No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money

How Answering Your Door Will Make You Fat

2007-11-14T10:16:00.001-08:00

I think I’m turning into the weirdo recluse cat lady of the neighborhood. This worries me.

I’ve gotten to a point where I rarely answer my door unless I’m expecting someone, and I often don’t answer the phone either. I just can’t be bothered.

Somehow though, a few weeks ago, a neighborhood kid caught me on one of my rare door-opening days. She was selling stuff for a school fundraiser. Now, I applaud the kid who will actually go door-to-door in their fundraising efforts in an age when most parents just take the catalog to work and hit up their coworkers. So, even though I didn’t really want anything, I ordered a tub of cookie dough to reward the kid’s efforts.

Fast forward to last Thursday. I’m home after work and getting ready to go to yoga. Ding dong! Damn doorbell. I sneak to where I can peek to sort of see who’s there and decide not to answer. After the person walks away I look out the window and pat myself on the back – whoever it was came in a group and was carrying a clipboard, probably wanting money for something or other.

About ten minutes later: ding dong. Again! Well, I’m wise to these guys, so I don’t answer, but certainly do my peeking routine after they’ve gotten back to the sidewalk. Huh? It’s a completely different person, pushing some sort of cart, and --SHIT! -- she sees me spying out the window and starts back up to the house. I dive into hiding and ignore the doorbell once more.

By now it’s really time to leave for yoga, but I feel trapped. I don’t want to be seen leaving two minutes after I’ve hidden from this person. As I stood there contemplating my quandary, the phone rang. And I, in full recluse mode now, ignore it. The machine recorded the following message:

“Hi this is (whoever) from the school fundraiser. I’ve got your cookie dough, and um, tried to deliver it, but – uh – I guess you’re not home…” And she leaves a phone number.

Well, that explains the cart: the poor kid is hauling eighty pounds of dough around the neighborhood, and I – idiot that I am – am hiding from a six-grader. Now I really, really don’t want to be seen leaving so I delay as long as possible (can I get to my class in four minutes? Maybe, if all the lights are green...) and then sneak out into the dusk.

When I get home, instead of behaving like normal adult and calling the kid back, I decide to add that phone message to the list of things I’m ignoring. I’m completely embarrassed by my hiding behavior and I don’t really want the cookie dough, so (I rationalize) maybe the kid will just keep it and enjoy it herself. But I also decide that I’ll be willing to answer the door for the next few days in case she makes another attempt to deliver.

A few more days pass. I delete the message. Now there’s no possible way of claiming that bucket of fat from the kid. Until, last night:

Ding dong!

I heed my resolution to answer the door and open up. And there she is, in all her cute blonde glory, carrying my bucket of peanut butter chocolate chunk cookie dough with Dad a few feet back for support. I think they’re relieved to see me, so I cheerfully take the dough and make some smart remark about getting out a spoon. Blondie and Dad both look horrified. “You’re supposed to bake them. Thaw it and bake.” I seriously worried that they’d snatch the bucket back and make me vow to prepare the cookies properly. I reassure them that I’ll bake as directed, say thanks, and close the door.

Then I got out a spoon.

New blog!

2007-06-23T11:11:00.000-07:00

After several months of writing mostly about Isabella, the wee diabetic cat, I realized I had a problem.

What is this blog about?

Mostly, it seemed to be about feline diabetes, but sometime I have other things I want to say. So I've decided to split the blog in two. The new blog will be devoted to the topic of the cat and her diabetes. This one will be for whatever else I care to comment upon.

Stage IV

2007-04-10T08:54:00.000-07:00

Last week I got the news that a good friend has metastatic breast cancer. Stage IV. There is cancer in her lungs, liver & bones. And I suppose it’s in her breast too, although no one ever found it.

My friend is one of those “how can that happen?’ stories. She saw her doctor for her annual exam, including a manual breast exam, last September. She had a mammogram in November. When she started experiencing seemingly random symptoms in December, she saw doctors several more times – and had at least one more breast exam. By this point the cancer was well on its way, completely undetected and wreaking havoc throughout her body. No one ever found her breast tumor. It was a CAT scan taken when she presented to the ER with shortness of breath and general discomfort that finally revealed the diffuse tumors.

Stage IV.

I saw her two months ago at an annual girls’ weekend getaway. We now know that she was having some weird discomfort (sharp pains, burning, and numbness in her arm) during that trip, but I don’t recall her mentioning it. If she did, it was probably offhand and dismissed by all of us as one of those random things that comes and goes benignly.

Not so benign, it turns out. Not benign at all. Stage IV.

I keep reminding myself that they do amazing things with breast cancer these days. And they do! I do medical research for a living, so of course I am all over the literature looking for hope. One article from 1992 stated that the survival rate for Stage IV patients is “appalling.” (That’s the actual word chosen by the author: Appalling.) However, 1992 was a lifetime ago in terms of breast cancer treatment. So I dismiss that prognosis and turn to more recent writings.

18 to 24 months is the median survival stated by the National Cancer Institute. Liver metastases are bad, though. And the type of cancer my friend has, HER2/neu positive, is bad. Aggressive.

