We are all in hot pursuit of something. And, something is always in hot pursuit of us.
The unaligned reality of it however, is that this is usually not one after the other, like a dog after its own tail. At least in this never ending chase, one is connected to the other; they both are following one another, admittedly, in a snare of the most basic of logic. But, if they were to just stop with the chase, they might see that they are connected, and find each other... sans the dizzying venery.
We toil, preen, plan, plot, hide away and quietly attempt to garner attention from the tail, as if we didn't care. But we can't help it. Our quiet actions couldn't be enough, and we lack patience, so we begin the nauseating spin... calling out in the middle of the hunt.
We are all too recluse, in the deepest sense of the word, to really know our neighbors, our friends and our loves without boisterous shouts and oversized signs that even the deaf and blind would have to acknowledge. We have lost the art of subtlety, and therefore, the art of deciphering such subtlety.
I blame facebook.
I shout there, with such a quiet whisper... and I whisper here in such a loud voice.
I suppose it doesn't really matter, the nystagmus hasn't quite yet gone after all the spinning.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
I Am The Angel Of Death
We don't save lives; we palliate the dying.
In just over a month of working in the ER, I have yet to pull someone back from the grips of death. In fact, the Reaper has yet to make an appearance in any of my workdays. (Though he has been ever present in someone's day in the ER) I have not pumped on a chest in order to force the blood from the ventricles to the rest of a gasping body, dying for air. I have yet to administer the epinephrine, and the life saving shock of 360 joules to an ailing heart.
I doubt I've saved a life. But I can say with a high degree of certainty that I've crushed more than one.
I recently had a very pleasant 60-something gal visit me in the ER. She was sent to us after being seen by her regular doctor earlier that morning for ankle swelling that was noticed by her husband while eating breakfast. Her primary care doctor did an EKG and and exam, and told her to come to the ER to get looked over a bit more thoroughly.
This is precisely what I did. With my words, my hands, and the tools at my disposal, I did my best to uncover what might have been causing her swelling. And, to keep a long (and as is usually my mode of operation) wordy, story short. I discovered that it was not her heart, nor trauma, nor a clot that was causing her ankle swelling, but was a result of ascites. Her liver was full of lesions, and her enzymes were quite elevated.
They were metastatic lesions; spread from another, primary tumor site- at least, this was the read of the CT by the radiologist.
"SHI........" I mutter when reading the CT report.
By now, not only was her husband present, but a handful of family had amassed to accompany their hospitalized family member. It wouldn't be easy, for any of us involved.
All who stood in the cold, curtained room of 5A, were forever changed by the news that passed over my lips. The words penetrated each of the vastly unprepared masses of flesh in front of me like shrapnel ripping through unsuspecting soldiers, blown away by a hidden IED... placed by the most vicious of insurgents.
I am the insurgent.
My words are the Improvised Explosive Devise.
I exit, leaving destruction, smoke and confusion in my absence.
"Saving lives in the ER..." or, what do I do at work? 'Save lives, duh!" These are things l hear, and read from time to time from other health care workers, none of which ever seem to be doctors, PAs or NPs. Though I doubt this to be the case.... that souls are being grasped from the edge of the abyss, and snatched back by my fellow healthcare troops, I hope this is happening. I, however, have no such delusions of grandeur. I realize that I may heal certain conditions, treat the sick, and palliate those in pain.... but I do not save. I am no savior, nor do I jest about it.
I suppose those who have been in the position that I was, find it difficult to say that they've saved lives. When you, in some sense of the word, have killed someone, there are no number of souls you can pull from the fire that will be enough to claim status as a life saver. There is no more room for playful, and boastful banter.
If I do anything comparable, in permanence, importance, and power, to that of saving a life, it is to recite death sentences.
I am someone's bearer of bad news, bringer of death, and Reaper himself.
Don't misunderstand, I love my job. I love what I do. I'm happy that I've found myself to be where I am today. I just realize that I'm only prolonging the inevitable. I'm not saving lives, at best, I'm simply making them longer.... perhaps long enough for me to tell them that they are going to die from their metastatic cancer that has spread to their liver.
Only if I'm good enough to preserve them for that long, and, only if I'm that unlucky.
I guess you could say we're damned if we do, and damned if we don't.
I wouldn't, but you could.
In just over a month of working in the ER, I have yet to pull someone back from the grips of death. In fact, the Reaper has yet to make an appearance in any of my workdays. (Though he has been ever present in someone's day in the ER) I have not pumped on a chest in order to force the blood from the ventricles to the rest of a gasping body, dying for air. I have yet to administer the epinephrine, and the life saving shock of 360 joules to an ailing heart.
I doubt I've saved a life. But I can say with a high degree of certainty that I've crushed more than one.
I recently had a very pleasant 60-something gal visit me in the ER. She was sent to us after being seen by her regular doctor earlier that morning for ankle swelling that was noticed by her husband while eating breakfast. Her primary care doctor did an EKG and and exam, and told her to come to the ER to get looked over a bit more thoroughly.
This is precisely what I did. With my words, my hands, and the tools at my disposal, I did my best to uncover what might have been causing her swelling. And, to keep a long (and as is usually my mode of operation) wordy, story short. I discovered that it was not her heart, nor trauma, nor a clot that was causing her ankle swelling, but was a result of ascites. Her liver was full of lesions, and her enzymes were quite elevated.
They were metastatic lesions; spread from another, primary tumor site- at least, this was the read of the CT by the radiologist.
"SHI........" I mutter when reading the CT report.
By now, not only was her husband present, but a handful of family had amassed to accompany their hospitalized family member. It wouldn't be easy, for any of us involved.
All who stood in the cold, curtained room of 5A, were forever changed by the news that passed over my lips. The words penetrated each of the vastly unprepared masses of flesh in front of me like shrapnel ripping through unsuspecting soldiers, blown away by a hidden IED... placed by the most vicious of insurgents.
I am the insurgent.
My words are the Improvised Explosive Devise.
I exit, leaving destruction, smoke and confusion in my absence.
"Saving lives in the ER..." or, what do I do at work? 'Save lives, duh!" These are things l hear, and read from time to time from other health care workers, none of which ever seem to be doctors, PAs or NPs. Though I doubt this to be the case.... that souls are being grasped from the edge of the abyss, and snatched back by my fellow healthcare troops, I hope this is happening. I, however, have no such delusions of grandeur. I realize that I may heal certain conditions, treat the sick, and palliate those in pain.... but I do not save. I am no savior, nor do I jest about it.
I suppose those who have been in the position that I was, find it difficult to say that they've saved lives. When you, in some sense of the word, have killed someone, there are no number of souls you can pull from the fire that will be enough to claim status as a life saver. There is no more room for playful, and boastful banter.
If I do anything comparable, in permanence, importance, and power, to that of saving a life, it is to recite death sentences.
I am someone's bearer of bad news, bringer of death, and Reaper himself.
Don't misunderstand, I love my job. I love what I do. I'm happy that I've found myself to be where I am today. I just realize that I'm only prolonging the inevitable. I'm not saving lives, at best, I'm simply making them longer.... perhaps long enough for me to tell them that they are going to die from their metastatic cancer that has spread to their liver.
Only if I'm good enough to preserve them for that long, and, only if I'm that unlucky.
I guess you could say we're damned if we do, and damned if we don't.
I wouldn't, but you could.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
You're one in 1,271.... and not in the good way.
I've been wasting time today, on my day off, since it's kind of cool, cloudy and rainy outside.
Though, if I were a smarter man, I'd have walked around in it, if only to remind me of Portland. Maybe I would have been able to fool myself into thinking that I was walking around in the Alphabet district... only steps away from my favorite sushi joint, where it's happy hour all day, every day. (i guess it's not really happy hour, just happy day, or days... without the Fonz though) or from my favorite microbrew and restaurant, The Laurelwood... where it feels like you're at an old friend's house... not just because of the service, but because it really is an old house, though the beer is much better than any friend has ever served me.
And, oh Lord... how I wish I could sit and have a burger at the Helvetia Tavern, with its thousands of hats hanging above my head.... forget to bring cash, and have to use the ATM there, sacrificing 7 dollars in fees to get a single crisp 20 dollar bill to pay for the best burger I've ever had, along with the several beers to wash it down.
From here, I'd be teasingly close to the coast, a surfboard and a post-session coffee at the best coffee shop known to this man; Waves Of Grain Bakery in Cannon Beach, OR. I could, yet again, pretend I'm the 8th Goonie... combing the beach and its caves for buried treasure. Walking along the ocean, befriending the countless dogs that happen to be running around unleashed, chasing Frisbees, tennis balls and other members of the same species.
I did none of these things, regrettably. However, I do not regret that I am here, in Milwaukee. I just miss Portland; I miss Oregon. I miss my old haunts, I miss my old friends... I miss parts of my old life.
I guess that's what pushed me to spend some time pointing and clicking on facebook, and other's 'blogs' this evening. Has it been long enough to term it nostalgia; the force that led me to this? It feels like ages ago at this point...... somehow.... ages since my last night on the lawn of the Donelson house; the last badminton match, the last study session, the last sushi night, the last night of wings... the last chat session.... the last drive away.
What I'm left remembering; what I'm left thinking, is that I made some great friends. I can't say I made 41.... though, I suppose some would claim such a virtue on facebook..... but I can say I made more than a handful. I can name them without thinking. I can tell you something personal about each of them... nothing bad.... but something that makes them uniquely them..... at least in my mind.... something that I always equate to their name, their face.... and their voice.
To be able to know this, makes me feel something that is better than good.
And this isn't something that is fleeting, superficial, or selfish. It is not to garner attention, or mere numbers. It is, simply because it is. Time and care made these friendships what they are. They were not made one night at a bar, through a friend of a friend of a friend, or on an internet site where a florid picture caught my eye; they were made in the proverbial trenches of friendship, of hardship, of obsession, of love... of devotion and tears.
This is why I laughed a sardonic laugh when I laid my eyes upon a friends' facebook profile who had 1,271 "friends." 'I dare you to name a quarter of those souls!' I thought.
but then i thought, could i name the same quarter of my 203 'friends?'
perhaps.
perhaps not.
Maybe I'd rather not know.
What I do know are the faces and stories of those who mean the most to me.... and, I bet that the person with the 1,271 acquaintances has a similar, much smaller group of people, whom she'll never forget, even when she's in the tightest grips of dementia some 70-plus years from now. She just points and clicks more than I do.... So, I decided that I should stop silently judging others, and just live.... and let live, or click.
Though, after I came to this conclusion, and was well with myself again... I began to wonder if I'm one of the quarter she'd be able to name?
Perhaps.
Perhaps not.
Maybe, I'd rather not know.
Though, if I were a smarter man, I'd have walked around in it, if only to remind me of Portland. Maybe I would have been able to fool myself into thinking that I was walking around in the Alphabet district... only steps away from my favorite sushi joint, where it's happy hour all day, every day. (i guess it's not really happy hour, just happy day, or days... without the Fonz though) or from my favorite microbrew and restaurant, The Laurelwood... where it feels like you're at an old friend's house... not just because of the service, but because it really is an old house, though the beer is much better than any friend has ever served me.
And, oh Lord... how I wish I could sit and have a burger at the Helvetia Tavern, with its thousands of hats hanging above my head.... forget to bring cash, and have to use the ATM there, sacrificing 7 dollars in fees to get a single crisp 20 dollar bill to pay for the best burger I've ever had, along with the several beers to wash it down.
From here, I'd be teasingly close to the coast, a surfboard and a post-session coffee at the best coffee shop known to this man; Waves Of Grain Bakery in Cannon Beach, OR. I could, yet again, pretend I'm the 8th Goonie... combing the beach and its caves for buried treasure. Walking along the ocean, befriending the countless dogs that happen to be running around unleashed, chasing Frisbees, tennis balls and other members of the same species.
I did none of these things, regrettably. However, I do not regret that I am here, in Milwaukee. I just miss Portland; I miss Oregon. I miss my old haunts, I miss my old friends... I miss parts of my old life.
I guess that's what pushed me to spend some time pointing and clicking on facebook, and other's 'blogs' this evening. Has it been long enough to term it nostalgia; the force that led me to this? It feels like ages ago at this point...... somehow.... ages since my last night on the lawn of the Donelson house; the last badminton match, the last study session, the last sushi night, the last night of wings... the last chat session.... the last drive away.
What I'm left remembering; what I'm left thinking, is that I made some great friends. I can't say I made 41.... though, I suppose some would claim such a virtue on facebook..... but I can say I made more than a handful. I can name them without thinking. I can tell you something personal about each of them... nothing bad.... but something that makes them uniquely them..... at least in my mind.... something that I always equate to their name, their face.... and their voice.
To be able to know this, makes me feel something that is better than good.
And this isn't something that is fleeting, superficial, or selfish. It is not to garner attention, or mere numbers. It is, simply because it is. Time and care made these friendships what they are. They were not made one night at a bar, through a friend of a friend of a friend, or on an internet site where a florid picture caught my eye; they were made in the proverbial trenches of friendship, of hardship, of obsession, of love... of devotion and tears.
This is why I laughed a sardonic laugh when I laid my eyes upon a friends' facebook profile who had 1,271 "friends." 'I dare you to name a quarter of those souls!' I thought.
but then i thought, could i name the same quarter of my 203 'friends?'
perhaps.
perhaps not.
Maybe I'd rather not know.
What I do know are the faces and stories of those who mean the most to me.... and, I bet that the person with the 1,271 acquaintances has a similar, much smaller group of people, whom she'll never forget, even when she's in the tightest grips of dementia some 70-plus years from now. She just points and clicks more than I do.... So, I decided that I should stop silently judging others, and just live.... and let live, or click.
Though, after I came to this conclusion, and was well with myself again... I began to wonder if I'm one of the quarter she'd be able to name?
Perhaps.
Perhaps not.
Maybe, I'd rather not know.
Monday, October 12, 2009
details: crossing my t's and dotting my lower case j's
There are so many things that I'm enjoying at this point in my life. Most of them are simple pleasures; small victories that may go unnoticed to the casual observer, but are brightly shining stars in my eyes.
I have a new place of my own, albeit, one without a couch or a bed yet. I have a fold up lawn chair in the middle of my bare-naked looking living room. and, I sleep on a pile of surprisingly comfortable comforters, blankets and quilts that rest upon a roll-up foam camping mat. so, it doesn't quite feel like a home yet, but... it does feel like my home. and, it's nice, new and in a great area of downtown; The "Third Ward," where I have a view of the river, and a 2 minute walk to any number of coffee shops, restaurants, bars and local organic markets I could want.
I have cable... and I also have internet, which I am not stealing from a nearby neighbor... which has been the case for the past 3 or 4 years now. I don't even know what to watch and do.... I'm far too connected and far too entertained.
I'm working now, for the first time in 2 and a half years, at a place where I'm actually being paid. It's the all important C instead of the S that made that possible.
I'm really liking my job. There's such a mix of absolutely everything that medicine has to offer.... it's just wonderful. Broken bones, bleeding vaginas in pregnant mothers, gallstones, influenza, MI, liver failure, CVA, psych issues, DT's, lawnmower vs foot, stab wounds, urinary retention and of course the all important migraines and low back pain. It's keeping me on my toes, mainly because I'm running all over the place trying to keep up.
Milwaukee has pleasantly surprised me. It absolutely does have some character and some class. It's definitely more confined than Portland, meaning that these nice areas of Milwaukee are much smaller and segregated than that of Portland, which, in my mind, doesn't really have any bad areas.... well, even those that ARE "bad areas" really aren't that bad. It's just a different feel I suppose, and while I like the feel here in Milwaukee so far, I really do miss Portland.
And another thing that I found myself appreciating is the fact that I remembered the difference between Labyrinthitis and Vestibular Neuritis the other day.... which really came in handy when nailing down the diagnosis of one of my patients. It's all about the hearing loss....
anyway...... happy as a clam..... miss you all, and tired as can be after a good shift tonight... I'll be enjoying my middle of the week weekend the next two days.... goodnight.
I have a new place of my own, albeit, one without a couch or a bed yet. I have a fold up lawn chair in the middle of my bare-naked looking living room. and, I sleep on a pile of surprisingly comfortable comforters, blankets and quilts that rest upon a roll-up foam camping mat. so, it doesn't quite feel like a home yet, but... it does feel like my home. and, it's nice, new and in a great area of downtown; The "Third Ward," where I have a view of the river, and a 2 minute walk to any number of coffee shops, restaurants, bars and local organic markets I could want.
I have cable... and I also have internet, which I am not stealing from a nearby neighbor... which has been the case for the past 3 or 4 years now. I don't even know what to watch and do.... I'm far too connected and far too entertained.
I'm working now, for the first time in 2 and a half years, at a place where I'm actually being paid. It's the all important C instead of the S that made that possible.
