Blankety Blank Blank!

Ahhhh! This stupid strep throat is back! A new way to torture potential terrorists....give them strep throat!

Phone number amnesia

I've been working in the ER for about a month and a half now, and I find that this is an extremely interesting place, not just in terms of the patients and the various illnesses and injuries, but also the talented people that work there too. The first CODE was hard to watch; but it was fascinating too. Nurses are amazing; and when they function as a team of 8 to 10, it's even more wild to watch. Every person knows their role in trying to save a life. The doctor circling the bed, calling the shots, try this, try that. It took me three days to get over not only watching the person die, but also watching the medical team do its thing.
My role is something I'm still figuring out, but it's more of a social services type thing. So when the you know what hits the proverbial fan, I get to observe and help with strange things like figuring out who Jane Doe is or trying to find supplies and services for people who don't have what they need. This job is growing on me in ways I never thought possible. I leave work now still thinking of patients I left behind, wondering what happened as the clock ticked on. It's weird. I've met some of the neatest people, lots of them elderly - because I kind of have a thing for old folks. I find that I'm drawn to them. I like talking to them in supermarkets, so of course I'm right there when they are in hospital beds. They usually give me compliments. They think I'm young! And they think I'm sweet. It's a give-give relationship.
One of the most profound observations I've made though, that repeats itself over and over again is something I've termed phone number amnesia. Picture yourself right in the middle of a trauma. Your family member is critically ill or dying or maybe even dead. And now you have to call people to tell them. Mostly other family members. You've known their phone numbers for YEARS, but you can't remember a single digit. Maybe a few digits, but not the whole number. Works every time. Amazing. This has happened to every single person I've encountered in the ER in the last month and a half who has fit the trauma scenario. They get so frustrated. They flip open their cellphones to look up the number and they can't understand why they don't remember it. They smack their foreheads with their palms, rolling their eyes up to the ceiling. I feel sad for them; I try to help. Mostly I stand there with them and say it's okay, it's okay, you'll remember, come sit down.
The brain is a high functioning organ. It knows what to do when. It takes over in those times. Tells you to slow down, forget the phone numbers, work numbers, other responsibilities and worries, to take up this horrible thing that is happening and to deal only with it. Emotion overrides logic, reason, and wherewithall. Is there a solution to phone number amnesia? I don't think so. Because even when you figure out the number, there will be one more person to call and another thing to remember. So when and if this ever happens to you, just hand your cell phone to someone else and tell them who to call.

Voting: priviledge or burden?

I arrived at the polls this morning at 7:04, and the line was backed out the door with young professionals and retirees. I waited until I couldn't wait anymore and had to step out of line and head to work. After I finished at work, I picked up my child and headed back to the polls. This time I stood in line and successfully voted. I explained to Sarah that today was a very special day, a day for helping to choose our country's next leader. Of course, at age 3, she won't grasp the meaning of an election day for a long time, but I think it's good practice to educate our next little generation of Americans that voting is something they should feel is as much a duty as it is a right and a priviledge. My husband, on the other hand, seems as if he could care less. I've known him for 12 years and not once during that time has he cast a vote for anything or anybody. Yet his father served as an Air Force pilot in three U.S. conflicts before he retired as a Lt. Colonel. Every time I encourage him to go, he expresses indifference and everytime I'm met with his indifference, I am dumbfounded. Today I heard a man say he had driven 60 miles to vote. He had just moved to another city but came back to vote. Another lady was pushing a super stroller with three babies (triplets)! The election officials at the polls said there had been record turnout today, all day long. Yet there are still many in this country who seem to not care at all. Or at least they don't care enough to take action. Can someone out there explain this to me?
I think we have a responsibilty to keep up with what happens around us, to care about the consequences of our nations activities and our leader's choices. We have a responsibility to voice our own opinion about how we think and feel about the political atmosphere around us and voting is the number one way to do that. It's sometimes the only way to truly get through.
But that's just my opinion. Shout out. Tell me what you think.