On the plus side are the recent trials of monoclonal antibodies, which show very positive results as far as extending survival. JAMA – a venerable journal not given to exuberant language – featured an article titled “Monoclonal antibody therapies shine in breast cancer clinical trials.” That may not be exuberant by National Inquirer standards, but it’s positively giddy for JAMA. My friend is enrolled in a clinical trial of two monoclonal antibodies, Herceptin and Avastin. Herceptin specifically targets the HER2 receptors (good!) and Avastin strangles blood vessels feeding the tumors (also good!). Both of these drugs have been shown to lengthen the lives of women with breast cancer.

So I guess that we have to rely on modern medicine, which utterly failed in detection, to do something right now that my friend’s cancer is out of control. I don’t really blame medicine, nothing is perfect after all, but she did do everything right. Which leaves me with: “how can that happen?”

Pray for her.

Across the Golden Gate

2007-02-26T18:54:00.000-08:00

I'm a swimmer. It’s what I do for fitness and for sanity. I’ve accumulated thousands of water-logged miles over the years, mostly confined neatly within the walls of one pool or another. A few of those miles, though, were earned in the open water of lakes, bays, and the Pacific Ocean.

Summertime open water swims are a tradition among year-round swimmers. Getting out of the pool and away from lane lines can be rejuvenating. In northern California the variety of open water swims available is impressive. Distances range from a short mile or two to marathons of 10 miles or more. The course may be marked by occasional buoys or not marked at all. Water might be warm, or not. A handful of people might enter an event or nearly a thousand.

One September I joined a couple hundred others to swim across San Francisco’s Golden Gate. The narrow channel that marks the transition from the Pacific Ocean to San Francisco Bay can have treacherous currents and heavy shipping traffic. The crossing is not long, but it should be attempted only in coordination with currents and the Coast Guard. The event I entered was meticulously organized, but I didn’t give much thought to all that. I just wanted to say I did it.

We gathered at Baker Beach, facing the ocean south of the Golden Gate Bridge. Our task was to swim a diagonal line north and slightly east, under the bridge to a small yacht harbor just inside the bay at the north end of the span. Our course was not marked; navigation was up to each individual. The distance was estimated at less than two miles. The water temperature was about 58 degrees. The weather was cloudy, drizzling rain.

The race director pointed to the hills north and somewhat west of the bridge. We should swim toward those hills, he said, not toward our final destination to the east. Slower swimmers should aim even further west. The incoming tide would sweep us eastward and under the bridge. Miscalculate, and risk being pushed past the harbor and into the bay. Swim west, he emphasized.

Race time now. The starting horn blew and swimmers rushed to the water, running awkwardly in the shallows before finally gaining enough depth to plunge in and swim. The cold stole my breath. Icy, shocking cold. Though 58 degrees was actually rather warm for these waters, it was still too cold to swim gracefully or breathe rhythmically. But swim I did. The first shock of cold shifted to an all-over numbness. My breathing settled and I began to swim more purposefully. To the west, deliberately to the west.

To me, the pace of an open water swim is similar to the pace of each year. January, like a swim, starts in a frantic rush. Resolutions, newness, fresh resolve. A rhythm is soon established as the newness wears off. Late winter and spring plod along. February, March, April. I stroke and stroke, Will summer – the halfway point – ever arrive? It does, and the middle of a swim is relaxed and easy. By fall I’m getting weary. The end, like the holidays, is visible in the distance, but is so far away. It’s too early for my finish-line sprint, but time to start planning. Then, suddenly, it’s Thanksgiving and the finish is just ahead. The December rush passes in a blur and the water is now shallow enough to stand and run across the line. Looking back across the water, it seems I just started, but another year --another swim -- is done.

This race was no different. After the rush and chaos of the start -- 200 sets of thrashing arms and legs -- the swim up the beach to reach to mouth of the bay lasted every bit as long as a cold winter. I spent the spring and summer crossing the Golden Gate. At first elated to be close to -- and then under -- the bridge, soon I just felt tired and alone. The sea swells, while not terribly high, effectively hid the other swimmers. Not even a pilot boat was in sight. The incoming tide did its job, and by fall the mouth of the harbor was visible. I was on course to go in, not past. The overall numbness, so welcome earlier, was long gone, leaving a creeping, bone-chilling cold in its wake. My hands were blue. I kept swimming. All of a sudden I was beyond the harbor breakwater and caught up in the excitement of the finish. I reached shallow water, then dry land, and a glorious warm shower. Done.

I don’t swim these events competitively. I’m not fast enough to win awards so my motivation comes from elsewhere. For the Golden Gate swim that motivation was the novelty. It was the opportunity swim under a landmark most people see only through car windows or in photos. The distance wasn’t challenging. I wasn’t afraid of sharks or ships. Nor did I fret about the current, though perhaps I should have: Swimmers the next year were caught in troublesome tides that threatened to carry them to sea. This swim that I approached as a lark with carefree naiveté is now an infrequent event, rarely open to the public, restricted instead to elite members of private clubs.

I’ve done many open water swims, but this one, the Golden Gate, is the most memorable. I’ll carry with me forever the sight of the bridge far above, the swells all around, and the sensation of solitude in that place between the ocean and the bay. And I can say I did it.