I'm really liking my job. There's such a mix of absolutely everything that medicine has to offer.... it's just wonderful. Broken bones, bleeding vaginas in pregnant mothers, gallstones, influenza, MI, liver failure, CVA, psych issues, DT's, lawnmower vs foot, stab wounds, urinary retention and of course the all important migraines and low back pain. It's keeping me on my toes, mainly because I'm running all over the place trying to keep up.
Milwaukee has pleasantly surprised me. It absolutely does have some character and some class. It's definitely more confined than Portland, meaning that these nice areas of Milwaukee are much smaller and segregated than that of Portland, which, in my mind, doesn't really have any bad areas.... well, even those that ARE "bad areas" really aren't that bad. It's just a different feel I suppose, and while I like the feel here in Milwaukee so far, I really do miss Portland.
And another thing that I found myself appreciating is the fact that I remembered the difference between Labyrinthitis and Vestibular Neuritis the other day.... which really came in handy when nailing down the diagnosis of one of my patients. It's all about the hearing loss....
anyway...... happy as a clam..... miss you all, and tired as can be after a good shift tonight... I'll be enjoying my middle of the week weekend the next two days.... goodnight.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The Real World: Milwaukee
I'm still alive.
I haven't forgotten how to write, type, or speak.
I just haven't been very good at doing it on this computer.
Here's a brief synopses of what's gone in the past few months, just to get you up to speed......
1. Graduated August 15th
2. Studied for the boards for 10 or so days
C. Took the boards
4. Worried about my pass/fail status on the boards for 48 hours
D. Sent myself into SVT when checking my scores on Thursday
E. Celebrated my rocking of the boards with a loud scream/shout, to which no one but myself was around to hear
6. Packed up everything that would fit into Betty and took off
7. 4 Days later, I found myself in Milwaukee at my new place.... moved in
H. Day after that, hopped a bus to Chicago O'Hare airport where i met my good friend Marit and headed to Frankfurt Germany
I. Spend 2 weeks in Germany, France, Switzerland and Austria.
8. Marveled at the beauty Europe had to offer
9. Reluctantly returned
10. Sat around and finished project A, so I could start project B, then begin project C. All of these things needed to be completed in sequential order for credentialing/licensing... NPI number, DEA #, state license.... blah blah blah.
J. DONE with all of that.
K. I start tomorrow, for real, on my own. I'm excited, and a bit nervous. But mostly excited. Plus, I need some money rolling in. (I spent too much in Europe, and I have no money for a couch, or a bed.)
Consequently, I'm sleeping on the floor.
But I'm really happy to have a floor, and a job, and now a daily purpose.
Say a prayer for me, recite a spell, wish me luck, or whatever it is that you would do to bestow wisdom, good fortune and luck upon me for tomorrow.
I haven't forgotten how to write, type, or speak.
I just haven't been very good at doing it on this computer.
Here's a brief synopses of what's gone in the past few months, just to get you up to speed......
1. Graduated August 15th
2. Studied for the boards for 10 or so days
C. Took the boards
4. Worried about my pass/fail status on the boards for 48 hours
D. Sent myself into SVT when checking my scores on Thursday
E. Celebrated my rocking of the boards with a loud scream/shout, to which no one but myself was around to hear
6. Packed up everything that would fit into Betty and took off
7. 4 Days later, I found myself in Milwaukee at my new place.... moved in
H. Day after that, hopped a bus to Chicago O'Hare airport where i met my good friend Marit and headed to Frankfurt Germany
I. Spend 2 weeks in Germany, France, Switzerland and Austria.
8. Marveled at the beauty Europe had to offer
9. Reluctantly returned
10. Sat around and finished project A, so I could start project B, then begin project C. All of these things needed to be completed in sequential order for credentialing/licensing... NPI number, DEA #, state license.... blah blah blah.
J. DONE with all of that.
K. I start tomorrow, for real, on my own. I'm excited, and a bit nervous. But mostly excited. Plus, I need some money rolling in. (I spent too much in Europe, and I have no money for a couch, or a bed.)
Consequently, I'm sleeping on the floor.
But I'm really happy to have a floor, and a job, and now a daily purpose.
Say a prayer for me, recite a spell, wish me luck, or whatever it is that you would do to bestow wisdom, good fortune and luck upon me for tomorrow.
Friday, May 8, 2009
My Kung-Fu Grip
I dremeled a guy's eyeball today.
Well, my computer is telling me by way of a red squiggly underlining, that drememled isn't a word.
So, i used a mini dremel-like tool to buzz away a rust ring on a guy's cornea. To get a good view, I got to use the slit lamp, which is like a specialized microscope; one that looks at eyeballs. During first year, it was the presenter of my most amazing memory.... quite possibly the most amazing thing I've ever seen. And, well, nerdy as it may be.... screw it... it was magical.
They cranked up the magnification so much, that the small blood vessels.... capillaries, in the whites of the volunteer's eye, looked like a red eight lane highway. Down that highway, which was projected on a tv screen in front of me, I saw a single red blood cell squeezing it's way down the capillary.
I couldn't believe it.
I know these things exist, i've seen illustrations, pictures in books from electron microscopes, and bloody wounds... but never anything like this. I don't know how to put it into words. My fellow classmates who were with me at the time, I'm sure can relate, and remember the feeling.... or maybe I'm blowing this way out of proportion... though I don't think so.
It was beautiful.
Circular, red, with a concave sort of center that made it appear as a red Certs mint. It moved with purpose, like a little soldier on a mission. It stretched the capillary as it squeezed it's way through the continually tightening tunnel. It actually contorted and squished, like a water-balloon being squeezed in your eager fist, ready to throw at your friend in the most epic of water-balloon fights.
So, needless to say I was excited when I learned that I could use the slit lamp today... and the burr, mini-dremel, tool.
Wait, you say I need to drill a little hole in this guy's eye? I say, YES.
Twisted? maybe. but, it wouldn't hurt him, as I'd numb his eye... and it would help him feel better. Everything goes off without a hitch, my hand stays steady, as we're dealing with millimeters between success and essentially popping this guy's eye. I didn't pop it.
It was a great day.
I came home to a sunny backyard, where I fired up the grill, and placed my 3 separate kabobs, which I had painstakingly cut, seasoned and skewered while talking to my folks on the phone. They cooked perfectly.... some slight charring on the red peppers and onions... properly roasted garlic, and juicy chicken.... Oh my sweet Jebus, they look so good. I decide to celebrate my mini-victory of a day with a beer to top off my meal.... and what's this? Spicy peanut sauce to dip my kabobs in? why yes, i will put some in a small dipping sauce type bowl....
I stack the mini bowl on the top of my 3 kabobs which lay atop a quite normal circular plate. the Sierra Nevada goes in my right hand... it is my right hand man, after all... This celebration is going upstairs, to watch the twins absolutely destroy the Mariners....
could it get any sweete.... AHO..EEEEE..WHOA!!!!!!!
"Son-of-a!" I say with a thud.
As i look at the mess i've just created, and think of the streak of not falling up the stairs that I had just snapped... I'm so bummed, disappointed and somehow amused. There's more tai peanut sauce on my pant-leg than is left in the mini serving bowl, and possibly even more on the hardwood floor... i realize my left elbow is slightly scraped, as I must have gone down hard... or at least awkwardly, in my partly unsuccessful attempt to save my food and beer from tumbling down the stairs. One kabob is completely laying on the ground in front of my face, which is nearly resting on the floor... I'm face to face with my dinner, on the floor. The first thing I think, as I'm staring at my floor dinner is, "I'm still gunna eat you."
The beer bottle is still upright in the GI-Joe Kung-Fu grip of my right hand, though it's much less full than it used to be, as it's foamed over the brim, and is still running down my hand and creating an ever growing puddle of beer on the landing, which is just one step above the more viscous, albeit less mobile, puddle of tai peanut sauce. "I'm not going to eat you."
"What happened?" I hear Rich say, from the kitchen.
"I fell up the stairs." I reply.
"Did Jacob get in your way?" He flicks back... Jacob's the cat. and, though I wish I could blame this on Jacob, I cannot. As I peeled myself from the newly appointed dinner table, I turn to look down the stairs, and that grey and white Jacob, with his little purple collar, is sitting politely at the bottom of the stairs, just staring at me.
The ONE time cat! the ONE time you don't weave your way between my legs as i walk up the stairs... the ONE TIME! How many times my coffee has nearly spilled on your pristine white coat because of your shenanigans... but this time, nothing? did you cast a spell on me? was this some sort of ju-ju???? what's UP Jacob?
"No, I wish I could blame it on him... Just a good old fashioned tripped over my own foot." I answer back, as i'm picking my dinner up off the floor.
After cleaning up my mess, and eating my dinner, without the slightest hesitation... I think about how if this is the worst thing about my day.... I'm a really lucky schlub.
That being said, I came to a few conclusions today-
Jacob's some kind of Gypsy-cat, and this was his revenge for me not ever letting him in my room.
I'll eat food off the floor, without hesitation... and i'm not ashamed of it.
I still tend to trip up the stairs, rather than down.
and
I'm a really lucky schlub, and I try not to take that for granted.... i mean, how is it that I was so careful and precise today with my patient's eye, but I can wipe out just walking up the stairs? I'll fall up the stairs every day if that's where my clumsiness decides to manifest itself.
Well, my computer is telling me by way of a red squiggly underlining, that drememled isn't a word.
So, i used a mini dremel-like tool to buzz away a rust ring on a guy's cornea. To get a good view, I got to use the slit lamp, which is like a specialized microscope; one that looks at eyeballs. During first year, it was the presenter of my most amazing memory.... quite possibly the most amazing thing I've ever seen. And, well, nerdy as it may be.... screw it... it was magical.
They cranked up the magnification so much, that the small blood vessels.... capillaries, in the whites of the volunteer's eye, looked like a red eight lane highway. Down that highway, which was projected on a tv screen in front of me, I saw a single red blood cell squeezing it's way down the capillary.
I couldn't believe it.
I know these things exist, i've seen illustrations, pictures in books from electron microscopes, and bloody wounds... but never anything like this. I don't know how to put it into words. My fellow classmates who were with me at the time, I'm sure can relate, and remember the feeling.... or maybe I'm blowing this way out of proportion... though I don't think so.
It was beautiful.
Circular, red, with a concave sort of center that made it appear as a red Certs mint. It moved with purpose, like a little soldier on a mission. It stretched the capillary as it squeezed it's way through the continually tightening tunnel. It actually contorted and squished, like a water-balloon being squeezed in your eager fist, ready to throw at your friend in the most epic of water-balloon fights.
So, needless to say I was excited when I learned that I could use the slit lamp today... and the burr, mini-dremel, tool.
Wait, you say I need to drill a little hole in this guy's eye? I say, YES.
Twisted? maybe. but, it wouldn't hurt him, as I'd numb his eye... and it would help him feel better. Everything goes off without a hitch, my hand stays steady, as we're dealing with millimeters between success and essentially popping this guy's eye. I didn't pop it.
It was a great day.
I came home to a sunny backyard, where I fired up the grill, and placed my 3 separate kabobs, which I had painstakingly cut, seasoned and skewered while talking to my folks on the phone. They cooked perfectly.... some slight charring on the red peppers and onions... properly roasted garlic, and juicy chicken.... Oh my sweet Jebus, they look so good. I decide to celebrate my mini-victory of a day with a beer to top off my meal.... and what's this? Spicy peanut sauce to dip my kabobs in? why yes, i will put some in a small dipping sauce type bowl....
I stack the mini bowl on the top of my 3 kabobs which lay atop a quite normal circular plate. the Sierra Nevada goes in my right hand... it is my right hand man, after all... This celebration is going upstairs, to watch the twins absolutely destroy the Mariners....
could it get any sweete.... AHO..EEEEE..WHOA!!!!!!!
"Son-of-a!" I say with a thud.
As i look at the mess i've just created, and think of the streak of not falling up the stairs that I had just snapped... I'm so bummed, disappointed and somehow amused. There's more tai peanut sauce on my pant-leg than is left in the mini serving bowl, and possibly even more on the hardwood floor... i realize my left elbow is slightly scraped, as I must have gone down hard... or at least awkwardly, in my partly unsuccessful attempt to save my food and beer from tumbling down the stairs. One kabob is completely laying on the ground in front of my face, which is nearly resting on the floor... I'm face to face with my dinner, on the floor. The first thing I think, as I'm staring at my floor dinner is, "I'm still gunna eat you."
The beer bottle is still upright in the GI-Joe Kung-Fu grip of my right hand, though it's much less full than it used to be, as it's foamed over the brim, and is still running down my hand and creating an ever growing puddle of beer on the landing, which is just one step above the more viscous, albeit less mobile, puddle of tai peanut sauce. "I'm not going to eat you."
"What happened?" I hear Rich say, from the kitchen.
"I fell up the stairs." I reply.
"Did Jacob get in your way?" He flicks back... Jacob's the cat. and, though I wish I could blame this on Jacob, I cannot. As I peeled myself from the newly appointed dinner table, I turn to look down the stairs, and that grey and white Jacob, with his little purple collar, is sitting politely at the bottom of the stairs, just staring at me.
The ONE time cat! the ONE time you don't weave your way between my legs as i walk up the stairs... the ONE TIME! How many times my coffee has nearly spilled on your pristine white coat because of your shenanigans... but this time, nothing? did you cast a spell on me? was this some sort of ju-ju???? what's UP Jacob?
"No, I wish I could blame it on him... Just a good old fashioned tripped over my own foot." I answer back, as i'm picking my dinner up off the floor.
After cleaning up my mess, and eating my dinner, without the slightest hesitation... I think about how if this is the worst thing about my day.... I'm a really lucky schlub.
That being said, I came to a few conclusions today-
Jacob's some kind of Gypsy-cat, and this was his revenge for me not ever letting him in my room.
I'll eat food off the floor, without hesitation... and i'm not ashamed of it.
I still tend to trip up the stairs, rather than down.
and
I'm a really lucky schlub, and I try not to take that for granted.... i mean, how is it that I was so careful and precise today with my patient's eye, but I can wipe out just walking up the stairs? I'll fall up the stairs every day if that's where my clumsiness decides to manifest itself.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
It's pronounced "mill-e-wah-que" which is Algonquin for "the good land."
I hate flying.
I'm not afraid of flying; in fact, I like the flying part. At one point in my life, i flew a single engine plane with a couple friends of mine, who were pilots. Now, when I say that i flew the plane, they let me monkey with the pedals and pull up and down on the yoke. It was fun, so were the stalls that we did, as i was weightless for a few seconds at a time.
but that's a whole other story; one of the Apostle Islands, mopeds, cliff jumping and failed relationships. it's a good'en.
unfortunately the most recent flight was on a commercial airline from Spokane to Milwaukee, via Denver...
I hate waiting at the airport. I hate lines. I hate security. I hate the people that just don't get it...
"You're really going to try to shove that bag in the overhead bin? How did they let you bring that monstrosity on the plane?!?!"
and the people who just can't seem to understand how to efficiently put a bag away and sit down. Don't worry, ma'am, about the gigantic line building behind you as you fiddle with your bags and spend unnecessary time in the aisle, doing things that you could do in your seat.
I hate how we're herded into the plane... like bums onto a glorified greyhound bus; one with unbelievably high prices....
"Can I get you something to drink?"
No, no I'm not thirsty, nor are 70% of these people, but for some reason, we take your 6 oz cup of soda, which is mostly ice.
I don't anymore... I just wish someone would slip me a roofie, so i could sleep the flight away. but, as it turns out, I'm not an attractive girl, and this is not a creepy bar... so I'm out of luck.
who gets the armrests? when you're in the middle seat, i think you should get both, and the aisle and window seat should get just the one armrest.... how do we resolve this situation? and how the hell is it possible for you to be kicking my seat so much?!?! what could you possibly be doing back there to cause such a ruckus!?!? we are on the same flight, yeah? what could you possibly need to do that would cause this? i mean, you're not physically flapping your arms to keep us in flight, are you? maybe you're building a fort? or are you telling a story of the great 1906 earthquake of San Francisco, complete with an emphatic reenactment involving my chair.... or maybe you're a little chil--- nope... nope, you're a full grown adult.
HOW are you so oblivious?
finally, make it to milwaukee, hating flying as usual.
my friend andy is waiting for me in the terminal... i'm feeling better already... good to see a familiar face, an old friend. one that i might be working with in the future. He's a PA in the ER where I'll be interviewing tomorrow.
Interview goes well, really well. Got an offer... it's a great deal all around.
I get home, and I decide to take a few days to think it over.
In the end, I decide I'd be stupid not to take it, though it's in Milwaukee WI, not exactly where I want to end up... everything else is ideal. and, milwaukee pleasantly surprised me.