Mean-ness revisited

Building on my last post, I must have done something awfully bad or be possesed by something awfully bad, because there's an awful lot of mean-ness coming out of me. The night before last I came home with a headache, the next night I woke up with a terrible scratchy throat, and the day after, yesterday, I had a four degree fever, the shakes, and I could hardly move I was in so much pain. As I type I can barely swallow. I was convinced last night that I must have the flu, but when the doctor looked at me this morning, he diagnosed my ailments as strep throat. He was very nice, especially when he found out I was one of the gang, as I work in the ER at the hospital. He was also very sympathetic. Little did he know I was simply so full of mean-ness I could barely move. My grandmother would have cooked up some sort of home remedy for this. When I was growing up with her I was never sick. And on the rare occassion that I actually did get sick, she'd usually have something to make me better, and it never involved going to a doctor. Since we were so poor, we couldn't afford to go "runnin' to the doctor" everytime we felt bad. I remember her giving me "onion tea" for stomach ailments, and her pouring hot oil in my ear when I had an earache. I also remember, with great disdain, her pinching my nose tight until I opened my mouth and gasped for air and as soon as I had taken a breath, she'd poke a spoonful of castor oil in and I'd just about throw up. Then she'd give me a piece of lemon or something that tasted worse than the castor oil so I wouldn't gag anymore. She and my father both felt that castor oil could cure just about anything in the human body. What it did was give you the runs so bad that no virus or bacteria could hang on and survive the flushing out. Muscular aches and pains got something called "salve" that came in a big red tin from the Watkins company, or you got "pain oil" that also came from the Watkins company. If you had a scratch or a skinned knee, you got alcohol or peroxide.
Most of all though, if you were sick or down in any way whatsoever, after the teasing about mean-ness and all of that, she made sure that you were taken care of to the best of her ability. Her dry wit and unwavering love is what I miss today. But since I'm all doped up on Loritab, Prednisone, and Amoxicillin, I think I'll be alright.

Mean-ness

My little three year old is sick. Ear infection. Bad one. So bad in fact, that her little eardrum burst this afternoon and lots of yellow-green gunk oozed out of her ear. I was horrified, much like the first time she threw up or pooped in the bath tub. More than horrifed though, I was frightened. As I carefully swabbed her ear and cleaned her up with a warm washcloth I wondered if she'd permanently lost hearing in that ear. From what I understand now, it'll heal up in a few weeks on its own, probably speedily since I followed up the swabbing and cleaning with some antibiotic ear drops left over from her last ear infection. She was sweet and whiny through the whole process and after it was over she quickly fell asleep on her daddy's chest. It was an oh my gosh type of parent moment.
When I and my cousins were in our pre-teen years, we'd gather over at my grandmother's house during the summer to play together. Since her house was smack dab in the middle of Georgia nowhere we were constantly grasping for things to do. One of our few sources of entertainment, besides each other's constant giggling, was to walk down to the creek at the bottom of the hill and throw Trouble in. Trouble was the sweetest most energetic Boston Terrier I've ever known. My grandmother had a thing for Boston Terriers. There were two that I can vaguely remember from my very early childhood, but Trouble was the third. Trouble followed us everywhere we went, whether it was a long walk through the thick woods or just down the road a mile or two. He was protecting us I suppose, or just bored himself. The bridge was probably about fifteen feet above the water and as we all walked around staring down at it, wondering what it would be like to jump off into the creek ourselves, someone would always say "Hey, let's throw Trouble in" and within seconds you'd hear the splash. All eyes drooped over the bridge to see if he came back up and when he did we'd all breathe a sigh of relief. Once in a while one or the other of us would get a conscious and tell the guilty one that he or she was just plain mean. But most of the time we laughed out loud and then drew our breaths until we saw his little black and white head bob up to the surface and he swam to the creekside. He'd always pull himself out of the water, shake himself free of most of the water, and climb the hill back to the road's edge to be with us again. But he wouldn't let us catch him again! When Trouble grew wise to our shenanigans we'd have to lure him over to the edge and just push him off with our feet real quick before he knew what was about to happen. As he grew older, we did too, and even if we could have pushed him in we wouldn't have, because he was sweet old Trouble. I'll never forget how he used to chase empty milk jugs around the yard when there was no one to play with but himself. He was a great dog.
During this same period of time when I was young, if I ever had an ache or a pain and mentioned it to my grandmother she'd always say "Aww Honey it's just the mean-ness coming out of you!" I wonder if she had that in the right order. Tonight when my little Sarah rose from her nap, after the Motrin had kicked in and her ear didn't hurt anymore -- while I was on the phone with my aunt and while Hal was quietly looking over our taxes, she took a black Sharpie marker and walked all the way from her room upstairs to the living room coloring the walls and everything else in her path with a nice fat black line. I think what I'll say to Sarah as she tromps through her childhood is "Aww Honey, it's just the mean-ness coming out IN you!"