Part-time pancreas

2007-02-18T17:55:00.000-08:00

I have a great deal of respect and admiration for people living with diabetes. Type 1, Type 2, no matter. If you’re coping with that disease, day in, day out, along with going to work and raising your kids and doing the laundry and all the other crap that comes with a normal life, then I bow at your feet.

You, my friend, are amazing.

I don’t have diabetes but I do live with it. Diabetes has reshaped my days. In my case it’s not a family member (exactly) – but my cat. My cat, Isabella, has this chronic and frustrating disease. Incurable. Expensive. Exasperating. So exasperating that I make oral pleas to her pancreas. I make bargains with God. I have a vial of insulin in the fridge that, administered in the proper dose will make her feel better. (For a while.) The improper dose, on the other hand, can kill her – either slowly or within hours.

Every day, twice a day, I choose a dose and inject my cat. Twice a day I hope I’ve chosen right and that she’ll feel better for a few hours until her next injection.

Before Isabella was diagnosed, diabetes was just one of those diseases warned of by earnest actors in dramatic TV ads. I knew it vaguely. Bad feet, sugar substitute, might go blind. But it was nothing for me to worry about. Now, well it’s a different story. Now, I am Isabella’s part-time pancreas. I know about beta cells and islet cells and glucagon and Somogyi rebound. I understand the action profiles of various insulins, both human and veterinary. I know what normal blood sugar is for a healthy cat (60-90 mg/dl). I know – and furthermore, I care! – about the carbohydrate content of various canned cat foods. I know where to get cat food on sale.

When Isabella was diagnosed, her vet showed me how to inject the insulin and instructed me to give her 2 units, twice a day and to change her food to lower carb. And to keep a bottle of Karo syrup handy in case she started acting funny. I thought that was simple enough. But that was before I started reading. And learning. And obsessing.

How could I just blindly inject my cat with a substance that could kill her if I didn’t know her blood sugar reading? Human diabetics don’t do that, and neither would I. So I got a glucometer and learned to get blood from a cat. (Not easy – particularly with a bad-tempered beast like Isabella, but that’s a story for another post.)

Now that I had the numbers, I assumed I’d just learn how the numbers and the insulin dose interacted and we’d be home free.

Not so fast, little bucko.

This is a cat. I don’t know about human diabetics, but cats are notoriously hard to regulate. The dose that one day takes her from the mid-300s to the lovely low-100s might just do nothing the very next day. Nothing. Or, it could take her low and keep her up all night. (And Isabella’s clueless caretaker might just spend the night yelling at her to go to sleep, only to realize – when 49 mg/dl pops up on the meter the next morning – that the poor little cat was probably very uncomfortable and trying to tell her something.)

She can go along happily on one dose, hitting highs of the mid-200s (not too bad) without restless-night lows. And then, suddenly, double digits. Or 400s. What?? WTF?? Just when you get complacent, something happens to shake things up. The cat starts drinking a lot again and lying like a lump by the front door. Pre-diagnosis behavior. Doses need adjustment. Frustrations run high. Pleas to the pancreas become more frequent and more sincere.

I operate on hope a lot. I hope I’m choosing a good dose. Hope I’ll get blood to test. Hope – every day – that when I get home from work, Isabella will greet me at the door. I hope I’ll never see a hypoglycemic seizure, and if I do, that I’ll cope with it and get her fixed up. When her numbers are high, I hope that ketoacidosis won’t strike her down before I can get her glucose under control. I hope to keep urinary tract infections and pancreatitis at bay. I hope I’m not making my cat miserable with all the poking.

This, for a cat. It’s not my disease; it’s not me that feels lousy. But because of this cat and my role in her disease, I have a tiny glimpse into the life of a person with diabetes. And you, my unseen friends, are remarkable.

Pain & Swelling in the South Bay

2007-01-23T09:05:00.000-08:00

I sprained my ankle two weeks ago. It's still swollen. Is that OK? Or should I have it X-rayed?

The Writers Club

2007-01-23T08:39:00.000-08:00

As I said in an earlier post, I read somewhere that the test of a real writer is "to try to stop." By that definition, real writers have an undeniable urge to say what's on their mind. I imagine it similar to the need to push in the final stage of labor.

Imagine.

I use that word deliberately, because I don't feel an urge or a need or a hunger or anything else that drives me to write. My personal driver is a deadline, and there are very few of those for this freelancer who does not actively seek work.

And yet, I have come to realize that I consider myself a writer.

It feels very naked and bold to say that. Who am I, after all, to count myself among the ranks of the talented? It might be that I've reached a sort of critical mass of encouragement:

• I had a writing class in the 7th or 8th grade. Years later, when I was in my 20s, the teacher of that class ran into my mother and asked if I was doing something that involved writing.

• I took a "what the heck" community college comp class in the evenings one semester. The teacher told me I should submit my work to magazines.

• I once actually had a job where writing a web newsletter was part of the responsibilities. There were four of us, and the lead said I was the best writer of the bunch. (This stuns me. My coworkers are a talented group and I surely did not stand out.)

• I send a goofy "year in review" letter with my holiday cards. People respond with "you oughta be a writer!"

OK, OK, I get it. I oughta be a writer. And as I just said, I consider myself to be a writer. But a real writer? Does any writer consider themselves to be a real writer?