I then, last night, get a call from the surgeon I worked with in CV surgery in Portland. We talk for a few minutes, which was great... I really like this guy. Which is, in part, why I asked him to be a reference for me.
"Chris, I'd be happy to be a reference for you, wherever you decide to apply, but I'd be happier if you tore up your resume, and came to work for us."
crap.
i really loved it there. it's time to make some decisions, and as my oh so favorite president once said, "I'm the decider, and I decide what's best."
Thanks W, I'm going to try and channel your wisdom and decisiveness to make the right call.
I'm not afraid of flying; in fact, I like the flying part. At one point in my life, i flew a single engine plane with a couple friends of mine, who were pilots. Now, when I say that i flew the plane, they let me monkey with the pedals and pull up and down on the yoke. It was fun, so were the stalls that we did, as i was weightless for a few seconds at a time.
but that's a whole other story; one of the Apostle Islands, mopeds, cliff jumping and failed relationships. it's a good'en.
unfortunately the most recent flight was on a commercial airline from Spokane to Milwaukee, via Denver...
I hate waiting at the airport. I hate lines. I hate security. I hate the people that just don't get it...
"You're really going to try to shove that bag in the overhead bin? How did they let you bring that monstrosity on the plane?!?!"
and the people who just can't seem to understand how to efficiently put a bag away and sit down. Don't worry, ma'am, about the gigantic line building behind you as you fiddle with your bags and spend unnecessary time in the aisle, doing things that you could do in your seat.
I hate how we're herded into the plane... like bums onto a glorified greyhound bus; one with unbelievably high prices....
"Can I get you something to drink?"
No, no I'm not thirsty, nor are 70% of these people, but for some reason, we take your 6 oz cup of soda, which is mostly ice.
I don't anymore... I just wish someone would slip me a roofie, so i could sleep the flight away. but, as it turns out, I'm not an attractive girl, and this is not a creepy bar... so I'm out of luck.
who gets the armrests? when you're in the middle seat, i think you should get both, and the aisle and window seat should get just the one armrest.... how do we resolve this situation? and how the hell is it possible for you to be kicking my seat so much?!?! what could you possibly be doing back there to cause such a ruckus!?!? we are on the same flight, yeah? what could you possibly need to do that would cause this? i mean, you're not physically flapping your arms to keep us in flight, are you? maybe you're building a fort? or are you telling a story of the great 1906 earthquake of San Francisco, complete with an emphatic reenactment involving my chair.... or maybe you're a little chil--- nope... nope, you're a full grown adult.
HOW are you so oblivious?
finally, make it to milwaukee, hating flying as usual.
my friend andy is waiting for me in the terminal... i'm feeling better already... good to see a familiar face, an old friend. one that i might be working with in the future. He's a PA in the ER where I'll be interviewing tomorrow.
Interview goes well, really well. Got an offer... it's a great deal all around.
I get home, and I decide to take a few days to think it over.
In the end, I decide I'd be stupid not to take it, though it's in Milwaukee WI, not exactly where I want to end up... everything else is ideal. and, milwaukee pleasantly surprised me.
I then, last night, get a call from the surgeon I worked with in CV surgery in Portland. We talk for a few minutes, which was great... I really like this guy. Which is, in part, why I asked him to be a reference for me.
"Chris, I'd be happy to be a reference for you, wherever you decide to apply, but I'd be happier if you tore up your resume, and came to work for us."
crap.
i really loved it there. it's time to make some decisions, and as my oh so favorite president once said, "I'm the decider, and I decide what's best."
Thanks W, I'm going to try and channel your wisdom and decisiveness to make the right call.
Friday, May 1, 2009
I haven't seen the light... like that forced upon you
Today, I met a serial killer.
I think that this is a first for me. Though, I suppose I can't be certain.
I have watched the show 'Dexter' and that guy hides it well. But, he killed baddies, baddies like the guy I met today. The premise of the show is that this man, named Dexter, who works for the police, as a forensic photographer, or something along those lines, is actually a serial killer. He was born with this affliction, which is portrayed as a disease which he cannot control, like the involuntary movements of Parkinson's... or the undeniable urge to move your restless legs, for which the syndrome was aptly named. Though he cannot resist the urge to kill, he's learned to channel his disease to only kill those deserved of death, like the aforementioned serial killer - rapist... who after using up his prey, buried them in shallow, Alabama soil, graves. Left to be consumed by the land. In the show, Dexter has a conscience, has common decency, morals; he's depicted as a vigilante of sorts. A killer of killers.
This man was just a killer.
and today, he had a killer 'migraine.' A migraine that made him declare a medical emergency. This is prison's version of saying "I need to go to the ER." Though, this means that they see us first, and we decide what needs to be done, whether it be treat and street, admit to our inpatient unit, or send to the hospital.
I was warned that this man was "really creepy" and was told of his crimes. Nobody seemed to want to even lay eyes on him, not the provider, not the nurse.... they asked if i'd be comfortable, and i said yea...
I think I had prepared myself to meet Hannibal Lector, or maybe his evil twin.... so, when this short, pudgy, pear shaped man came hobbling into the medical unit.... I was surprised. His salt and pepper hair, transitions lenses, khaki jumpsuit and clean white New Balance's made him all the less intimidating. The lenses were still somewhat shaded as he had just entered from the sunny outdoors which contrasted the darkness that still surrounded this man... at least, in my perception.... this shaped after hearing stories of his crimes, and witnessing the staff's reaction when they knew he was outside, just waiting.
I led him into the trauma room, which was unnecessary, but, my preceptor didn't want him back in her office, because she was so put off by him.... and she's no fragile lotus blossom.
I had him take a seat in the chair where 'Kevin', one of the nurses had told me, before I called the killer in, "The chair's for him, the stool's for you," this, as if it was of prime importance I sit on the stool and Hannibal on the chair. It was so very planned, deliberate... careful..... as if I allowed the criminal to sit in the stool, he may be able to pry off a piece of metal from the old stool, hold me hostage, or use it to jimmy open the locks to free himself and go back to his murderous ways.
it was strange.
He sat in his assigned seat as instructed by me.
I reached out my hand to shake his as I sat down.... "Hey, my name is Chris. I'm a PA student working with 'Billy Jean' today... I hear you have a roaring headache...." I say as I shake the same hand that ended more than a few lives, and subsequently piled the earth upon their vacant bodies.
I got no chills... no creepy feelings or fear. It was just strange. Strange as I tried to picture this very non-threatening 50-something man raping, killing, and repeating. It was amazing to me that he could do these things, and still sit across from me, and complain of his headache... that he could rape and kill, not just once, but many times, and then sit feet away from me, and simply complain of his headache, then knees, then vision, then back, then neck..... as if he carried no weight, responsibility or guilt for what he had done. It seems to me that one should be tormented by the things that they've done, such things as these.... and they should be unable to function normally.
How could he go on with his life normally? He should be tormented by the things he's done... by the ghosts of those who's lives he's ruined. Instead, he's tormented by chronic pain; pain not limited only to his migraines.
It's just occurred to me now, that maybe this chronic pain, maybe these ailments are the haunting of the stolen souls. maybe this is their retribution, and his penance. Who knows....
In any case, I didn't feel bad when after learning that he had significant photophobia, i still needed to complete a cranial nerve exam, which includes flashing a light in his eyes to check pupillary reaction. Now, I didn't do this simply to cause him pain... I would have had to do it with anyone with this same complaint of a migraine.... but, with other folks, i may have felt bad. with him.... not so much.
After the first flash of light in his left eye, I see constriction and right pupillary accommodation... I go to the right side, and see the same.... exam done... or, it could have been done. I rechecked my work on more time, just to be sure.
"Sorry, I know that bothers you."
I sort of am sorry, somehow... still not entirely sure how. I think if i knew his crimes in detail... knew those affected by his actions... i wouldn't be sorry.... not in the least. but, without this knowledge, and the time or desire to imagine his evil deeds in great detail, I can't bring myself to hate him.
though, i am miles away from pitying him, empathizing with him, or caring whether or not he's in pain.
I guess, even though I made him see the light, he still hasn't seen the light.... neither have I.
I think that this is a first for me. Though, I suppose I can't be certain.
I have watched the show 'Dexter' and that guy hides it well. But, he killed baddies, baddies like the guy I met today. The premise of the show is that this man, named Dexter, who works for the police, as a forensic photographer, or something along those lines, is actually a serial killer. He was born with this affliction, which is portrayed as a disease which he cannot control, like the involuntary movements of Parkinson's... or the undeniable urge to move your restless legs, for which the syndrome was aptly named. Though he cannot resist the urge to kill, he's learned to channel his disease to only kill those deserved of death, like the aforementioned serial killer - rapist... who after using up his prey, buried them in shallow, Alabama soil, graves. Left to be consumed by the land. In the show, Dexter has a conscience, has common decency, morals; he's depicted as a vigilante of sorts. A killer of killers.
This man was just a killer.
and today, he had a killer 'migraine.' A migraine that made him declare a medical emergency. This is prison's version of saying "I need to go to the ER." Though, this means that they see us first, and we decide what needs to be done, whether it be treat and street, admit to our inpatient unit, or send to the hospital.
I was warned that this man was "really creepy" and was told of his crimes. Nobody seemed to want to even lay eyes on him, not the provider, not the nurse.... they asked if i'd be comfortable, and i said yea...
I think I had prepared myself to meet Hannibal Lector, or maybe his evil twin.... so, when this short, pudgy, pear shaped man came hobbling into the medical unit.... I was surprised. His salt and pepper hair, transitions lenses, khaki jumpsuit and clean white New Balance's made him all the less intimidating. The lenses were still somewhat shaded as he had just entered from the sunny outdoors which contrasted the darkness that still surrounded this man... at least, in my perception.... this shaped after hearing stories of his crimes, and witnessing the staff's reaction when they knew he was outside, just waiting.
I led him into the trauma room, which was unnecessary, but, my preceptor didn't want him back in her office, because she was so put off by him.... and she's no fragile lotus blossom.
I had him take a seat in the chair where 'Kevin', one of the nurses had told me, before I called the killer in, "The chair's for him, the stool's for you," this, as if it was of prime importance I sit on the stool and Hannibal on the chair. It was so very planned, deliberate... careful..... as if I allowed the criminal to sit in the stool, he may be able to pry off a piece of metal from the old stool, hold me hostage, or use it to jimmy open the locks to free himself and go back to his murderous ways.
it was strange.
He sat in his assigned seat as instructed by me.
I reached out my hand to shake his as I sat down.... "Hey, my name is Chris. I'm a PA student working with 'Billy Jean' today... I hear you have a roaring headache...." I say as I shake the same hand that ended more than a few lives, and subsequently piled the earth upon their vacant bodies.
I got no chills... no creepy feelings or fear. It was just strange. Strange as I tried to picture this very non-threatening 50-something man raping, killing, and repeating. It was amazing to me that he could do these things, and still sit across from me, and complain of his headache... that he could rape and kill, not just once, but many times, and then sit feet away from me, and simply complain of his headache, then knees, then vision, then back, then neck..... as if he carried no weight, responsibility or guilt for what he had done. It seems to me that one should be tormented by the things that they've done, such things as these.... and they should be unable to function normally.
How could he go on with his life normally? He should be tormented by the things he's done... by the ghosts of those who's lives he's ruined. Instead, he's tormented by chronic pain; pain not limited only to his migraines.
It's just occurred to me now, that maybe this chronic pain, maybe these ailments are the haunting of the stolen souls. maybe this is their retribution, and his penance. Who knows....
In any case, I didn't feel bad when after learning that he had significant photophobia, i still needed to complete a cranial nerve exam, which includes flashing a light in his eyes to check pupillary reaction. Now, I didn't do this simply to cause him pain... I would have had to do it with anyone with this same complaint of a migraine.... but, with other folks, i may have felt bad. with him.... not so much.
After the first flash of light in his left eye, I see constriction and right pupillary accommodation... I go to the right side, and see the same.... exam done... or, it could have been done. I rechecked my work on more time, just to be sure.
"Sorry, I know that bothers you."
I sort of am sorry, somehow... still not entirely sure how. I think if i knew his crimes in detail... knew those affected by his actions... i wouldn't be sorry.... not in the least. but, without this knowledge, and the time or desire to imagine his evil deeds in great detail, I can't bring myself to hate him.
though, i am miles away from pitying him, empathizing with him, or caring whether or not he's in pain.
I guess, even though I made him see the light, he still hasn't seen the light.... neither have I.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
The Sultan of 9th Avenue
I see you standing there...
I saw you walking towards Betty and me when we pulled up.
Just standing there, waiting. waiting for me to get out of my car....
You don't look friendly. I don't think you want to chat about the weather, the current situation with the taliban in Pakistan, or the craigslist murderer.... let alone welcome me to the neighborhood. I feel like you want to give me a piece of your fat little mind.
As you waddle up to the curb, I try to decide if I'm going to say what I want to say, or if I'll be nice. I pretend to not see you, but I see you.... You and your gaudy golden jewelry, horrible flowery outfit, flowing... stupid.... shirt, and fat woman pants. You're wearing far too much makeup, and it's not helping. You're not 18 anymore, though you seem to be trying to appear that way... and as soon as you open your mouth, I realize that you have certainly not matured past that numeric age. Well, your mind hasn't, but, much to your dismay - and against your best efforts, your body has. Now, no, you're not old, not by any stretch. you're just not young... and you need to act your age.
"Um, are you staying here permanently, or just temporarily?"
AAHHHHHHHHH! I knew it.... this friggin' pageant mom is going to pull squatters on the street parking.
"Excuse me?" I say, trying to hide my fury. (Betty begs, "Unleash the fury, Mitch... i mean, Chris")
Actually, it was the air-ride equalling out after i stepped out of the car. If I had looked at the dash a green light would have been on, stating that the "Car is Leveling." From the outside, it sounds like a growl. and, it was, in my mind, Betty demonstrating her displeasure at the Jaba-the-Hut impersonator inconveniencing us.
"Well, do you live here, or are you just visiting?" She tried to clarify.
"Oh, I'm living right there across the street." I say, pointing at the big, old house, directly across the city street. It's a pretty house, a sage green, huge...over 4000 square feet. The guy I'm renting from now is fixing it up inside and out. It seems that many of the people on the street have done the same. It's a nice neighborhood. It's sort of analogous to a neighborhood in uptown minneapolis, for those familiar. and, maybe some SE hood in Portland. There are nice, big old homes, sidewalks, and wide streets. These streets are where everyone parks their cars, as the homes don't have driveways. It's not metered, or signed with "2 hour parking" or anything of that nature. It's welcoming, sign free, and fee free.
Like I said, it's a nice hood, except for this one troll.
"Well, see, I'm a homeowner... (good for you, turd) and I live right there" as she points to the house nearest Betty from which she emerged, "aahhhhh, I like to have this place to park, because well, you know, ah, i get groceries... and it's, ah, easier to carry them from here."
I look up, down, and across the street... there are spots EVERYWHERE within a spitting distance. The only reason I parked right HERE is that i was traveling this direction down the street as I returned from work, and it was the closest open spot, without turning around, to my place.
While I stare in amazement, she continues, "and I have an 18 year old daughter, and she gets home at night, and, ah, it's easier for her to park right here..." (I'm sorry your adult daughter is either mentally or physically impaired so terribly that she cannot park anywhere but directly in front of your house at night) "It's just easier for her."
Yea, like it was easier for me to park there.
"So, could you move?"
I'm fuming. The audacity of this lady! Who made you Sultan of the street? It's one thing if it's suburbia, where driveways abound, and there's only the occasional car on the street... then i can understand someone's request to not park in front of their place. but HERE? this is a city street, where the only place to park IS the street. it's fair game, Jaba.
I contain my anger. This is a silly, nothing, of an incident. It's nothing to get upset about. So, I act cordial, neighborly, and say, "Of course, no problem."
Furious... but you'd never know it.
Except for the guy who happened to be walking his dog up the street as I was getting a lecture on how and where to park. He heard the whole thing, and as I unlocked Betty and was about to hop back in I turn and make eye contact with him...
I give him this look as i roll my eyes and raise my brow....
he laughs, shrugs and says "What are ya gunna do?"
It made me feel better; at least he too thought this woman was out of line in her request.
I figure, I relented once, that's good enough. If it's easier for me to park there from now on, I will. Her only reasoning was that she 'gets groceries' and she's got a parking challenged daughter. I figure, her grand prix daughter has to learn sometime, and this woman couldn't possibly be getting groceries every day...
or wait... nevermind.
regardless, I'm still parking there. now, it's just out of spite.
I saw you walking towards Betty and me when we pulled up.
Just standing there, waiting. waiting for me to get out of my car....