I met The President.

The other night I received an email from the Hillary Clinton campaign. "Bill in Macon Georgia" the subject line read. I opened it to reveal an invitation to hear him speak in less than a mere 48 hours. Immediatly I began mulling over this strange opportunity. Macon is almost a hundred miles from Athens and gas is nearly three dollars a gallon. Sarah would have to go to daycare because I couldn't imagine taking her with me for something like that...might as well not go. I had the day off on Monday so that wouldn't be a problem. Still I thought.

I remember very clearly my twelfth grade government class because it was in the fall of 1992 when Bill Clinton was running for the Presidency. I received extra credit for registering to vote, and because I was older than most of my classmates, having turned 18 in September, I was able to cast my first vote as an adult American citizen in that November election. I voted for Bill. I remember also that we discussed in great detail the duties and responsibilities of the President that fall in class, and I sat there in awe of the things we learned. Often I have wondered, what would it be like to be him?

I RSVP to the Hillary campaign an answer of "maybe." And this morning I still did not know if I'd go. But then the thought occurred to me: How often do I get a chance to see or hear or simply be in the presence of someone like this? Someone who has devoted the majority of his life working in government, in politics, in making a difference in the lives of Americans and so many others, like the woman from Kosovo who tearfully thanked him tonight for all he had done to free her family and her people. I went. I drove down there and after waiting for over two hours, I wound up sitting in the second row only about fifteen feet away from him.

Many different people have many different opinions of Bill Clinton. I always liked him regardless of the mistakes he'd made. He's a human being and human beings by default are absolutely not perfect. I'm not either. He screwed up and learned from it. I've done the same thing in my own life. We all have, in one way or another. Months ago, I watched a Q/A with Hillary. The woman interviewing her asked her a very pointed question: "How did you get through the very public trouble in your marriage?" Right then and there she had my support. She answered her faith, and that it was hard, that she wasn't normally an overly expressive person in public but that she had to be during that time and it was uncomfortable. The look on her face told the story of tough times that she had faced. How we deal with adversity can be the measure of who we are and what we are made of. If the thing that is closest to you erupts into a drastic hot flame and you've still got the gumption to pull yourself up and move forward in front of the world, then I think you've got what it takes to do just about anything.

Bill is an incredibily intelligent man. He spoke for two hours tonight and I listened to him quote facts, numbers, statistics, and people. He told stories and illustrated points. Not a note anywhere. No written speech, no teleprompter. Just him and his experience and his pizazz. He's an amazing speaker, eloquent and fluid. He gave five minute answers to questions that most of us didn't even get the first time around! He has a charming sense of humor. He clearly wants the best for America. When he was in the White House, Americans enjoyed mostly peace and prosperity. Times were good for the middle class; for me.