I typed “real writer” into Google. (Because everyone knows Google has all the answers to life’s questions.) Apparently there are many tests to determine the realness of your writerness:

• Idiot Programmer presents us with a quiz:

• Susan Taylor Brown has a list:

• Denis Ledoux asserts that choosing to write makes one a real writer:

• Aaron Lazar agrees that writers have an urge:

• Answerbag offers an interesting variety of opinions, from the thoughtful to the obvious

My favorite? Moira Allen debunks all of the myths and makes it seem possible that I, too, am a real writer. She asserts that a writer must reach some level of competence to question that competence and doubt his place among real writers.

In my circle of writer friends and acquaintances, all of them – every single one – question their talent. They are sure that each piece they submit is the one that will reveal them as the hack they believe themselves to be.

I recall a conversation with a writer married to a writer. I confessed my fear of being found a fraud, that today was the day (I was, at that time, writing regularly) the editor would sit up and say, my god, we’ve been paying her? She admitted the same fear and confirmed that her husband (a stringer for a national publication) also suffered these doubts. Suddenly, I felt a part of the club, because I certainly counted those two among the real writers. And they felt that same as me!

No one can admit you to the real writers club. It’s up to each individual to step up and embrace his identity as a writer. My membership is shaky, at best. But I’m hanging on.

Ouch!

2007-01-11T12:16:00.000-08:00

Look at me, getting all lax about posting. Not that anyone is reading this drivel, but in my imagination, at least, there is a wide audience anxiously waiting for me to unveil my latest musings.

I've started an essay on writing. Midway through it turned in a new direction and now needs to be completely rejigged to fully honor that new direction (which is a thousand times better than the initial tack taken). Actually, that happens to me a lot. I might even be able to pass it off as my "process."

When I have a freelance assignment I first start to do research, making notes, maybe writing up a paragraph here and there. But things tend to be very disconnected in the early going. Then, suddenly, I'll hit upon what I refer to as "the hook." I don't know what other people call it, but for me, the hook is the thread that runs through the article and holds it all together. Once I find it the writing usually just falls right out of me and there's no looking back.

The last assignment I had was a struggle. I never really felt like my hook had appeared. It turns out that it was there all along but I wasn't comfortable with it and didn't want to acknowledge it. I submitted the piece to the editor, who responded with a comment on how she liked the thread I used. I was finally forced to admit it worked.

In that case, I had taken the real experiences of a family member, my nephew, and tweaked a bit. I told my editor that I had based the writing on a real person, but with literary license, and this fact was acknowledged when the article was published. So from that perspective it was all on the up and up, but the bottom line was that I worried that my nephew wouldn't like how I had characterized his experiences. I've never shown him, or his mother, the finished article.

But I digress, as always.

This post, titled "Ouch," is to report that I've sprained my ankled. (Yes, yes, I'll accept any and all sympathy, thank you.) It was one of those stupid things that just happens. One misstep, an ugly crunching sound, and suddenly I'm on my back in my driveway. Saying, as you might guess, ouch.

As I had no useful first aid supplies in the house, and couldn't exactly hop in the car to go get some, I called a friend who responded with:
- crutches
- a cane
- an ace bandage
- an ice pack
- some fun heat balm stuff
- soup, and
- meatloaf
She came in the house and (from across the room) said, well no need to ask which ankle it is, I can tell from here. Could it have been the softball-sized lump growing on the side of my leg?

I was made to lie with my foot quite elevated and packed in ice (on and off), then wrapped with the heat-y balm stuff. By the time she left the swelling was down to slightly noticeable and I was able to bear some weight. Like a miracle! Today I'm still quite gimpy but most definitely on the mend.

I believe I owe my friend a dinner.

Dreaming of a Full-Service ER

2007-01-01T17:38:00.000-08:00

Reading back on my post about my grandmother’s visit to the ER I looked at it from an outside point of view and wondered how the medical community would react. Would her admission be seen as an abuse of the system?

I work at a hospital and am pretty familiar with the fragile economics that keep them going. My grandmother, although insured, didn’t belong in a hospital. Not an acute care, facility, at any rate. I knew that and I still begged the doc to admit her. I needed a holding place because I was unprepared for this sudden change in my grandmother’s ability to live alone and care for herself.

My grandmother was 92. She lived in her own apartment, but had reached the point where she had all of her meals prepared for her, the cleaning done by someone else, and assistance with bathing. She was minimally mobile with a walker (read: she could get to the bathroom on her own). She was mentally sharp and managed all her own meds (which weren’t that many). But she was in constant pain from compression fractures and was very, very tired.

I had seen her about 36 hours before she went to the hospital. On that day, we discussed her pain level (getting worse) and whether she needed to move. She didn’t want to leave her apartment until it was absolutely necessary. I promised to contact her doctor to get an increase in her daily morphine dose. In the meantime, I gave her an extra (mid-day) low-dose morphine and encouraged her to take an extra one each day until I talked to the doc. I thought it would be OK. She was as mobile on that Saturday as she had been.