You don't look friendly. I don't think you want to chat about the weather, the current situation with the taliban in Pakistan, or the craigslist murderer.... let alone welcome me to the neighborhood. I feel like you want to give me a piece of your fat little mind.
As you waddle up to the curb, I try to decide if I'm going to say what I want to say, or if I'll be nice. I pretend to not see you, but I see you.... You and your gaudy golden jewelry, horrible flowery outfit, flowing... stupid.... shirt, and fat woman pants. You're wearing far too much makeup, and it's not helping. You're not 18 anymore, though you seem to be trying to appear that way... and as soon as you open your mouth, I realize that you have certainly not matured past that numeric age. Well, your mind hasn't, but, much to your dismay - and against your best efforts, your body has. Now, no, you're not old, not by any stretch. you're just not young... and you need to act your age.
"Um, are you staying here permanently, or just temporarily?"
AAHHHHHHHHH! I knew it.... this friggin' pageant mom is going to pull squatters on the street parking.
"Excuse me?" I say, trying to hide my fury. (Betty begs, "Unleash the fury, Mitch... i mean, Chris")
Actually, it was the air-ride equalling out after i stepped out of the car. If I had looked at the dash a green light would have been on, stating that the "Car is Leveling." From the outside, it sounds like a growl. and, it was, in my mind, Betty demonstrating her displeasure at the Jaba-the-Hut impersonator inconveniencing us.
"Well, do you live here, or are you just visiting?" She tried to clarify.
"Oh, I'm living right there across the street." I say, pointing at the big, old house, directly across the city street. It's a pretty house, a sage green, huge...over 4000 square feet. The guy I'm renting from now is fixing it up inside and out. It seems that many of the people on the street have done the same. It's a nice neighborhood. It's sort of analogous to a neighborhood in uptown minneapolis, for those familiar. and, maybe some SE hood in Portland. There are nice, big old homes, sidewalks, and wide streets. These streets are where everyone parks their cars, as the homes don't have driveways. It's not metered, or signed with "2 hour parking" or anything of that nature. It's welcoming, sign free, and fee free.
Like I said, it's a nice hood, except for this one troll.
"Well, see, I'm a homeowner... (good for you, turd) and I live right there" as she points to the house nearest Betty from which she emerged, "aahhhhh, I like to have this place to park, because well, you know, ah, i get groceries... and it's, ah, easier to carry them from here."
I look up, down, and across the street... there are spots EVERYWHERE within a spitting distance. The only reason I parked right HERE is that i was traveling this direction down the street as I returned from work, and it was the closest open spot, without turning around, to my place.
While I stare in amazement, she continues, "and I have an 18 year old daughter, and she gets home at night, and, ah, it's easier for her to park right here..." (I'm sorry your adult daughter is either mentally or physically impaired so terribly that she cannot park anywhere but directly in front of your house at night) "It's just easier for her."
Yea, like it was easier for me to park there.
"So, could you move?"
I'm fuming. The audacity of this lady! Who made you Sultan of the street? It's one thing if it's suburbia, where driveways abound, and there's only the occasional car on the street... then i can understand someone's request to not park in front of their place. but HERE? this is a city street, where the only place to park IS the street. it's fair game, Jaba.
I contain my anger. This is a silly, nothing, of an incident. It's nothing to get upset about. So, I act cordial, neighborly, and say, "Of course, no problem."
Furious... but you'd never know it.
Except for the guy who happened to be walking his dog up the street as I was getting a lecture on how and where to park. He heard the whole thing, and as I unlocked Betty and was about to hop back in I turn and make eye contact with him...
I give him this look as i roll my eyes and raise my brow....
he laughs, shrugs and says "What are ya gunna do?"
It made me feel better; at least he too thought this woman was out of line in her request.
I figure, I relented once, that's good enough. If it's easier for me to park there from now on, I will. Her only reasoning was that she 'gets groceries' and she's got a parking challenged daughter. I figure, her grand prix daughter has to learn sometime, and this woman couldn't possibly be getting groceries every day...
or wait... nevermind.
regardless, I'm still parking there. now, it's just out of spite.
Friday, April 10, 2009
The Incorrect in the Correction Center
After one week of working in a prison, I have yet to be stabbed.
This is a good thing.
In fact, I haven't even felt the slightest bit threatened... dare I say that most of the guys there have been polite, compliant, pleasant, and even friendly. It's strange. This shouldn't be.
The tattoos on your arms, in old English text, spanning from near the elbow, to the wrist "Hard" on the right, and "Time" on the left.... well, they seem less legitimate with all the yes sirs, no sirs, and the inability to read, properly take your medicine, and complete any task without absolute permission.
It's as if you've resigned yourself to being a felon for your entire life.
It's a cop-out, for lack of a better term. My tenth grade English teacher would kill me right now. "Don't use these trite sayings! Say what you mean!" Well, I mean that it's a cop-out.... it's a cowards way out. It's this guy's way out; his excuse. If he has these tattoos, then he has to be a criminal. He's accepted it, embraced it... used the tattoos to make it official. He can say, "well, people won't hire me, cuz of my tattoos.... they won't hire me because i did time." but really, it's because he's mentally handicapped, and self admittedly, lazy. He doesn't want to work, he doesn't want to learn, he doesn't want to better himself, he doesn't want to have to try..... so he'll get these tattoos that preclude him having to live a legitimate life. He can just do his time, get out, then go back to molesting little children.
way to go.
this guy was pleasant, polite... albeit, very slow. and he was the face of a child molester; a rapist. a 5th grade education, if that.... so he decided to find a child of equal arithmetic age, and raped them.... not one, but many.
he should never get out.
should he even get health care? why should he? i found myself thinking this.
there are countless people in the US who obey every single law; who are GOOD people, hard working, honest and moral.... and they do not get any health care. so, why should we give this "man" care; antibiotics, CT's, MRI's and cancer treatments even, when on the outside, he had none. He broke the law, and the cost is your freedom, yes, but your reward is good, free, healthcare?!?!
why shouldn't he get exactly what he had when he was on the outside? nothing. nothing but being able to go to an ER, for an actual emergency..... by the same tenet, someone with reasonably good healthcare on the outside, well, maybe they should get the same on the inside.
I'm all about being fair.
and fair, well, I got a good dose of fair today after i saw a man with metastatic prostate cancer, after already having his prostate removed, and the cancer was still there. his only chance for a cure was radiation.... though it was unlikely to save him. i felt sorry for him, at first, for he seemed a nice, intelligent man. again, 'why are you here?' i thought....
well, the unfair of prostate cancer, and certain demise, turned into fair when i found out he, on a weekly basis, molested his own granddaughter starting at age 4.
i didn't feel bad for him anymore.
there are mistakes which we all make, and ought be forgiven. I'm the first to say, i've made more than a few.... but there's a mistake, a lesson, and a fix... ideally. and then there's a pattern - a sickness, a disease... an evil. and it's one thing to lie to your friend about one thing or another, getting yourself into a pickle, then having to own up to it, and begging for forgiveness... and it's in a whole other league to do what these men have done.... repeatedly.
a weekly basis, for years... i read the transcripts... it was like something out of a horrible movie, exactly like you'd imagine. I couldn't believe it was real.
then, the horrible flashback, during the interview, prior to my knowledge that he molested his own family member.... he had said that it was just his other granddaughter's birthday recently, and he had bought her a stethoscope.
i'll just let you feel in the bottom of you belly what I felt in mine when this information slapped me in the face.
the audacity of this guy! did he intentionally do that? do it to rub it in the faces of the parents? i have no idea.
anyway, I hope I don't get too embittered by this place and it's people. The good news is, the folks I work with all seem to be quite nice, and friendly..... and i doubt they have as dark of secrets as the captive tenants of this prison do.
it's funny, as I walk out of the place, there's a big sign that says 'Airway Heights Correctional Center'.
Correctional Center.
What exactly are we correcting? I don't think we'll ever correct the wrongs that have been forced upon the victims of these men. And I don't think we'll ever correct many of the men themselves, like the stethoscope grandpa. I guess the term correction could only apply to their health, their physical health, not mental health. In my mind, that's the only thing we've got a shot at correcting.
So, that is what I will do.
that's the only correct thing in this incorrection center.
This is a good thing.
In fact, I haven't even felt the slightest bit threatened... dare I say that most of the guys there have been polite, compliant, pleasant, and even friendly. It's strange. This shouldn't be.
The tattoos on your arms, in old English text, spanning from near the elbow, to the wrist "Hard" on the right, and "Time" on the left.... well, they seem less legitimate with all the yes sirs, no sirs, and the inability to read, properly take your medicine, and complete any task without absolute permission.
It's as if you've resigned yourself to being a felon for your entire life.
It's a cop-out, for lack of a better term. My tenth grade English teacher would kill me right now. "Don't use these trite sayings! Say what you mean!" Well, I mean that it's a cop-out.... it's a cowards way out. It's this guy's way out; his excuse. If he has these tattoos, then he has to be a criminal. He's accepted it, embraced it... used the tattoos to make it official. He can say, "well, people won't hire me, cuz of my tattoos.... they won't hire me because i did time." but really, it's because he's mentally handicapped, and self admittedly, lazy. He doesn't want to work, he doesn't want to learn, he doesn't want to better himself, he doesn't want to have to try..... so he'll get these tattoos that preclude him having to live a legitimate life. He can just do his time, get out, then go back to molesting little children.
way to go.
this guy was pleasant, polite... albeit, very slow. and he was the face of a child molester; a rapist. a 5th grade education, if that.... so he decided to find a child of equal arithmetic age, and raped them.... not one, but many.
he should never get out.
should he even get health care? why should he? i found myself thinking this.
there are countless people in the US who obey every single law; who are GOOD people, hard working, honest and moral.... and they do not get any health care. so, why should we give this "man" care; antibiotics, CT's, MRI's and cancer treatments even, when on the outside, he had none. He broke the law, and the cost is your freedom, yes, but your reward is good, free, healthcare?!?!
why shouldn't he get exactly what he had when he was on the outside? nothing. nothing but being able to go to an ER, for an actual emergency..... by the same tenet, someone with reasonably good healthcare on the outside, well, maybe they should get the same on the inside.
I'm all about being fair.
and fair, well, I got a good dose of fair today after i saw a man with metastatic prostate cancer, after already having his prostate removed, and the cancer was still there. his only chance for a cure was radiation.... though it was unlikely to save him. i felt sorry for him, at first, for he seemed a nice, intelligent man. again, 'why are you here?' i thought....
well, the unfair of prostate cancer, and certain demise, turned into fair when i found out he, on a weekly basis, molested his own granddaughter starting at age 4.
i didn't feel bad for him anymore.
there are mistakes which we all make, and ought be forgiven. I'm the first to say, i've made more than a few.... but there's a mistake, a lesson, and a fix... ideally. and then there's a pattern - a sickness, a disease... an evil. and it's one thing to lie to your friend about one thing or another, getting yourself into a pickle, then having to own up to it, and begging for forgiveness... and it's in a whole other league to do what these men have done.... repeatedly.
a weekly basis, for years... i read the transcripts... it was like something out of a horrible movie, exactly like you'd imagine. I couldn't believe it was real.
then, the horrible flashback, during the interview, prior to my knowledge that he molested his own family member.... he had said that it was just his other granddaughter's birthday recently, and he had bought her a stethoscope.
i'll just let you feel in the bottom of you belly what I felt in mine when this information slapped me in the face.
the audacity of this guy! did he intentionally do that? do it to rub it in the faces of the parents? i have no idea.
anyway, I hope I don't get too embittered by this place and it's people. The good news is, the folks I work with all seem to be quite nice, and friendly..... and i doubt they have as dark of secrets as the captive tenants of this prison do.
it's funny, as I walk out of the place, there's a big sign that says 'Airway Heights Correctional Center'.
Correctional Center.
What exactly are we correcting? I don't think we'll ever correct the wrongs that have been forced upon the victims of these men. And I don't think we'll ever correct many of the men themselves, like the stethoscope grandpa. I guess the term correction could only apply to their health, their physical health, not mental health. In my mind, that's the only thing we've got a shot at correcting.
So, that is what I will do.
that's the only correct thing in this incorrection center.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
The Red Line of Separation
This place is barren. It's difficult to believe this is Oregon... or am I in Washington now? Not sure... did I cross the river? There is a river around here, I think....
If it were to pop up in the not so distant landscape, it would seem out of place, as the land I'm being subjected to seems a sort of pock-marked desert... or a dried up, dying prairie, complete with tumbleweed and all. The undeniable proof is the rather sizeable spherical tangle of thorny, brown, dead mess of once live plant that is firmly lodged in the exact center of Betty's grill.
It is ugly and prickly, though somewhat comical looking, as it flicks violently in the wind while Betty is traveling 75 miles per hour down the empty road. I wait for it to fling off with one of the great gusts of wind that push Betty from side to side; but it doesn't budge.
It reminds me of Christmas time, when you pass by a trucker on the road who has plastered a fresh wreath on the grill of his rig... except, mine is a much less heart-warming sight.... not one of hope, happiness, and cheer; bringing memories of childhood presents, early morning stockings... and the smell of a fresh, real, Christmas tree and a snapping fire. Nope... this is more like the dead, decrepit skeleton of a plant that was never held in such high esteem as a wreath, or a Christmas tree. In fact, I'm not even sure what kind of plant it is anyway....or was. It's really only known as a tumbleweed... and that's when it's DEAD. I don't think that you can call it tumbleweed when its roots are firmly wormed into the soil. It only earns its name once it has lost its fight for survival in this desolate place. It only becomes known after it ceases to know life.
This place is ugly.
I imagine only being known, or recognized as something, after my demise....
As the next rush of wind attempts to thrust Betty into the ditch, I cheer... "Yes! C'mon... go... GO!" as the tumbleweed begins to shake violently. I steady the wheel, keeping my eyes focused on the ball of thorns that is stuck on my poor girl. It is jostled more as the wind continues to bluster. It swiftly, and very rapidly, slides to the right with a gust that nearly pushes Betty to the rumble strips.... A small piece of the weed flies directly at me. In a flash, it has rocketed over the windshield, and is consumed by the brown, dusty expanse behind me. The remaining scraps wave wildly from Betty's war wound on the front right quarter panel... this, a run in with a Hyundai, for those of you unaware.
This shrapnel does not shake free. I eventually pull over and free the bramble from my poor girl, stabbing myself in the process.... The price I pay for Betty.... I stick up for my girls. The tumbleweed is just a mess of thorns; it's horrible, and not what I expected.
It's nothing like a wreath.
I like Christmas much better.
I continue on, and eventually make it to my destination, which is no less desolate than the land I just traversed; Prison.
I stayed in a hotel that night where I rested my aching body on a surprisingly comfortable bed, and drifted off to sleep.
In the morning, I made my way to the prison, which I would call home for the next 6 weeks… do my time, so to speak. It’s a short stretch, I know…. But I guess afterwards I’ll be able to say that I did time. Though, I’m pretty sure that’s a bad thing…. It’s funny though, at least I think.
And, chicks dig bad boys…. or so I’m told.
So, I made my way through the front gate, parked in the visitor parking lot, and proceeded towards the main entrance, and the mess of razor wire covering the 25 or 30 foot fence. It was not inviting, though shiny it was as the sun glinted off the thousands of its perilous surfaces.
I made it through security, reminiscent of the airport, which I loathe.
It was a strange experience, walking past “offenders” as they’re called. I walked through “the yard” where inmates were dressed in khaki jumpsuits, milling around, enjoying the sunny day that so contrasted the lack of light in this place.
I was buzzed-in to the ‘infirmary,’ noting the strangeness of the name that equaled the strangeness of this place. I haven’t been anywhere else that I can remember that called the clinic an ‘infirmary.’ It seemed a terribly rigid word, which I suppose is fitting in this place.
Inside, it seemed a normal clinic, though more sterile, empty, white, and plain. This place was not designed to impress, or soothe the ailing clientele; it was designed for safety. You might not have realized you were in a prison if you had been dropped in this place, not until you saw a few of the clues, like all the superfluous locks, and bars covering the in house pharmacy.
The tour lasted just a few minutes, and then, I was lead out to freedom. It would not be so easy for most of the others who inhabited the place I just buzzed through, as if it were a field trip.
As I left this alternate world, a red line on the floor said “Offenders: Do not cross.”
This did not apply to me.
This line separated the free from the imprisoned. Of course, there was still the triple set of doors, which locked and unlocked separately to allow passage of the free through the core of the prison, to the outside world.
After escaping from Airway Heights Correctional Center, the pocked marked desert of a landscape on the drive home seemed a much less ugly place…. even the tumbleweed.