When it was all said and done he began shaking hands with those of us up front and he dealt with the mob of people very well. I can only imagine the stories he hears, the jeers he endures, he people he comes face to face with who have come from every corner of the globe. When they get close to him they want to tell him what's on their hearts and minds. I was nearly pushed over tonight by several people who were leaping for a chance to get an inch closer, to touch his hand, say hello, or exchange a glance with him. It was truly amazing. The only thing I felt like saying to him was that I had been proud of the job he'd done as President and that I was still glad that I'd cast my very first vote for him. When the time came, when he was standing inches from me, the guy behind me, from another country, was all over my body behind me, his arm pressing into the side of my body as he reached for President Clinton's hand. Thank you the man shouted. Thank you for what you did for my country. The man kept talking and as he did the President reached for my hand and held it there for several long moments; trying to move along but trying to give this man his attention too. Finally he looked down at me and smiled and said a simple "hey," tightened his grip and shook my hand formally and moved down the line. It was a mad throng of folks from all over, peaceful but determined. All of us were shocked that we were actually there, experiencing what we were.

The last week of my life has been surreal and this is just one more experience that adds to that strangeness. But that's how life is when we get out there and live it fully.

I was able to snap many great pics of him and the event and have uploaded one to share with you all. Now, can I hear you say: HILL -LA - REE!

Happy Birthday Granny

Today would have been my grandmother's 90th birthday. All day I thought something was bugging me, something that I couldn't put my finger on. I started a new job and it's pretty awesome, so I knew that wasn't it. I have a cold and am feeling tired so I thought that was it, but then I realized something when I started signing paperwork and looking in my calendar. For most of my life, today was always a celebrated day in our family. Granny wasn't a very good gift receiver. She'd always tell us that we shouldn't have bought her anything, or that what we bought was the wrong color or size or that she didn't need it altogether. Some things she secretly loved and she'd stow them away in her closet for a more important occasion. I remember one particular pink robe that she put in there, claiming that we could bury her in that one. How morbid and odd I thought; yet how completely pessimistic. That's the way she was. Not outwardly loving until I was grown and started expressing affection myself; this ability I owe to my husband because he taught me that it was okay to wrap my arms around another person and say I love you.
Granny lived a long and hard life; she had a troubled childhood with an overbearing and critical mother and they were all very poor too. Still, she grew up with an air of confidence about her. She was the salutatorian of her high school graduating class and always seemed to me to be very intelligent and a good problem solver. I'll never forget the day she told me not to ever hold my head so high that I felt better than anyone else, but to realize also that I was just as good as anyone else as long as I kept myself looking nice and clean. She maintained that she "put her pants on every morning just like the President of the United States did, and he was no better than her and she no better than him." This was the message to me over all the years: be humble and kind and open minded and always believe in yourself and what you can do in this world, and believe in others too.
In her last few years I didn't see her as much as I always had because I lived out of state, but each time I did see her she would hold my hand and remind me of how much she loved me, and on this night that is what I miss the most. The feeling of her small hands. Her long fingers wrapped around mine. I miss hearing how she loved me and I miss the stories she'd tell me. I miss the way I could kneel and put my head in her lap and feel for a moment completely okay.
When I was a little girl, I remember clinging to my grandmother's every move, following in her every footstep, listening to her stories told over and over again. I believed she was superhuman. As I grew I began to see that she was fallible and sometimes weak as people are. Her health declined rapidly after I turned twenty, and her body failed her mind.
She's been gone for nearly three years now but I still think she's somehow superhuman. Perhaps her spirit right now feels mine, ever following hers around in heart and in mind. Perhaps she is watching over me and my little girl, laughing at the way I'm attempting to raise her, thinking that I sound a lot like she did when she was trying to raise me. I would have loved to let her taste my rendition of the old fashioned tea cakes she used to make for me. I made a batch a couple of weeks ago, just to see if I could, and when they tasted so good, I made a hundred more. Anything to bring me closer. Closer to that time and place that swept through my life too quickly, but that holds its place in my memory and in my heart.

Happy Birthday Granny. I miss you!