Looking back, I see that I missed (or, more likely, ignored) the signs. Finding a place for her, or finding in-home care, was going to be trouble. Trouble that I wanted to put off. I told my grandmother repeatedly that I was relying on her to tell me when it was time. My sister-in-law had toured a couple assisted living facilities, but they were quite expensive and the “menu” of assistance didn’t make sense. (In these places, there is a base monthly rent for an apartment or studio that includes meals in the dining room. The first level of assistance (for an extra charge), was things like helping with meds, which my grandmother didn’t need. Second level, higher charge, still things she didn’t need. The third level finally included what she needed: meals brought to her, assistance with bathing, etc. We hadn’t asked if there was an a la carte menu of assistance that might have made more sense.)

Anyway, though we knew the time was near, my grandmother’s dearest wish was to be able to stay at home and have someone live with her. She wanted that so badly that she may not have been completely honest with me about her ability to be alone. She was hoping for a miracle, or to die. Frankly, so was I. And that’s how she ended up in the ER with her family completely unprepared to cope with this seemingly sudden change in her needs.

I feel that there was a gap in the ER service. I did talk to the social worker, but aside from giving me a list of home-care agencies and a hearty “best of luck!” she didn’t help or reassure. What I needed was someone to sit down with me and spell out my options. To explain that these home care agencies could, in fact, have a caregiver at my grandmother’s home within hours. To do a thorough evaluation of my grandmother and help determine if a nursing home placement would be more appropriate. And if the nursing home was the place, to set up a home-care bridge until the nursing home placement was made. Or tell me how to set it up.

I got some of that from her patient care planner (case manager) when she was an inpatient. But I do feel that her admission may have been averted if there had been more information available at the ER. If I hadn’t felt so alone. I don’t know if case managers are assigned to the ER, but perhaps there should be. When a family is begging for time, what they really need is information. And, in my case, a roadmap to help navigate the fractured elder care system.

Hopefully I’ve learned enough to do it better when my father reaches that point.

Desktop revelations

2006-12-28T08:13:00.000-08:00

In sorting through the collection of business cards, notes, and other detritus on my desk at home, I recognize that these wee bits of paper offer a revealing glimpse into my life.

On the top of the pile is an old appointment card for Isabella at the Quito Vet Hospital. It’s for her first follow-up appointment after her diabetes diagnosis and I remember how stunned and overwhelmed I felt upon hearing that my cat had a chronic disease. The appointment is long past; the card can go in the trash.

Next is a business card for a car salesman. I’m going to trade my car for another one pretty soon. In the fall I thought that the new car would be a Suzuki SX7, but after going on a test drive I decided against it. I can toss this card too.

Under the car salesman’s card is that of a Realtor. The house across the street from me is for sale and of course I went over to inspect it at the first open house. The floor plan is exactly like my house, but this place has been completely re-done due to a fire. Sadly, it was fixed up on the cheap and so my house is still way better. The owner has it over-priced at nearly 700K. That should keep it empty for quite a while longer.

Below that is the list from the name draw for our family Christmas gift exchange. That’s done! On to next year.

The business card that comes up next makes me sad. It’s for a handyman who I had hoped to hire to retile my shower and bathroom floor. I inherited a small amount of money from my grandmother and the bathroom was the first thing I thought of. So I called Jose (who does a lot of work for a friend, beautiful work) and got an estimate. Turns out I can’t afford new tile. And, in the end I had to spend that money on unexpected repairs – like the sidewalk (mandated by the city), the broken pipe in the front yard, and, of course, the cat.

Next is my little brother’s card. It’s the only place I’ve got his phone number, so that one’s a keeper.

After that is the card of the editor at a website I sometimes do writing for. They pay very well, they barely touch what I submit (I can get cranky when I have to revise), and they’re nice. What more could a freelancer ask for?

Now here’s a scrap of paper with the phone number of a car broker. He may help me find my next car, though when I talked to him a couple months ago he didn’t seem very encouraging. I want a 2006 Toyota RAV4. That’s a used car, and for some crazy, parallel-universe sort of reason, they are currently selling for more than the original MSRP. We agreed that this is nuts, but he didn’t have any sneaky car-broker way to get around it.

Last in the card pile is a scrap where I jotted the numbers for yet another person that I do work for. This job, though, isn’t writing. It’s medical research – database and web searching for evidence-based publications on whatever topic I’m assigned. I really like it, and wish she’d send work my way more frequently. My last two assignments were both very difficult. It helps keep my librarian/searcher skills sharp to do research like this, but the pay is pretty lousy for the time I put in. Just goes to show that I really do like it, since I’m willing to work even more often for that lousy pay!

The other things on my desk – the bigger things, are:
• a pile of clippings and printouts related to an idea I have for a book. Need to make a file for that!
• more info on the RAV4
• a mail-order catalog with a 50% off coupon, and
• my auto insurance cards. Which should be, well, in my auto. Not sitting here next to my computer. (“Yes, officer, I do have valid insurance. If you’ll just follow me home I’ll get the proof-of-insurance card off my desk.”)

That’s the end of my desktop inventory. Now the little white cat is hollering. Apparently I’ve been sitting here long enough and it’s time I went into the other room, where he prefers to be petted, and petted him. At your service, furry one.

Impulse control

2006-12-21T14:01:00.000-08:00

Say you're a doctor. A surgeon.
Say you're in surgery.
Say your cell phone rings.

Do you think

a) "hey, let's just get the circulating nurse to answer that and hold the phone to my ear"

or

b) "let it go to voice mail."

In case you're hesitating, the correct answer is b. Always.