If it were to pop up in the not so distant landscape, it would seem out of place, as the land I'm being subjected to seems a sort of pock-marked desert... or a dried up, dying prairie, complete with tumbleweed and all. The undeniable proof is the rather sizeable spherical tangle of thorny, brown, dead mess of once live plant that is firmly lodged in the exact center of Betty's grill.
It is ugly and prickly, though somewhat comical looking, as it flicks violently in the wind while Betty is traveling 75 miles per hour down the empty road. I wait for it to fling off with one of the great gusts of wind that push Betty from side to side; but it doesn't budge.
It reminds me of Christmas time, when you pass by a trucker on the road who has plastered a fresh wreath on the grill of his rig... except, mine is a much less heart-warming sight.... not one of hope, happiness, and cheer; bringing memories of childhood presents, early morning stockings... and the smell of a fresh, real, Christmas tree and a snapping fire. Nope... this is more like the dead, decrepit skeleton of a plant that was never held in such high esteem as a wreath, or a Christmas tree. In fact, I'm not even sure what kind of plant it is anyway....or was. It's really only known as a tumbleweed... and that's when it's DEAD. I don't think that you can call it tumbleweed when its roots are firmly wormed into the soil. It only earns its name once it has lost its fight for survival in this desolate place. It only becomes known after it ceases to know life.
This place is ugly.
I imagine only being known, or recognized as something, after my demise....
As the next rush of wind attempts to thrust Betty into the ditch, I cheer... "Yes! C'mon... go... GO!" as the tumbleweed begins to shake violently. I steady the wheel, keeping my eyes focused on the ball of thorns that is stuck on my poor girl. It is jostled more as the wind continues to bluster. It swiftly, and very rapidly, slides to the right with a gust that nearly pushes Betty to the rumble strips.... A small piece of the weed flies directly at me. In a flash, it has rocketed over the windshield, and is consumed by the brown, dusty expanse behind me. The remaining scraps wave wildly from Betty's war wound on the front right quarter panel... this, a run in with a Hyundai, for those of you unaware.
This shrapnel does not shake free. I eventually pull over and free the bramble from my poor girl, stabbing myself in the process.... The price I pay for Betty.... I stick up for my girls. The tumbleweed is just a mess of thorns; it's horrible, and not what I expected.
It's nothing like a wreath.
I like Christmas much better.
I continue on, and eventually make it to my destination, which is no less desolate than the land I just traversed; Prison.
I stayed in a hotel that night where I rested my aching body on a surprisingly comfortable bed, and drifted off to sleep.
In the morning, I made my way to the prison, which I would call home for the next 6 weeks… do my time, so to speak. It’s a short stretch, I know…. But I guess afterwards I’ll be able to say that I did time. Though, I’m pretty sure that’s a bad thing…. It’s funny though, at least I think.
And, chicks dig bad boys…. or so I’m told.
So, I made my way through the front gate, parked in the visitor parking lot, and proceeded towards the main entrance, and the mess of razor wire covering the 25 or 30 foot fence. It was not inviting, though shiny it was as the sun glinted off the thousands of its perilous surfaces.
I made it through security, reminiscent of the airport, which I loathe.
It was a strange experience, walking past “offenders” as they’re called. I walked through “the yard” where inmates were dressed in khaki jumpsuits, milling around, enjoying the sunny day that so contrasted the lack of light in this place.
I was buzzed-in to the ‘infirmary,’ noting the strangeness of the name that equaled the strangeness of this place. I haven’t been anywhere else that I can remember that called the clinic an ‘infirmary.’ It seemed a terribly rigid word, which I suppose is fitting in this place.
Inside, it seemed a normal clinic, though more sterile, empty, white, and plain. This place was not designed to impress, or soothe the ailing clientele; it was designed for safety. You might not have realized you were in a prison if you had been dropped in this place, not until you saw a few of the clues, like all the superfluous locks, and bars covering the in house pharmacy.
The tour lasted just a few minutes, and then, I was lead out to freedom. It would not be so easy for most of the others who inhabited the place I just buzzed through, as if it were a field trip.
As I left this alternate world, a red line on the floor said “Offenders: Do not cross.”
This did not apply to me.
This line separated the free from the imprisoned. Of course, there was still the triple set of doors, which locked and unlocked separately to allow passage of the free through the core of the prison, to the outside world.
After escaping from Airway Heights Correctional Center, the pocked marked desert of a landscape on the drive home seemed a much less ugly place…. even the tumbleweed.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Profiteering, Betty as a Tank, and The Red Ring of Death
It all began with a hunger.
Not for knowledge or power, but for something more simple, more primal; a burrito.
It was more than a year ago, after a long night of studying some minute intricacy of the human body when the hunger began. With a pang, the burning started inside my gut.... Time to leave.
As I gathered up my things, and told my classmates I was done for the night, I took inventory of what I had in my cupboards and fridge... the report was grim. Unless I wanted to eat some plain noodles, sans sauce, butter or parmesan, well, I was up the creek.
I looked at my watch, 9:00.
"Oooooooooooo," I thought as I had flashbacks of 'word problems' from 6th grade, 'If a hungry student leaves his school at 9:00 PM, traveling at an average of 35 miles per hour, and needs to close a distance of 6 miles... how much time will he have left to grocery shop before Trader Joes closes at 10:00?'
The math nearly makes me gag.... though there was always something quite nerdly satisfying about working it out, and getting the answer right. But this time, I didn't take a moment to carry the one, or even round to the nearest decimal point. I just ball-parked it.
"Let's do it, Betty." While she wasn't in earshot, I knew she knew. And I think she also might have known that she was in for a fight.
I hurried down the five flights of stairs to the ground floor, as I never took the elevator. Taking the elevator seemed a waste, and horribly American, in the bad sense of the word. Like the 'American Way,' diabetes, hypertension and high cholesterol.... which often equals overweight, and lazy. I suppose I can understand taking the elevator up to the 5th floor, but... still couldn't bring myself to do it. I can remember seeing people hop on the elevator and take it down one floor. As they boarded the elevator, they had working legs to carry them in, as well as out on the floor below, for I saw it with my own eyes, as I passed down the stairwell, faster than they had descended in the elevator. I guess it just doesn't make sense to me. If we can't do something as simple as climbing a few flights of stairs, then, we can't complain about being fat.
Anyway, I’ll get off my soapbox, for I was speedwalking to my car, and I couldn’t fit a soap-box in there, at least, I don’t think so. I’m not really sure how big a soap-box is….
So, I see Betty there, just ready and waiting to take me to Trader Joes. I hop in… and fire her up.
We’re off.
No, I didn’t speed, or throw caution to the wind. The wind has enough floating around in it. It certainly didn’t need my caution…. Plus, I don’t litter.
I was driving the way I normally do, like you’d expect an ’89 Cadillac to drive; as if a 89 year old female is driving it – steady and lawfully, but sort of half expecting it to take a wrong turn down a one way street, or jump a curb, causing sparks to fly in the dark, reminiscent of a Beastie Boys video (Sabotage.)
I was on it tonight, and so was Betty… man we were hitting the lights on Cornell, which can be entirely evil. It’s this unending string of stoplights that always seem to turn red at the sight of your car. You’ll just get up to speed, only to have to step on your brakes again… then, ever so annoyingly, you’ll JUST get to a complete stop, when they’ll turn green again. And to top it all off, not a single car will pass through that intersection while you’re stopped at the now COMPLETELY unnecessary red light. I think it’s just a bored employee at the DOT, controlling the lights, watching you get more and more frustrated, as he laughs his now slightly less boring 8 hour shift away.
I hate that guy.
Anyway, that guy must have been off tonight, because I hit every green light, didn’t have to stop once on my way to Joe’s… That’s somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 lights…. I nailed ‘em ALL…. with only a couple yellows… it was so satisfying.
As I neared the intersection of 185th and Cornell, where I’d be taking a left, I saw that the light was red; the one exception to my string of greens. It shined sadly off the empty streets, as if it felt useless since not a car was in sight to be halted by its glowing red radiation, save for me (well, Betty) and some little Hyundai traveling my direction. It seemed to perk up immediately at my sight, as it must have known that it ruined my perfect green streak. As we headed towards the light, I flicked on my blinker and established myself in the furthest left of the two left hand turn lanes, as I’d need to take an immediate left after this first one in order to reach Trader Joes. As I decelerated, our of the corner of my eye, I noticed the Hyundai make a darting, erratic move towards Betty; I pleaded with her to stop as quickly as she could… but she’s a heavy gal (it’s all muscle) and Newton had it right when he was talking about inertia. It’s tough to stop this giant piece of steel that I call Betty, she’s like an Abrams Tank, minus all the guns and cannons. So, Betty the tank, or now 2000 pound projectile, was on a collision course with this little, tin-foil type car as it has cut across 3 lanes to find itself nearly perpendicular to Betty, and the lanes of traffic.
I know that f = ma, but I’m not exactly sure what f = when multiplied by mass and the deceleration of Betty as she taught this little Hyundai and its occupants, a lesson it wouldn’t soon forget. But I do know that it equaled a severely messed up left back door and quarter panel, and more than likely a new alignment, that’s not so aligned.
The impact itself was exactly how Betty lived, smooth and powerful. Everyone always says, “Wow, what a smooooooth ride!” when taken by Betty…. I suppose it makes sense that if she rides this way, she’d destroy this way too. It was such a smooth impact, strong impact, and while it broke my perfect accident free record of nearly 10 years, it felt strangely AWESOME. Now, before you think I’m sadistic, please know, nobody was hurt… I was traveling at maybe 30 miles per hour when I hit her, or more realistically, when she darted out in front of me, like a terrified and momentarily stupefied deer when seeing headlights. They will actually run into the SIDE of your car… it’s tough to say you hit a deer when they run into the side of your car, it’s more like, you got hit by a deer. Well, in this case, though the front of Betty hit the side of her car, (I didn’t get her name) it’s more like she hit me.
Whatever the case, it still felt strangely good; powerful.
She pulled over, and I quickly followed…. Turing 180 degrees to face the opposite direction I had been traveling, as I had spun her around to face the direction from which we had both been coming.
We both got out of our cars on to the street, now newly littered with car shrapnel. I saw that the car held two young girls, maybe 16 or 17… can’s say that it surprised me.
“Are you girls ok?” I asked.
“Yeah, yeah, we’re fine.” One said.
“I told you not to turn!” I hear the passenger say to her friend, kind of laughing at the same time.
Yea, girl, she should’ve listened to you.
We assessed the damage.
Her back left door was crumpled, like a soda can that had been crushed, reshaped, and crushed again… over and over until the aluminum appeared wrinkly. This door would never open again. Her back left quarter panel took somewhat less damage, but would still need to be replaced. I’m surprised her tire had not blown, but it was certainly not quite facing the right direction. Her left driver’s side door, luckily was unharmed, as Betty had only bit the back door…. But had the timing been a bit different, this gal may have had some damage not only to her driver’s side door, but to the left side of her body. It seems that Betty took pity on this poor, new driver.
As I walked towards Betty’s front right side, which had delivered the crumpling blow, I was somewhat amazed by how little damage that she had incurred. For what punishment she doled out, it was amazing that only the front right blinker light cover was broken, and was now part of the shrapnel on the street. Her right front headlight was completely intact, though the hood was slightly dented, along with the front right bumper, and there appeared to be a new break in the right front quarter panel, which looks like a saw-tooth pattern, it actually looks quite tough. Some might say bad-ass, or radical. I say tough.
“Betty’s got a war wound,” I thought. But it’s nothing serious. This old gal’s a tank.
After the initial survey of our battered combatants, the stupefied girl and her friend asked me what we needed to do… as they didn’t know (shocker… sarcasm) because they’d never been in an accident yet (shocker – this one’s not coated with sarcasm.) So I asked for her insurance information, and copied down mine for her. As the two girls stood there, sort of half talking, then silent, then giggling, I kept on jotting down information.
“What’s a number that I can get a hold of you at?” I’d ask…. Then write mine down on her respective information sheet.
At some point during the middle of this, I am interrupted by the passenger, with what seemed like quite an odd question at the time… though once I understood why she asked it, it merely seemed fittingly stupid for his tweedle-dee, tweedle-dumb duo.
“Are you, like, a boxer?” Tweedle-Dumb asked sort of excitedly.
“What?” I quickly answer back, with confusion latent in my voice and written all over my face.
It was no more than a split-second later that I realize that I’m still wearing my school ID badge, that says “Boxer Card” on it, and has my photo and “Physician Assistant Student” written on it. The Boxer is our mascot. I believe it’s some sort of mythical dragon type creature, though I’m not entirely sure. I am, at heart, a Badger, and always will be. So the lore of the Boxer is of no concern to me.
“What? Oh… oh… no. No, I’m not a boxer.” I reply, as my brain has caught up.
She seemed disappointed, as if she may have given me her number if I were a REAL boxer.
I finished with the information exchange and told her that she needed to call her insurance company to file a claim, and that I would do the same. Then they’d pretty much take it from there.
We each disappeared into the remainder of the night, she and her passenger to God knows where, and me to Trader Joes to get FOOD.
I made it in time. I’m a quick shopper.
B-U-R-R-I-T-O! oh, oh …OOOOOOOOOO. It really wasn’t a bad night.
In the end, her insurance company claimed full responsibility, and would be paying for my repairs in whole. And, despite the miniscule amount of damage to Betty, the car had been totaled. It turns out that Betty, being old of age, but young in miles, was valued at around $3,200, and the amount to repair her would be about $3,400… I found out that parts for ’89 Cadillacs are mighty expensive. All of that said, I decided to accept their check for my ‘totaled’ car, continue to drive it, and not put a single cent into her repair, as I felt that she’s even more stellar than she was before.
Bottom line, I got a 3,200 dollar pay-day. Not too shabby.
What to spend this on?
Well, the responsible part of me said, “Save this money! You have a butt-load of loans!” (My responsible side also likes to use words like “butt-load” apparently.)
But the young man, or boy, in me said… “Hey, you just got a free 3,200 bucks, and you haven’t gotten anything cool for yourself in a long time…. you should get an xBox!”
So, I compromised… being that I totally gave in, and got the xBox….. BUT I saved the rest of it.
In Best Buy, I felt somewhat of nerdy, buying an xBox…. I guess I feel like it’s one of those sort of ‘girl repellant’ type buys. I got over it, though.
At the register, the pretty attractive young gal said the obligatory, “Do you want to buy the 2 year product replacement plan? If anything happens to it…. we’ll take care of it.”
My skeptical side, and frugal side, said “Yep, this is how they get ya! 39.99… for two years, nothing’s going to happen. Don’t get duped!”
So I ask, “Ok, shoot me straight… do I really need this? I mean, I know you have to offer it, but job aside, is this a good thing to get?”
And then, the guy behind her, boxing up some items, busts in and says “YES. We have at least 9 or 10 people bringing them back each week. If you try to send them back to Microsoft, it will take months to get your xBox back, and it’s going to cost you. I have one, and I got the replacement plan. It really is worth it.”
“Alright, let’s do it.” I say with confidence. Whether or not I got suckered, well, it’s only $39.99…. and the kid had a good speech. So, even if it was a crock, he did it well. He deserved the sale.
So, I bring my new purchase home, and enjoy a good escape from time to time for the past year or so… I can take a break from studying, and flip on the console, and rewind to WWII, and blast some Nazis (they had it coming) or go even further back to medieval times, and assassinate corrupt leaders and save innocent citizens. Ok, I don’t care, nerd or no, I’m loving it.
It was on one such escape I wished to embark a couple days ago, to Vegas, to stop some sort of terrorist group, when I turned on the console, and awaited the excitement to begin… nothing.
Nothing happened.
“What the poop!” I thought. OK, maybe I said it aloud too.
The TV is just black. And, I know I’ve hit the ‘TV/Video” button… let’s get the show on the road. Wait… maybe it just didn’t turn on… duh! So, I look down at the xBox… and to my surprise I see something unusual. It’s doing something I’ve never seen before, but, unfortunately (for my ego’s sake) have heard of before. It’s flashing red around the power button. Where, it should have this green ‘ring of light,’ it was flashing red. And as we all know, red light = bad. Well, this is no exception…. this is what is known as, “The Red Ring of Death.”
This is the dreaded, and universally known sign, that your xBox is beyond repair. Totally cooked. There is absolutely nothing that you can do to remedy this situation. It’s unlike when your laptop gives you grief, and you can control alt delete, ‘hard reset,’ system restore, or just monkey with it enough to fix it… even though you’re sure that this time was the last time….
Nope. This is it. No resuscitation. It’s over. You’d better pray tha…
“YEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I bought the damn insurance! Free xBox! Thank you God for that fellow xBox nerd at the Best Buy the day I almost didn’t spend that extra $39.99.”
