin to Texas
-our son probably would've died from one of the many ear infections he had as a little critter. At the very least he'd be stone cold deaf from them.
-my husband would be dead of the cancer he was diagnosed with 8 years ago. Actually, he probably would've died of the heart attack he had right after we met (no, I did NOT cause it...)
-many people we love, and some we are proud to call "family" would've been completely unknown to us since we met them via the interwebs.
People who lived 100 years ago had a rough slog of it- never-ending work, little or no pay, precious bits of leisure time- a true hard-scrabble existence that makes my worst day look like a literal walk in the park.
Men could expect to live to about 45, if they were lucky.
Women could look forward to giving birth to many children but raising just a few, if they were lucky. Dying in childbirth was a very common way to exit this life.
Children- I don't even want to go there.
I'm grateful I live in a time where I have the CHOICE to live a "simple" life- although doing and cooking and living from scratch doesn't look simple to alot of people.
If I'm sick I can microwave dinner from the freezer, if it's raining I can toss laundry into the dryer instead of hanging it, and if I'm too tired to build a fire I can crank up the thermostat.
The point is, I CAN care for my family, and keep them safe thanks to a wondrous combination of old traditional ways and newfangled inventions.
Why on earth would I wish the drudgery and danger of a pioneer existence on people I love?
So while I'm happy and eager to LEARN pioneer ways, I'm pretty sure that if I could hop into a time machine and meet up with a real pioneer woman, showed her the way we live now and then told her "But I'd really prefer to live in YOUR time", she'd smack me upside the head, steal my time machine and leave me in 100 year old dust.
Because the pioneers may have been alot of things, but stupid they weren't.
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