Even better: leave the damn phone in your locker!

An angel in the ER

2006-12-14T14:58:00.000-08:00

Shortly before my grandmother, Beth, died, she was in the ER for a day. She was there because upon finding herself too weak to get up from the toilet, she pushed her “I’ve fallen and can’t get up” button. The paramedics took her to the ER.

I went straight from work, along with my sister-in-law. Beth was propped up in an ER bed (multiple compression fractures made laying flat painfully impossible) with pain meds starting to kick in. Several things were apparent:

1) She could not live alone any more
2) Her regular morphine dose needed adjustment, pronto
3) She had no indications for admission to an acute care facility

Item three combined with item one was a cause of immediate distress. No one in family was in a position to care for or live with my grandmother, particularly with no advance notice. The social worker was of little help. She handed me a list of in-home care agencies and scurried away.

I asked the doctor to please admit her. Please give us some time to figure things out. He shook his head regretfully. No can do. No acute indications. You’ll be fine.

Time passed. I was perfectly content to sit in that ER forever. It was safe there. Home presented immense problems. My grandmother was mostly out of it, from dilaudid and exhaustion. My sister-in-law left to take care of something.

Beth asked for a bedpan, but was too weak to lift her hips so it could be placed. The nurse asked, could she get onto a bedside commode? Beth agreed to try. Legs over the edge of the bed, but the bed’s too high for this bent little old lady. Another nurse came to help. Beth screamed in pain. Her body, so broken and brittle, could move only with gentle, slow care. The commode, snug next to the bed, was just too far. Two more nurses helped ease her back onto the bed and into a diaper.

I sat helpless. I heard Beth’s pain coming despite the narcotics. I saw professionals unable to help without hurting. I laid my head down on my crossed arms next to Beth. Exhausted. Worried.

“They’re sending her home?” her nurse asked. I nodded, unable to speak. “What will you do? You can’t manage this.” I shook my head and lowered it back to the bed. I didn’t know what I would do. I felt so alone.

Later, the doc pushed back the curtain. “I give up. She can stay.” The nurse came in grinning. “I told him he could NOT send her home.”

I cried with relief. That nurse was my angel; I wish I knew her name.

Acrophobia

2006-12-12T09:30:00.000-08:00

I listened to the “all Christmas music” station while driving to work today. My drive isn’t long – between 15 and 20 minutes, typically – and I only got to hear two songs (plus the weather, traffic, news, and a whole buncha commercials). One was Bing singing White Christmas. I know it’s a classic, but man, that rendition just drags. Could he sing any slower?

Not only was I disappointed in the lack o’ music, I was fantastically annoyed by commercials. I’m currently in the throes of acronym-animosity syndrome (AAS). The overwhelming use of acronyms in advertising makes me nuts. Today’s entry: HDTV with DLP. WTF is DLP? Don’t know, don’t care. On the radio, it was merely an irritant. It’s the TV commercial for this whatever-it-is that really bugs me. It’s a little girl standing in a meadow holding a wee thing (DLP?) with “millions of tiny mirrors.” Just the sight of the little girl pisses me off. I have to change the channel. Click. Bye-bye ALG (annoying little girl).

Since I work in healthcare, I’m surrounded by acronyms and abbreviations. It doesn’t bug me at work like it does in ads. RLS. RA. ACS. ED. Often completely undefined, acronyms pop up where even the docs (MDs) normally just say what they’re talking about. Restless Leg Syndrome. Rheumatoid Arthritis. Acute Coronary Syndrome. Erectile Dysfunction. Advertisers must feel that acronyms confer a certain importance to the diagnosis. To be fair, lots of the acronyms were widely used in medical circles before the advent of direct-to-the-consumer advertising by drug companies. HDL, LDL, and GERD, for example. I don't have a problem with those.

Worse are the ads that don’t mention what the drug is for. “Ask your doctor if BlahBlahBlah is right for you.” Gack! Docs must hate those.

My friend Judy sums up those acronym-laden ads: they're all trying to cure OFS (old fart syndrome).

Where cats rule the roost

2006-12-08T11:43:00.000-08:00

I’ve mentioned before that one of my cats is diabetic. I sat down to write about how having a diabetic cat has taken over my life, but I think that before I do that, I have to introduce both of my cats and their considerable quirks.

Isabella

Oh, so aptly named, for she is the Queen. I adopted Isabella from the Humane Society as a wee kitten. She was so cute – a tiny little black and white fur bundle with a perfectly symmetrical mask-like marking on her face. I now know that it’s probably the mark of the devil. Forget 666. Meet my cat.

Our first night together set the stage. I set up a cozy little cat bed in my room, upon which I deposited young Isabella and turned out the lights. Within minutes that eight-inch-tall kitten clawed up the bed skirt and comforter to re-deposit herself next to me. I moved her back to her bed. And then I did it again. And again, many more times. I finally recognized that Isabella would outlast me in this battle, and so it has been that she chooses her sleeping arrangements, and everything else, ever since.

Isabella is my cat (or perhaps it is that I am her person). She follows me everywhere. Where I sit, she sits. Everything would be perfectly fine in the Land Of Isabella if it was just the two of us. Other people be damned – if you come to visit, she wants you out. If you won’t leave, she wants a piece of you. Bottom line, my cat is never nice to other people and is frequently not that nice to me. Her teeth are her weapon of choice. Claws come next.