So, I packed up my xBox yesterday and headed to Portland, as I needed to leave the coast anyhow… I have a ‘security briefing’ on Monday in Spokane for my next rotation. So today I made a trip to Best Buy, and brought my dead xBox, rigor mortis set in, to the customer service desk, next to the ‘Geek Squad’ desk. I’m now feeling more and more like I fit in there… with the Geek Squad… but this doesn’t bother me too much, I’m comfortable in my own skin… I’m kind of nerdy… AND I do enjoy the show “Chuck,” where the main character is a “Nerd Herd” employee in a “Buy More” store. He’s always saving the day, in a nerdy, but brave way. Not to mention, his love interest in the show, is beautiful. Check it out… you’ll get hooked.
In any case, I told the girl at the counter that my xBox was flashing red lights at me, and it wouldn’t turn on. I didn’t just come out and say that “I got The Red Ring of Death.” I may be comfortable in my nerd-ness… but not that comfortable. Though, after she got on the phone to Microsoft, going through the motions to report the xBox failure… she must have said “The Red Ring of Death" about 7 times. I guess this happens quite a bit. Or, that’s what she said anyway when I asked her.
After she got off the horn, she said “OK, so you can go over to the entertainment section and pick up a new one, then bring it back here, and we’ll get you all set up.”
“What? I get a new one today?” I thought. This is too good to be true… I mean, what’s the catch… I only paid 39.99 for this plan… This has to be too good to be true. I figured I'd at least have to wait a few weeks while I waded through some BS.
Despite my doubts, I go to the entertainment section, and pick up a sparkling new xBox, and return to the customer service counter. She rings it up.
“OK, that’s comes to $339.00…”
“That’s more like it,” I think... “time to get screwed by Best Buy, the $39.99 plan was worthless… I KNEW it.”
“DAMN that nerd kid who made me throw away my $39.99! I’m going to find that dork and give him the biggest dead leg!” I thought. "A FLYING dead leg, the likes of which haven't been seen since the Schiller incident of '99, in Brainerd, MN."
She continues to type in things to the computer, swipe badges and what not… then she hands me this yellow Best Buy card and says, “OK, so there’s $10.00 left on this card… and you’re set to go!”
“Wait, what? How does that work?” I say, almost biting my lip right after the words escape…. (just shut up you fool… shut up and run! you tricked them somehow… GET OUT before they realized that they messed up. FREE xBox PLUS 10 dollars!)
“Well, here’s your old receipt, see, it was $349.00 for the xBox a year ago. It was a bit more expensive back then, and then we put the protection plan back on there for you. I thought you might want that?”
“Heck yes!” I assert.
“ …and there’s still 10 dollars left over… and that’s on the yellow card I gave you. Just use it like a gift card.”
I nearly hugged her.
I guess I’m so used to getting screwed by the corporate world… and especially dealing with insurance companies now in medicine, NEVER wanting to pay for patient’s medications and procedures. They fight tooth and nail against providing the coverage to their clients that they had promised when taking their money every month. They dictate care, and deny claims left and right; it’s disgusting. There’s so much wrong with medicine, I guess I had been embittered to anything reminiscent of insurance. In my mind, there’s no way it could be as simple as, “hey, you pay us $39.99, and if anything goes wrong, we’ll fix it, for FREE.”
Well, this time it was… and more than that… they gave me 10 bucks, as if to say… “Hey, thanks for the biz… and come on back… we’ll take care of you… nerd.”
Well, Best Buy, thank you. I shall recommend you to my fellow nerds, but I’m sure they’re already privy to your awesomeness.
In any case, thanks for reading the story of the ten dollars, and how Betty made me see The Red Ring of Death.
I’m gunna go eat a burrito now.
Not for knowledge or power, but for something more simple, more primal; a burrito.
It was more than a year ago, after a long night of studying some minute intricacy of the human body when the hunger began. With a pang, the burning started inside my gut.... Time to leave.
As I gathered up my things, and told my classmates I was done for the night, I took inventory of what I had in my cupboards and fridge... the report was grim. Unless I wanted to eat some plain noodles, sans sauce, butter or parmesan, well, I was up the creek.
I looked at my watch, 9:00.
"Oooooooooooo," I thought as I had flashbacks of 'word problems' from 6th grade, 'If a hungry student leaves his school at 9:00 PM, traveling at an average of 35 miles per hour, and needs to close a distance of 6 miles... how much time will he have left to grocery shop before Trader Joes closes at 10:00?'
The math nearly makes me gag.... though there was always something quite nerdly satisfying about working it out, and getting the answer right. But this time, I didn't take a moment to carry the one, or even round to the nearest decimal point. I just ball-parked it.
"Let's do it, Betty." While she wasn't in earshot, I knew she knew. And I think she also might have known that she was in for a fight.
I hurried down the five flights of stairs to the ground floor, as I never took the elevator. Taking the elevator seemed a waste, and horribly American, in the bad sense of the word. Like the 'American Way,' diabetes, hypertension and high cholesterol.... which often equals overweight, and lazy. I suppose I can understand taking the elevator up to the 5th floor, but... still couldn't bring myself to do it. I can remember seeing people hop on the elevator and take it down one floor. As they boarded the elevator, they had working legs to carry them in, as well as out on the floor below, for I saw it with my own eyes, as I passed down the stairwell, faster than they had descended in the elevator. I guess it just doesn't make sense to me. If we can't do something as simple as climbing a few flights of stairs, then, we can't complain about being fat.
Anyway, I’ll get off my soapbox, for I was speedwalking to my car, and I couldn’t fit a soap-box in there, at least, I don’t think so. I’m not really sure how big a soap-box is….
So, I see Betty there, just ready and waiting to take me to Trader Joes. I hop in… and fire her up.
We’re off.
No, I didn’t speed, or throw caution to the wind. The wind has enough floating around in it. It certainly didn’t need my caution…. Plus, I don’t litter.
I was driving the way I normally do, like you’d expect an ’89 Cadillac to drive; as if a 89 year old female is driving it – steady and lawfully, but sort of half expecting it to take a wrong turn down a one way street, or jump a curb, causing sparks to fly in the dark, reminiscent of a Beastie Boys video (Sabotage.)
I was on it tonight, and so was Betty… man we were hitting the lights on Cornell, which can be entirely evil. It’s this unending string of stoplights that always seem to turn red at the sight of your car. You’ll just get up to speed, only to have to step on your brakes again… then, ever so annoyingly, you’ll JUST get to a complete stop, when they’ll turn green again. And to top it all off, not a single car will pass through that intersection while you’re stopped at the now COMPLETELY unnecessary red light. I think it’s just a bored employee at the DOT, controlling the lights, watching you get more and more frustrated, as he laughs his now slightly less boring 8 hour shift away.
I hate that guy.
Anyway, that guy must have been off tonight, because I hit every green light, didn’t have to stop once on my way to Joe’s… That’s somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 lights…. I nailed ‘em ALL…. with only a couple yellows… it was so satisfying.
As I neared the intersection of 185th and Cornell, where I’d be taking a left, I saw that the light was red; the one exception to my string of greens. It shined sadly off the empty streets, as if it felt useless since not a car was in sight to be halted by its glowing red radiation, save for me (well, Betty) and some little Hyundai traveling my direction. It seemed to perk up immediately at my sight, as it must have known that it ruined my perfect green streak. As we headed towards the light, I flicked on my blinker and established myself in the furthest left of the two left hand turn lanes, as I’d need to take an immediate left after this first one in order to reach Trader Joes. As I decelerated, our of the corner of my eye, I noticed the Hyundai make a darting, erratic move towards Betty; I pleaded with her to stop as quickly as she could… but she’s a heavy gal (it’s all muscle) and Newton had it right when he was talking about inertia. It’s tough to stop this giant piece of steel that I call Betty, she’s like an Abrams Tank, minus all the guns and cannons. So, Betty the tank, or now 2000 pound projectile, was on a collision course with this little, tin-foil type car as it has cut across 3 lanes to find itself nearly perpendicular to Betty, and the lanes of traffic.
I know that f = ma, but I’m not exactly sure what f = when multiplied by mass and the deceleration of Betty as she taught this little Hyundai and its occupants, a lesson it wouldn’t soon forget. But I do know that it equaled a severely messed up left back door and quarter panel, and more than likely a new alignment, that’s not so aligned.
The impact itself was exactly how Betty lived, smooth and powerful. Everyone always says, “Wow, what a smooooooth ride!” when taken by Betty…. I suppose it makes sense that if she rides this way, she’d destroy this way too. It was such a smooth impact, strong impact, and while it broke my perfect accident free record of nearly 10 years, it felt strangely AWESOME. Now, before you think I’m sadistic, please know, nobody was hurt… I was traveling at maybe 30 miles per hour when I hit her, or more realistically, when she darted out in front of me, like a terrified and momentarily stupefied deer when seeing headlights. They will actually run into the SIDE of your car… it’s tough to say you hit a deer when they run into the side of your car, it’s more like, you got hit by a deer. Well, in this case, though the front of Betty hit the side of her car, (I didn’t get her name) it’s more like she hit me.
Whatever the case, it still felt strangely good; powerful.
She pulled over, and I quickly followed…. Turing 180 degrees to face the opposite direction I had been traveling, as I had spun her around to face the direction from which we had both been coming.
We both got out of our cars on to the street, now newly littered with car shrapnel. I saw that the car held two young girls, maybe 16 or 17… can’s say that it surprised me.
“Are you girls ok?” I asked.
“Yeah, yeah, we’re fine.” One said.
“I told you not to turn!” I hear the passenger say to her friend, kind of laughing at the same time.
Yea, girl, she should’ve listened to you.
We assessed the damage.
Her back left door was crumpled, like a soda can that had been crushed, reshaped, and crushed again… over and over until the aluminum appeared wrinkly. This door would never open again. Her back left quarter panel took somewhat less damage, but would still need to be replaced. I’m surprised her tire had not blown, but it was certainly not quite facing the right direction. Her left driver’s side door, luckily was unharmed, as Betty had only bit the back door…. But had the timing been a bit different, this gal may have had some damage not only to her driver’s side door, but to the left side of her body. It seems that Betty took pity on this poor, new driver.
As I walked towards Betty’s front right side, which had delivered the crumpling blow, I was somewhat amazed by how little damage that she had incurred. For what punishment she doled out, it was amazing that only the front right blinker light cover was broken, and was now part of the shrapnel on the street. Her right front headlight was completely intact, though the hood was slightly dented, along with the front right bumper, and there appeared to be a new break in the right front quarter panel, which looks like a saw-tooth pattern, it actually looks quite tough. Some might say bad-ass, or radical. I say tough.
“Betty’s got a war wound,” I thought. But it’s nothing serious. This old gal’s a tank.
After the initial survey of our battered combatants, the stupefied girl and her friend asked me what we needed to do… as they didn’t know (shocker… sarcasm) because they’d never been in an accident yet (shocker – this one’s not coated with sarcasm.) So I asked for her insurance information, and copied down mine for her. As the two girls stood there, sort of half talking, then silent, then giggling, I kept on jotting down information.
“What’s a number that I can get a hold of you at?” I’d ask…. Then write mine down on her respective information sheet.
At some point during the middle of this, I am interrupted by the passenger, with what seemed like quite an odd question at the time… though once I understood why she asked it, it merely seemed fittingly stupid for his tweedle-dee, tweedle-dumb duo.
“Are you, like, a boxer?” Tweedle-Dumb asked sort of excitedly.
“What?” I quickly answer back, with confusion latent in my voice and written all over my face.
It was no more than a split-second later that I realize that I’m still wearing my school ID badge, that says “Boxer Card” on it, and has my photo and “Physician Assistant Student” written on it. The Boxer is our mascot. I believe it’s some sort of mythical dragon type creature, though I’m not entirely sure. I am, at heart, a Badger, and always will be. So the lore of the Boxer is of no concern to me.
“What? Oh… oh… no. No, I’m not a boxer.” I reply, as my brain has caught up.
She seemed disappointed, as if she may have given me her number if I were a REAL boxer.
I finished with the information exchange and told her that she needed to call her insurance company to file a claim, and that I would do the same. Then they’d pretty much take it from there.
We each disappeared into the remainder of the night, she and her passenger to God knows where, and me to Trader Joes to get FOOD.
I made it in time. I’m a quick shopper.
B-U-R-R-I-T-O! oh, oh …OOOOOOOOOO. It really wasn’t a bad night.
In the end, her insurance company claimed full responsibility, and would be paying for my repairs in whole. And, despite the miniscule amount of damage to Betty, the car had been totaled. It turns out that Betty, being old of age, but young in miles, was valued at around $3,200, and the amount to repair her would be about $3,400… I found out that parts for ’89 Cadillacs are mighty expensive. All of that said, I decided to accept their check for my ‘totaled’ car, continue to drive it, and not put a single cent into her repair, as I felt that she’s even more stellar than she was before.
Bottom line, I got a 3,200 dollar pay-day. Not too shabby.
What to spend this on?
Well, the responsible part of me said, “Save this money! You have a butt-load of loans!” (My responsible side also likes to use words like “butt-load” apparently.)
But the young man, or boy, in me said… “Hey, you just got a free 3,200 bucks, and you haven’t gotten anything cool for yourself in a long time…. you should get an xBox!”
So, I compromised… being that I totally gave in, and got the xBox….. BUT I saved the rest of it.
In Best Buy, I felt somewhat of nerdy, buying an xBox…. I guess I feel like it’s one of those sort of ‘girl repellant’ type buys. I got over it, though.
At the register, the pretty attractive young gal said the obligatory, “Do you want to buy the 2 year product replacement plan? If anything happens to it…. we’ll take care of it.”
My skeptical side, and frugal side, said “Yep, this is how they get ya! 39.99… for two years, nothing’s going to happen. Don’t get duped!”
So I ask, “Ok, shoot me straight… do I really need this? I mean, I know you have to offer it, but job aside, is this a good thing to get?”
And then, the guy behind her, boxing up some items, busts in and says “YES. We have at least 9 or 10 people bringing them back each week. If you try to send them back to Microsoft, it will take months to get your xBox back, and it’s going to cost you. I have one, and I got the replacement plan. It really is worth it.”
“Alright, let’s do it.” I say with confidence. Whether or not I got suckered, well, it’s only $39.99…. and the kid had a good speech. So, even if it was a crock, he did it well. He deserved the sale.
So, I bring my new purchase home, and enjoy a good escape from time to time for the past year or so… I can take a break from studying, and flip on the console, and rewind to WWII, and blast some Nazis (they had it coming) or go even further back to medieval times, and assassinate corrupt leaders and save innocent citizens. Ok, I don’t care, nerd or no, I’m loving it.
It was on one such escape I wished to embark a couple days ago, to Vegas, to stop some sort of terrorist group, when I turned on the console, and awaited the excitement to begin… nothing.
Nothing happened.
“What the poop!” I thought. OK, maybe I said it aloud too.
The TV is just black. And, I know I’ve hit the ‘TV/Video” button… let’s get the show on the road. Wait… maybe it just didn’t turn on… duh! So, I look down at the xBox… and to my surprise I see something unusual. It’s doing something I’ve never seen before, but, unfortunately (for my ego’s sake) have heard of before. It’s flashing red around the power button. Where, it should have this green ‘ring of light,’ it was flashing red. And as we all know, red light = bad. Well, this is no exception…. this is what is known as, “The Red Ring of Death.”
This is the dreaded, and universally known sign, that your xBox is beyond repair. Totally cooked. There is absolutely nothing that you can do to remedy this situation. It’s unlike when your laptop gives you grief, and you can control alt delete, ‘hard reset,’ system restore, or just monkey with it enough to fix it… even though you’re sure that this time was the last time….
Nope. This is it. No resuscitation. It’s over. You’d better pray tha…
“YEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I bought the damn insurance! Free xBox! Thank you God for that fellow xBox nerd at the Best Buy the day I almost didn’t spend that extra $39.99.”
So, I packed up my xBox yesterday and headed to Portland, as I needed to leave the coast anyhow… I have a ‘security briefing’ on Monday in Spokane for my next rotation. So today I made a trip to Best Buy, and brought my dead xBox, rigor mortis set in, to the customer service desk, next to the ‘Geek Squad’ desk. I’m now feeling more and more like I fit in there… with the Geek Squad… but this doesn’t bother me too much, I’m comfortable in my own skin… I’m kind of nerdy… AND I do enjoy the show “Chuck,” where the main character is a “Nerd Herd” employee in a “Buy More” store. He’s always saving the day, in a nerdy, but brave way. Not to mention, his love interest in the show, is beautiful. Check it out… you’ll get hooked.
In any case, I told the girl at the counter that my xBox was flashing red lights at me, and it wouldn’t turn on. I didn’t just come out and say that “I got The Red Ring of Death.” I may be comfortable in my nerd-ness… but not that comfortable. Though, after she got on the phone to Microsoft, going through the motions to report the xBox failure… she must have said “The Red Ring of Death" about 7 times. I guess this happens quite a bit. Or, that’s what she said anyway when I asked her.