Casey

Isabella was about 1 ½ when Casey joined our happy band. He was a wee kitten found in the bushes near my office. Separated from his mother and siblings, my feral baby used his considerable lung power to announce his distress. His mother was too slow to the rescue – instead he was snatched up, boxed up and taken home by me.

I deposited that terrified little guy in my downstairs bathroom with a litter box, food and water, and shut the door. Isabella’s expression clearly said “what the f*** did you put in there?” Her world was shattered. It was no longer just the two of us.

After a few days of isolation (and a trip to the vet for shots and deworming) Casey was allowed out of his bathroom to meet his new sis. Love at first sight. He adores Isabella. She disdains him. She grooms him, then bites. She knocks him off my lap, off her favorite chair, off the bed at night. Even after ten years, Casey is so far down the cat-ranking totem pole, that Isabella sometimes won’t allow him in the same room. She’s such a bitch. And he loves her to pieces.

Alas, I didn’t introduce Casey to enough people when he was young. He’s never overcome his feral roots and is wary of strangers. Many of my friends and family members think I’m lying about having two cats. They’ve never seen him. Too bad, since Casey’s as sweet and nice as they come. He never bites, even when he’s scared.* His sister makes up for that just fine.

*Maybe he does bite. As a kitten, Casey spent a day at the vet’s office for a deworming procedure. When I picked him up, the vet tech brought Casey in his carrier from the back. “This isn’t a kitten. This is fur with teeth.” I had warned them that he was feral. They believed me now.

Now you see it, now you don't

2006-12-08T10:52:00.000-08:00

I wrote a post a couple days ago which was summarily eaten by Blogger. Lesson learned. Now I write in word, and paste into blogger. Less risk. And, thanks very much Blogger, for taking this newbie and smacking me upside the head so early in my blogging adventure.

Of men, part two

2006-12-04T11:39:00.000-08:00

Many, many years ago I dated B for two or three years. We were young (I still in my twenties, he barely breaking into his 30s). He was living life; I was itching to be married, normal. We broke up.

A few years after splitting we began an relationship of intermittent contact. We'd meet for breakfast or lunch, catch up, and go our separate ways, then repeat the pattern six or eight months later. Knowing B in this way made me wonder what I'd ever seen in him. We each dated others, we each had periods of lone-ness. I never did get married and neither did B.

About two years ago, the pattern changed. B called to chat. He called a week later: "let's get together." Dinner, then another call in a week or so. Definitely not the twice-a-year routine I was used to. Neither of us was seeing anyone; I chalked it up to boredom on his part. I made it a point never to call him first, only to respond.

We went on in this way for a year. I still wondered what I ever saw in him, but he was pleasant enough company, and I was bored too.

Then B went to "doggiepalooza" - an annual gathering of folks involved in golden retriever rescue. He fell hard for a gal he met there and began a torrid affair. Never mind she had a boyfriend and was expecting to be engaged on her next birthday (in two months). Never mind she lived in DC and he in California. He got on planes and flew places where she'd be. They had a lot of sex. My role was friend and counselor. I listened. I analyzed. And I picked him up from the airport.

One airport pickup -- on my birthday, no less, brought this conversation:

B: I want to ask you something, but I don't want to mess up our friendship.
Me: Ask. I promise to be open-minded.
B: Well, have you ever thought about being f*** buddies?
Me: (in my mind): gack! (I had, and had summarily dismissed the idea.)
Me (aloud): Well. Yes. I've thought about it.
B: Well, I wouldn't want to wreck our friendship, but sex is great, and (blah blah blah)
Me: I'll think about it.

B then went on to tell me about his trip. Lots of sex. Fun sex, apparently. His friend was obviously adventurous. I believe she favored him with a hand job on the ride to the airport just a few hours earlier.

Then he got off the plane at the other end and propositioned me. Quite the pair, those two.

She got engaged a week later. I slept with B one more time. It made me feel icky, so we're back to being just friends again.

Real writer

2006-12-04T11:33:00.000-08:00

I read somewhere that the way to find out if you're a real writer is to just try to stop.

By this definition, it's very good news that I have a day job. Jo over at Head Nurse, however, may just be the real deal.

Of men, part one

2006-12-02T18:32:00.000-08:00

In this season of goodwill toward men, I thought I'd post a story that explains why I have animosity toward my next door neighbor.

I moved into this house about 3 1/2 years ago. The houses on either side of me are occupied by single, retired men. One, on the north side, is a widow. He minds his own business and brings my carts in from the curb on trash day. To the south is a divorced Italian. From the old country. He minds his own business AND everyone else's. My house is situated such that my northside neighbor and I don't see each other without deliberate effort. My southside neighbor, the Italian, has a clear view of my house, my comings and my goings. He takes full advantage.

After I moved in, the gregarious Italian often struck up conversation, introduced me to others in the 'hood, and kept me well informed about the local happenings. In warm weather he sits in a folding chair on his driveway and watches. In the early days I would sometimes pour a glass of wine and sit to chat, as would the neighbors to his south. The Italian was very interested in my social life. Why am I not married? The men, are they stupid? If he was only younger, her would marry me tomorrow. He would chase me until I gave in.

He also noted that he was well aware of my schedule and habits. If I got home late, he'd ask why. (Pardon, that's not quite accurate. He rarely asks a direct question, favoring instead the broad observation: "I see you get home so late last night. I am thinking, maybe there is a problem with your grandmother." Until I caught on, I'd answer the unasked question and tell him why I was late.)

Anyway, summer melted into fall, then winter. Shortly before my first Christmas in this house I ran into the Italian outside after a particularly stormy night. We both noted that the wind had been fierce enough to awaken us. Apparently this was the opening he'd looked for. Says the Italian: "Sometimes, I'm laying in my bed and I am thinking, you're alone, I'm alone... What would you say if I asked you to sleep with me?"

I was caught a bit off guard by this. Have I mentioned that the Italian is in his 70s and has children my age?

I took a step back (as he was also in the habit of hugging me whenever he could fathom a reason. Now I understood why). I said "no." Pretty straightforward.

The Italian clasps his hand to his heart (I'm not making this up) and says "It hurts me here when you say this." I said, look, really, I just want to be neighbors. "That's OK, that's OK." he assured me. I don't remember if there was more conversation, because I was so completely flabbergasted. I excused myself as soon as possible and practically ran into my house so I could start calling everyone.

After that, I decided it was prudent to give the Italian a wide berth. Definitely never going into his house again, and he would not be coming into mine. He might be 70, but if it came to a fight, he could take me.

I kept my distance for quite a while. Then last summer thought perhaps it was time to normalize relations with the neighbor. So one warm day I pulled up a folding chair for a driveway chat. We talked of this and that. I caught up on all the neighborhood gossip (since he's the spy who knows all). We talked about the renovations he was doing on a house in the mountains which had belonged to late brother.

"I am thinking maybe you would like to come to the mount with me sometime." (That's how he says it. Mount.) I sighed. Jeez. Talk nice to the guy and suddenly I'm good for a weekend sleepover.

"No."
"I'm thinking maybe you don't trusta me."
"That's right. I don't trust you."
"I am not that kind of man. I would not touch somebody. I cannot do what somebody doesn't want." And on for a bit in this same vein.
"No."
"That's OK, that's OK."

Back to giving the Italian a wide berth.

Somewhere in the time since the proposition, The neighbors to the Italian's south moved away. This was a family he had known forever. The original owner had raised her niece who was now living there with her husband and kids while taking care of the elderly aunt. When she passed, they inherited the house (as well they should have!), sold it, and moved. They were quite close with the Italian and were no doubt curious why I was suddenly so cold toward him. I never told them.

Taking the plunge

2006-12-01T09:15:00.000-08:00

My tall friend just found out that she will be laid off in early March. Her company is closing (which surprises me, as they make those pulse-oximeter things used in every docs office and hospital in the freaking world). Not twelve hours before getting that news she had written me an email expressing her wish to work as a freelancer (she's a writer/editor) but her trepidation about making such a drastic move. If this isn't a sign from God (the fates/above/whatever you like), I don't know what is.

So now I'm faced with another person to envy. I already envied her - she worked as a writer, after all (although happily under the auspices of a 40 hour week and a regular paycheck). Does the regular paycheck make you less of a writer? I'd take it in a hot minute. I also envy my niece, who, at 20, has been hired as a staff writer for a wee community newspaper. They pay crap, but she is gaining valuable experience and bylines. This for a gal who really never gave a thought to writing - one of her professors pushed her. Ah, had I had the push 20 years ago! Maybe I shouldn't have majored in biology...

I shouldn't complain. This year I earned about 10K doing freelance work. That's more than a lot of folks, and it's work I didn't really have to seek out. That's how it should be: I hang out and people needing a writer call me. No muss, no fuss.

Dreamin' again.

About me, take two

2006-12-01T09:09:00.000-08:00

I originally posted the following pap in the "about me" section. But the formatting wouldn't come out right and the anal/perfect part of me just could not live with that. So, it is here preserved for eternity (or until the end of the internet), for no particular reason:

About Me:

I have:
- two cats (one with diabetes and a very bad attitude)
- a house that I wish I could spend more money on
- a subscription to the daily newspaper. I read the headlines, the columns, the comics, and Dear Abby. Sometimes I even read some of the news
- one television, turned on sometimes, off others. I watch the same stupid medical shows as everyone else
- a sunny backyard where I love to sit on summer mornings
- three brothers, one sister, and a father
- a yen to write for a living, but not the guts to actually do so.

I work:
- as a medical librarian in a community hospital. I like my work; I don't like my hospital. If I were to fall sick at work, I'd make them take me somewhere else.

I love:
- New York City. It's the best place in the world
- Chocolate (does this go without saying just because of my gender?)
- Swimming. It's how I stay sane, and how I can eat all the chocolate

Hello, me

2006-11-30T15:32:00.000-08:00

Starting out in a new, blank blog is, as it turns out, a rather intimidating event. How to start out with a bang? Is a bang even necessary?

This is to be a place where I comment on my life, the lives of others, the aburdity of people, and the engaging, endearing sameness of people. We are, after all, more the same underneath it all than we are different.

Lacking inspiration, I'll leave it there for now. Perhaps next time I'll ahve something wise to share.