After she got off the horn, she said “OK, so you can go over to the entertainment section and pick up a new one, then bring it back here, and we’ll get you all set up.”
“What? I get a new one today?” I thought. This is too good to be true… I mean, what’s the catch… I only paid 39.99 for this plan… This has to be too good to be true. I figured I'd at least have to wait a few weeks while I waded through some BS.
Despite my doubts, I go to the entertainment section, and pick up a sparkling new xBox, and return to the customer service counter. She rings it up.
“OK, that’s comes to $339.00…”
“That’s more like it,” I think... “time to get screwed by Best Buy, the $39.99 plan was worthless… I KNEW it.”
“DAMN that nerd kid who made me throw away my $39.99! I’m going to find that dork and give him the biggest dead leg!” I thought. "A FLYING dead leg, the likes of which haven't been seen since the Schiller incident of '99, in Brainerd, MN."
She continues to type in things to the computer, swipe badges and what not… then she hands me this yellow Best Buy card and says, “OK, so there’s $10.00 left on this card… and you’re set to go!”
“Wait, what? How does that work?” I say, almost biting my lip right after the words escape…. (just shut up you fool… shut up and run! you tricked them somehow… GET OUT before they realized that they messed up. FREE xBox PLUS 10 dollars!)
“Well, here’s your old receipt, see, it was $349.00 for the xBox a year ago. It was a bit more expensive back then, and then we put the protection plan back on there for you. I thought you might want that?”
“Heck yes!” I assert.
“ …and there’s still 10 dollars left over… and that’s on the yellow card I gave you. Just use it like a gift card.”
I nearly hugged her.
I guess I’m so used to getting screwed by the corporate world… and especially dealing with insurance companies now in medicine, NEVER wanting to pay for patient’s medications and procedures. They fight tooth and nail against providing the coverage to their clients that they had promised when taking their money every month. They dictate care, and deny claims left and right; it’s disgusting. There’s so much wrong with medicine, I guess I had been embittered to anything reminiscent of insurance. In my mind, there’s no way it could be as simple as, “hey, you pay us $39.99, and if anything goes wrong, we’ll fix it, for FREE.”
Well, this time it was… and more than that… they gave me 10 bucks, as if to say… “Hey, thanks for the biz… and come on back… we’ll take care of you… nerd.”
Well, Best Buy, thank you. I shall recommend you to my fellow nerds, but I’m sure they’re already privy to your awesomeness.
In any case, thanks for reading the story of the ten dollars, and how Betty made me see The Red Ring of Death.
I’m gunna go eat a burrito now.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
sticks and stones may break my bones.... but WORDS destroy
Yesterday I had to tell a 50-something year old guy that he had hepatitis C. Turns out, when at Emanuel in the early 90's... when they saved his life, but not his left arm, they managed to give him Hepatitis C along with the life saving blood transfusions.
I thought about the fake patient I had to give bad news to, back in first year, trying to prepare us for this type of thing.
When it's the real thing, it's different, though I went about it in the same way. It feels different. As it should, I suppose, because this isn't make-believe. This is real. This man is real. This disease is real.
He had come in for a pain management visit, for his phantom limb pain. He woke up this morning, got himself ready for the day, for his appointment, unaware of what was to come. Just another day....
He had, in the early nineties, been working in some sort of large warehouse, and managed to get his arm caught in the door of an elevator. Bad enough, you'd think, but it grew much worse when the cable snapped, and took his arm to the bottom of the elevator shaft, leaving him behind. It was like something out of an action movie, or a bad horror flick. In fact, in Resident Evil, it happened to some poor soul, though it was her body that was taken down the shaft as fast as gravity could pull; 9.8 meters per second squared... leaving her head on the top floor of some office building.
To save his life, the doctors at Emanuel had to transfuse him with massive amounts blood, and other blood products, donated by altruistic souls, or perhaps destitute college students... trading plasma for tuition money. It's too bad though, that one of these life savers had Hepatitis C, and gave it away as freely as they had given their blood.
As I explained what the next steps would be- uncovering the genotype (which would likely determine if he could be cured of this, or eventually lose his life due to it) and the eventual biopsy to stage the progression of the disease; the destruction it had wreaked on his liver.... he just looked at me, silently, with an empty stare.
I think it's true, once you tell someone the bad news, "you have cancer" or "sorry, the HIV test was positive," they don't hear anything after that for some minutes.
I don't think he heard anything I said for a few minutes after the initial uppercut that was the bad news. He was dazed, punch drunk with just one shot; though a haymaker it was.
It took some time, and much repetition, but I think it sank in... as much as it could anyway.
It must have all seemed so surreal. I imagine being in his position, taking the handful of papers with information on Hepatitis C, the information I had written, the orders for bloodwork, biopsy and follow-up instructions...
Though it took over a half hour for the whole encounter, it must have seemed like it happened in a flash.... a complete blur. Not unlike when as a child, you took your bike down too steep a hill, with too little emphasis on the brakes, and a blatant disregard for your own health. you'd crash- with a flip over the handlebars, arms and legs flailing, torso flipping in what seems a far too fast manner for nature to allow. All you manage to see in a blur of colors as you're flung about, and you feel what you know should be pain, but it just comes to quickly to hurt now, it just feels.... unkind, and terrifying.... but it will, it will hurt. once your brain catches up to the physical assault, it will hurt.
I'm not sure if his brain caught up before he left... but i am sure of one thing; when it does, he will hurt.
I thought about the fake patient I had to give bad news to, back in first year, trying to prepare us for this type of thing.
When it's the real thing, it's different, though I went about it in the same way. It feels different. As it should, I suppose, because this isn't make-believe. This is real. This man is real. This disease is real.
He had come in for a pain management visit, for his phantom limb pain. He woke up this morning, got himself ready for the day, for his appointment, unaware of what was to come. Just another day....
He had, in the early nineties, been working in some sort of large warehouse, and managed to get his arm caught in the door of an elevator. Bad enough, you'd think, but it grew much worse when the cable snapped, and took his arm to the bottom of the elevator shaft, leaving him behind. It was like something out of an action movie, or a bad horror flick. In fact, in Resident Evil, it happened to some poor soul, though it was her body that was taken down the shaft as fast as gravity could pull; 9.8 meters per second squared... leaving her head on the top floor of some office building.
To save his life, the doctors at Emanuel had to transfuse him with massive amounts blood, and other blood products, donated by altruistic souls, or perhaps destitute college students... trading plasma for tuition money. It's too bad though, that one of these life savers had Hepatitis C, and gave it away as freely as they had given their blood.
As I explained what the next steps would be- uncovering the genotype (which would likely determine if he could be cured of this, or eventually lose his life due to it) and the eventual biopsy to stage the progression of the disease; the destruction it had wreaked on his liver.... he just looked at me, silently, with an empty stare.
I think it's true, once you tell someone the bad news, "you have cancer" or "sorry, the HIV test was positive," they don't hear anything after that for some minutes.
I don't think he heard anything I said for a few minutes after the initial uppercut that was the bad news. He was dazed, punch drunk with just one shot; though a haymaker it was.
It took some time, and much repetition, but I think it sank in... as much as it could anyway.
It must have all seemed so surreal. I imagine being in his position, taking the handful of papers with information on Hepatitis C, the information I had written, the orders for bloodwork, biopsy and follow-up instructions...
Though it took over a half hour for the whole encounter, it must have seemed like it happened in a flash.... a complete blur. Not unlike when as a child, you took your bike down too steep a hill, with too little emphasis on the brakes, and a blatant disregard for your own health. you'd crash- with a flip over the handlebars, arms and legs flailing, torso flipping in what seems a far too fast manner for nature to allow. All you manage to see in a blur of colors as you're flung about, and you feel what you know should be pain, but it just comes to quickly to hurt now, it just feels.... unkind, and terrifying.... but it will, it will hurt. once your brain catches up to the physical assault, it will hurt.
I'm not sure if his brain caught up before he left... but i am sure of one thing; when it does, he will hurt.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Love and Mathematics
Nothing is working.
The cell phone doesn’t get any reception. I’d call T-mobile and complain, but I’ve got no reception. I’d throw the dang thing, but that’s how I ended up with this cheap replacement phone anyway. I guess i shouldn’t complain, it actually works. well, it would if i had any reception. but the good thing is that it has an alarm that actually works, my fairly recently deceased (assassinated) “smart phone” had the dumbest alarm. i don’t know where ‘HTC’ hired their engineers from, but they need to cut ties with that place.
i can’t seem to update my epocrates... not only that, but somehow, in my attempt to update- validating the hundred some dollars i spent on it, i was DOWNgraded by the smart folks at Epocrates. i’ve tried all that i know how to do, short of asking for help from the jerks that screwed me.... so, i did that. still haven’t heard back been able to fix the problem after several emails and a half hour conversation this AM. I know I’m a screw up sometimes, but, I’m having a hard time understanding how I could have possibly messed things up so badly that no one can figure out how to fix it. so, i blame them.
I don’t get any wireless signal out here, which is why, at the moment, I’m typing this on apple works and then will copy and paste it into its final destination to be broadcast to my thousands of adoring readers.
and i need to be near a wall when writing, not because I so love walls, but i’m in dire need of their marriage with power outlets. It seems that Apple specifically engineers their batteries to completely stop working after about 2 years. It wasn’t a slow death.... my computer did not battle cancer, COPD, or some other long, and draining disease. It was hit by a train.
boom. done. it’s over.
i’d like to have a word with a few of these engineers. it’s a good thing that they’re normally weakling nerds, surrounded by calculators, crumpled up papers, pencil sharpeners, rulers and computers. at least that’s how i think of them. it makes me think i could win in a physical battle, not a battle of logic... i’d lose that for sure to those nerds.
anyway, nerds and their nerd equipment aside, I feel sort of cut off.
i hate it. but, i love it too. I guess then, by definition, it’s a love hate thing.
there’s the desire to connect... to share what I’m experiencing with someone who’d give a damn. someone who’d hike falcon cove with me, or watch the sunset through twin rocks, build a fire on the beach and have one too many beers before having to just sleep right at the scene of the crime. I guess that’s why there’s the part of me who keeps telling my stories here, and sending pictures to friends and family. It’s not because I want to show everyone what I’ve done, or so I have proof that I was once where I claimed to be, and it’s certainly not so I don’t forget.... These pictures cannot imitate, not even slightly, the beauty that is burned into my mind from the actual moments I’ve experienced; the things that i’ve seen. I’ve tried, I’ve tried to capture this... and i fail, every time, i fail. What I send to you, what i post online, are failures. They have failed to capture the actual sights i’ve seen, what i’ve experienced; they are lies. and they cannot capture the feeling of it all. no... they are not proof, cues, nor are they trophies.
they are only invitations.
invitations to each of you, to sit next to me - your back against an ancient, washed up cedar log that is perfectly aligned with the waves rolling into shore- the sand under your backside, growing slightly cool after sitting for a few minutes. you’d notice how the sun makes you squint, so much so that your brow begins to ache, but you’re still grateful that it’s sunny.
Though it’s warm enough, maybe 55, you hug your arms to your chest as if to help pull the sun’s warmth straight into your core. and when you close your eyes, you notice that you’ve stared at the sun one too many times, for you see spots in your vision, even with eyes closed.... 9 or 10 perfectly round orbs in the otherwise darkness of your closed eyes. It was hard to avoid though, as the sun was near eye level just above the horizon, perfect yellow, orange and pink above the curling waves as it neared the end of its daily journey over the pacific. and the phantom suns in your vision seem a fair price to pay for this luxury. .
With eyes closed, you’d begin to notice the constant and reassuring sound of the waves.... low, bellowing, and heavy as they continually climb up the shore, trying their best to nip at your bare feet. They threaten, but don’t quite reach your toes... in fact they’re much farther away than you thought once you open your eyes.... you see that they’re breaking about 100 yards away... though you could have sworn that if you weren’t diligent, you’d be caught in the rush of a rogue wave and swept out to sea.
to the quickest thought, this doesn’t sound so bad. as you stare at haystack rock, all you can think of doing is climbing it... and if the current would just swallow you up, it just might take you right to its rocky shore.... from there, wouldn’t you get a view! for, from the beach, you can see for miles. Seemingly the only thing that disallows you to see strait to Canada as you gaze north, is the far off mist that slides into the coves that give birth to delicately up-sloping fir covered hills, as well as sheer vertical rock faces that appear as if they’ve been scraped from the sky to the water with a knife fit for God Himself.
If from the beach, this is your view, why, imagine what you could see from atop that monstrous rock. Maybe you could see Russia...
maybe not...
You’re soon snapped from your slide into memories of election season, back into a much sweeter reality. “I hate white rabbits, I hate white rabbits, I HATE, WHITE, RABBITS... ecchuuhh, eecchuuuhmm!” I’d cough, after my failed attempt at thwarting away the smoke from my face, which now seems to be flickering with light from the fire.... though it’s somewhat obscured by smoke that’s made me physically cry, as if cutting a powerful onion.
You just smile, and hug yourself tighter, grateful for the warmth of the fire now that the sun has gone.
It’s much darker now, and growing cooler... the stars have been awakened, and have begun their nocturnal duty, now that the rainbow of colors, and subsequent lingering twilight has disappeared from the not so quickly forgotten sunset. You close your eyes; the orbs remain.... as if to remind you of who’s the biggest and brightest in the universe... but the proud sun is unaware that while his image, burnt into your eyeballs, reminds you of the newly faded sunset, it seems to serve more so as your very own starry constellation. It leaves you in want for a shooting star, a constellation that you could actually pick out... could actually see. Though, you have only ever been able to recognize the big dipper, maybe Cassiopeia or orion’s belt, and it’s been so long since you’ve laid out and stared at the stars.
“Why don’t I do this every night?” You’d ask yourself, as you stare into the abyss.
I look in your direction as I tend to the fire in the middle of what seems to be the largest beach i’ve ever known, and I notice you have the biggest little grin on you face. It’s like the Reno of smiles. If I’ve ever seen someone truly content, it’s you right now, with eyes fixed towards the darkness, connecting points of light with your index finger.
Like a conductor, you wave your finger with purpose, though much slower, much more deliberately. From brighter, to dimmer, to blueish... to reddish.... to the brightest of white. At each tiny ball of fire, you stop for a moment, with a tap of your finger- like you’ve touched the star itself.... then slowly trace the line of best fit, in your mind, to the next numbered target in your cosmic connect the dots.
“What are you drawing?”
“I’m not sure yet.” You’d reply.
“Will you tell me when you figure it out?” I’d ask.
“You’ll be the first to know.”
This is how the night goes.... and it goes.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So, since you all can’t come and enjoy this with me, i hope you managed to paint yourself into this story, into the beach side with me.
I’m painting you guys in too.
Thanks for reading.
The cell phone doesn’t get any reception. I’d call T-mobile and complain, but I’ve got no reception. I’d throw the dang thing, but that’s how I ended up with this cheap replacement phone anyway. I guess i shouldn’t complain, it actually works. well, it would if i had any reception. but the good thing is that it has an alarm that actually works, my fairly recently deceased (assassinated) “smart phone” had the dumbest alarm. i don’t know where ‘HTC’ hired their engineers from, but they need to cut ties with that place.
i can’t seem to update my epocrates... not only that, but somehow, in my attempt to update- validating the hundred some dollars i spent on it, i was DOWNgraded by the smart folks at Epocrates. i’ve tried all that i know how to do, short of asking for help from the jerks that screwed me.... so, i did that. still haven’t heard back been able to fix the problem after several emails and a half hour conversation this AM. I know I’m a screw up sometimes, but, I’m having a hard time understanding how I could have possibly messed things up so badly that no one can figure out how to fix it. so, i blame them.
I don’t get any wireless signal out here, which is why, at the moment, I’m typing this on apple works and then will copy and paste it into its final destination to be broadcast to my thousands of adoring readers.
and i need to be near a wall when writing, not because I so love walls, but i’m in dire need of their marriage with power outlets. It seems that Apple specifically engineers their batteries to completely stop working after about 2 years. It wasn’t a slow death.... my computer did not battle cancer, COPD, or some other long, and draining disease. It was hit by a train.
boom. done. it’s over.
i’d like to have a word with a few of these engineers. it’s a good thing that they’re normally weakling nerds, surrounded by calculators, crumpled up papers, pencil sharpeners, rulers and computers. at least that’s how i think of them. it makes me think i could win in a physical battle, not a battle of logic... i’d lose that for sure to those nerds.
anyway, nerds and their nerd equipment aside, I feel sort of cut off.
i hate it. but, i love it too. I guess then, by definition, it’s a love hate thing.
there’s the desire to connect... to share what I’m experiencing with someone who’d give a damn. someone who’d hike falcon cove with me, or watch the sunset through twin rocks, build a fire on the beach and have one too many beers before having to just sleep right at the scene of the crime. I guess that’s why there’s the part of me who keeps telling my stories here, and sending pictures to friends and family. It’s not because I want to show everyone what I’ve done, or so I have proof that I was once where I claimed to be, and it’s certainly not so I don’t forget.... These pictures cannot imitate, not even slightly, the beauty that is burned into my mind from the actual moments I’ve experienced; the things that i’ve seen. I’ve tried, I’ve tried to capture this... and i fail, every time, i fail. What I send to you, what i post online, are failures. They have failed to capture the actual sights i’ve seen, what i’ve experienced; they are lies. and they cannot capture the feeling of it all. no... they are not proof, cues, nor are they trophies.
they are only invitations.
invitations to each of you, to sit next to me - your back against an ancient, washed up cedar log that is perfectly aligned with the waves rolling into shore- the sand under your backside, growing slightly cool after sitting for a few minutes. you’d notice how the sun makes you squint, so much so that your brow begins to ache, but you’re still grateful that it’s sunny.
Though it’s warm enough, maybe 55, you hug your arms to your chest as if to help pull the sun’s warmth straight into your core. and when you close your eyes, you notice that you’ve stared at the sun one too many times, for you see spots in your vision, even with eyes closed.... 9 or 10 perfectly round orbs in the otherwise darkness of your closed eyes. It was hard to avoid though, as the sun was near eye level just above the horizon, perfect yellow, orange and pink above the curling waves as it neared the end of its daily journey over the pacific. and the phantom suns in your vision seem a fair price to pay for this luxury. .
With eyes closed, you’d begin to notice the constant and reassuring sound of the waves.... low, bellowing, and heavy as they continually climb up the shore, trying their best to nip at your bare feet. They threaten, but don’t quite reach your toes... in fact they’re much farther away than you thought once you open your eyes.... you see that they’re breaking about 100 yards away... though you could have sworn that if you weren’t diligent, you’d be caught in the rush of a rogue wave and swept out to sea.
to the quickest thought, this doesn’t sound so bad. as you stare at haystack rock, all you can think of doing is climbing it... and if the current would just swallow you up, it just might take you right to its rocky shore.... from there, wouldn’t you get a view! for, from the beach, you can see for miles. Seemingly the only thing that disallows you to see strait to Canada as you gaze north, is the far off mist that slides into the coves that give birth to delicately up-sloping fir covered hills, as well as sheer vertical rock faces that appear as if they’ve been scraped from the sky to the water with a knife fit for God Himself.
If from the beach, this is your view, why, imagine what you could see from atop that monstrous rock. Maybe you could see Russia...
maybe not...
You’re soon snapped from your slide into memories of election season, back into a much sweeter reality. “I hate white rabbits, I hate white rabbits, I HATE, WHITE, RABBITS... ecchuuhh, eecchuuuhmm!” I’d cough, after my failed attempt at thwarting away the smoke from my face, which now seems to be flickering with light from the fire.... though it’s somewhat obscured by smoke that’s made me physically cry, as if cutting a powerful onion.
You just smile, and hug yourself tighter, grateful for the warmth of the fire now that the sun has gone.
It’s much darker now, and growing cooler... the stars have been awakened, and have begun their nocturnal duty, now that the rainbow of colors, and subsequent lingering twilight has disappeared from the not so quickly forgotten sunset. You close your eyes; the orbs remain.... as if to remind you of who’s the biggest and brightest in the universe... but the proud sun is unaware that while his image, burnt into your eyeballs, reminds you of the newly faded sunset, it seems to serve more so as your very own starry constellation. It leaves you in want for a shooting star, a constellation that you could actually pick out... could actually see. Though, you have only ever been able to recognize the big dipper, maybe Cassiopeia or orion’s belt, and it’s been so long since you’ve laid out and stared at the stars.
“Why don’t I do this every night?” You’d ask yourself, as you stare into the abyss.
I look in your direction as I tend to the fire in the middle of what seems to be the largest beach i’ve ever known, and I notice you have the biggest little grin on you face. It’s like the Reno of smiles. If I’ve ever seen someone truly content, it’s you right now, with eyes fixed towards the darkness, connecting points of light with your index finger.
Like a conductor, you wave your finger with purpose, though much slower, much more deliberately. From brighter, to dimmer, to blueish... to reddish.... to the brightest of white. At each tiny ball of fire, you stop for a moment, with a tap of your finger- like you’ve touched the star itself.... then slowly trace the line of best fit, in your mind, to the next numbered target in your cosmic connect the dots.
“What are you drawing?”
“I’m not sure yet.” You’d reply.
“Will you tell me when you figure it out?” I’d ask.
“You’ll be the first to know.”
This is how the night goes.... and it goes.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So, since you all can’t come and enjoy this with me, i hope you managed to paint yourself into this story, into the beach side with me.
I’m painting you guys in too.
Thanks for reading.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Hi, Atus.... it's Valentine
I've been a recluse. It's work, eat, sleep, repeat. I don't mind, but it leaves little time for the click and clack of keystrokes on this failing mac. Sorry if in my absence, your days have grown slightly more grey; I'm sure they haven't.
Life on the coast still humbles me every day, whether it be at work... when I realize I know even less than I think, or whether it be by the landscape itself. It has a way of making you feel very small; not unimportant, in fact, it makes you feel nearly the opposite somehow.
I went to Hug Point today, it was low tide. That's the only way to see it, or so I'm told. It apparently got its name when early settlers of the west waited until low tide to sneak around the point, safe from the breaking waves of the Pacific. At high tide, the rock faces, and solitary boulders jutting out of the sand are buried by the sea. The beach disappears. So, you can picture how the adventures found it necessary to 'hug' the edge of the point, when even at low tide, the water threatens to bite at your ankles.
I like the story, but I like to think it was a bit more simple... and directly related to actual hugs. The irony was not lost on me, that I was at hug point today, Valentine's Day, without anyone to hug. It sort of made me laugh.
I didn't see anyone else there hugging... though there were plenty of candidates. It seems that maybe they ascribe to the historical naming story of this part of the Oregon Coast, not my simple-minded - but more Valentine related one.
I think next time I go back, I might ask someone to take a picture of me hugging the rock-face. It's rather silly, I know.... but, eh... don't care. I love to spread the hug love.
I guess that's about it for now... I'll try to be better at keeping up with this online journal of mine, for whoever out there is interested.
Until then....
Life on the coast still humbles me every day, whether it be at work... when I realize I know even less than I think, or whether it be by the landscape itself. It has a way of making you feel very small; not unimportant, in fact, it makes you feel nearly the opposite somehow.
I went to Hug Point today, it was low tide. That's the only way to see it, or so I'm told. It apparently got its name when early settlers of the west waited until low tide to sneak around the point, safe from the breaking waves of the Pacific. At high tide, the rock faces, and solitary boulders jutting out of the sand are buried by the sea. The beach disappears. So, you can picture how the adventures found it necessary to 'hug' the edge of the point, when even at low tide, the water threatens to bite at your ankles.
I like the story, but I like to think it was a bit more simple... and directly related to actual hugs. The irony was not lost on me, that I was at hug point today, Valentine's Day, without anyone to hug. It sort of made me laugh.
I didn't see anyone else there hugging... though there were plenty of candidates. It seems that maybe they ascribe to the historical naming story of this part of the Oregon Coast, not my simple-minded - but more Valentine related one.
I think next time I go back, I might ask someone to take a picture of me hugging the rock-face. It's rather silly, I know.... but, eh... don't care. I love to spread the hug love.
I guess that's about it for now... I'll try to be better at keeping up with this online journal of mine, for whoever out there is interested.
Until then....
Sunday, January 11, 2009
White outs, white knuckles, and beauty
I recently returned to the west coast from Minnesota, visiting family and friends, which was wonderful as usual. In my original attempt to get to Minnesota, I was held up in Portland because the sky decided to release unheard of amounts of snow in Portland. About 14 inches in one day. This never happens in Portland, we get that kind of snow, and then some, in the mountains, but not "in the valley" as they say.
Portland was paralyzed.
Major highways were closed.
People were snowed into their homes.
Chains on tires were a common site (which is still weird to me, a native Minnesotan.)
And the airport shut down. All flights in and out were canceled on the 21st, the day I was to fly to Minneapolis. So, I rescheduled for Christmas day, the earliest flight I could get, and made the most of a snowy Portland. It ended up being just peachy.
In any case, I made it out, and back on the 3rd of January after a great time at home. Upon my return, all of the snow had melted from the "Arctic Freeze" as the news had so annoyingly called it. I had a day to unpack, repack, and check a map to find out where exactly on the coast I was to be heading the following day.
I had a house rented in a little town called Nehalem, smooshed between Wheeler and Manzanita, on the Oregon Coast. So, I began packing, and mapping, and towards the time of my departure, I looked out the window and noticed it had begun to snow, hard.
"Crap." I thought.
I had to leave that Sunday night, because I started my next rotation the following morning at 6 AM. And it wouldn't be too bad, I am a Minnesota native, I'm used to driving in snow, and I have a large, heavy, surprisingly reliable car in the snow; Betty, a 1989 Cadillac DeVille. She's cool.
But, I knew that if in the Valley it was already puking snow, it was going to get pretty bad driving through the coastal range to get to the Pacific Ocean, my new home for 3 months.
I tried not to think about it. But as I hit the road, Highway 26 was already white, and bore little resemblance to a road just outside of town. At least this 'road' is straight, and free from fallen rocks, and dizzying cliffs only feet away from the tires of my car. Though, that was precisely where I was headed.
My knuckles were already white with anticipation; white with a kung-fu grip on Betty's wheel.
"Sorry Betty, I don't mean to choke you, but this road suuuuuuuuuuuucks, and it's going to get worse."
I press on. At each exit, scores of cars decide better of their coastal pursuit, and peel off to separate gas stations, and rest stops to plan their next move, a smarter move than continuing on... as it would only get much worse.
I wasn't that smart, or maybe I was brave... well, not brave, but too proud.
"I'm from Minnesota, I'm used to driving in this kind of weather."
"Well, Mr. Pride, that's sort of true" my good sense thought, "but in Minnesota they salt, sand and plow the streets, AND they don't have mountains like the ones to which you must cut through tonight."
"Pish-Posh! I'm doin' it!" says my pride.
I press on through the black of the night, which is starkly contrasted by the thick white waves of snow that pelt my windshield, and the growing blanket that seems to cover everything around me. I begin to approach the mountains; the road winds, narrows and climbs as it presses on through the coastal range.
Even in perfect weather conditions, much of "The Sunset Highway" needs to be driven carefully, and slowly, as its course winds through the path of least resistance which was cut through the land years ago. And even in these perfect weather conditions, at times, it feels like you are not even on a road at all. It feels like you are floating through the forest, a forest of ancient, towering pines who stand triumphantly, but reassuringly. They make you want to stop your car. They make you want to get out, and just be there among them.
Tonight, it's even more beautiful, the bows of these giant pines are bending under the weight of about a foot of fresh snow. They all seem to point point directly at me as I pass, very slowly by. This white blanket seems to blur the lines between the road and the forest even more than usual. I can see no road; only white. I feel like I'm on a path through the woods, to somewhere with promise, somewhere where there is a good friend, a warm embrace, a crackling fire.... something wonderful. In this moment, it's perfect... I can't seem to recall anything more beautiful.
For this beauty, there is however, a beast.
I am more white-knuckled than ever. I have much faith in Betty, but she's never been tested like this. For that matter, neither have I. The softness of the snow, and fresh powder which characterized the pass and the majority of the mountains was easy enough to navigate, but as I begin my decent down the west side of the range, and nearer the Ocean... the temperature begins to rise. The large puffs of snow that seemed to resemble floating cotton balls begin to transform. The relative peace, and tranquility- the silence of my journey... in actuality, and in my mind- begin to change. The tires that had been soft, and silenced by the fresh, airy snow, now became noticeable. The windshield wipers spring into action, to clear the now freezing, sleet like rainy-snowy mix from my view. The road feels as if it is coated with KY jelly. Betty morphed from a staunch, Minnesotan... a TRUE viking, conquering the terrain presented to her, into a drunk 19 year old, high-heeled wearing co-ed, walking down a slippery frozen campus sidewalk just after an ice storm.
Betty was skating down the pass, and she wasn't alone. Other cars, and their occupants, were turned into fearful 2000 pound curling stones without a proper broom to guide their path.
We made it through this hybrid storm, Betty and I.... the worst was over, after some downhill fish-tailing, and fear of pulling some unintended 360's. The road began appearing through the white that covered it. And this is when the wind began.
Once the snow had disappeared, and completely transformed into rain, the coast was in site. The bent sideways trees and bushes along the cliffs next to me were testament to the fact that this day's strong winds were not anything unusual. These trees had grown up with such staggering wind, that the position in which they were currently resting, was not due to a current gust, but were a result of years of constant battering from the wind and rain. They don't even seem to move anymore with the powerful blast of air, but Betty does.
WHOOOOSH! Betty is pushed quickly to the left, and she isn't a small drink of water.
WHOOOOSH again, and a slap of water, like a wave, hits me on the right, as if the ocean had a fire hose aimed at me while I flickered through the trees as I drove down the coastline.
The water wasn't a constant pour, it came in waves, just as if I was actually driving along side the breakers on the beach. And I kept waiting for Betty to take flight, albeit a quick one... one that ended in betty on her back, and me fairly unhappy.
It is beautiful. It is scary. I am alive. I am lucky to be here, to be right where I am.
This is perfect.
I made it through the blizzard, through the mountains, and finally, through the tsunami, to my new beach-side home. I finally ease my grip on Betty's wheel. The feeling returns to my hands... and I embark on my next journey; day one of Family Practice.
I'm the new guy again. I guess, after all, I am Newguy.
cn
Portland was paralyzed.
Major highways were closed.
People were snowed into their homes.
Chains on tires were a common site (which is still weird to me, a native Minnesotan.)
And the airport shut down. All flights in and out were canceled on the 21st, the day I was to fly to Minneapolis. So, I rescheduled for Christmas day, the earliest flight I could get, and made the most of a snowy Portland. It ended up being just peachy.
In any case, I made it out, and back on the 3rd of January after a great time at home. Upon my return, all of the snow had melted from the "Arctic Freeze" as the news had so annoyingly called it. I had a day to unpack, repack, and check a map to find out where exactly on the coast I was to be heading the following day.
I had a house rented in a little town called Nehalem, smooshed between Wheeler and Manzanita, on the Oregon Coast. So, I began packing, and mapping, and towards the time of my departure, I looked out the window and noticed it had begun to snow, hard.
"Crap." I thought.
I had to leave that Sunday night, because I started my next rotation the following morning at 6 AM. And it wouldn't be too bad, I am a Minnesota native, I'm used to driving in snow, and I have a large, heavy, surprisingly reliable car in the snow; Betty, a 1989 Cadillac DeVille. She's cool.
But, I knew that if in the Valley it was already puking snow, it was going to get pretty bad driving through the coastal range to get to the Pacific Ocean, my new home for 3 months.
I tried not to think about it. But as I hit the road, Highway 26 was already white, and bore little resemblance to a road just outside of town. At least this 'road' is straight, and free from fallen rocks, and dizzying cliffs only feet away from the tires of my car. Though, that was precisely where I was headed.
My knuckles were already white with anticipation; white with a kung-fu grip on Betty's wheel.
"Sorry Betty, I don't mean to choke you, but this road suuuuuuuuuuuucks, and it's going to get worse."
I press on. At each exit, scores of cars decide better of their coastal pursuit, and peel off to separate gas stations, and rest stops to plan their next move, a smarter move than continuing on... as it would only get much worse.
I wasn't that smart, or maybe I was brave... well, not brave, but too proud.
"I'm from Minnesota, I'm used to driving in this kind of weather."
"Well, Mr. Pride, that's sort of true" my good sense thought, "but in Minnesota they salt, sand and plow the streets, AND they don't have mountains like the ones to which you must cut through tonight."
"Pish-Posh! I'm doin' it!" says my pride.
I press on through the black of the night, which is starkly contrasted by the thick white waves of snow that pelt my windshield, and the growing blanket that seems to cover everything around me. I begin to approach the mountains; the road winds, narrows and climbs as it presses on through the coastal range.
Even in perfect weather conditions, much of "The Sunset Highway" needs to be driven carefully, and slowly, as its course winds through the path of least resistance which was cut through the land years ago. And even in these perfect weather conditions, at times, it feels like you are not even on a road at all. It feels like you are floating through the forest, a forest of ancient, towering pines who stand triumphantly, but reassuringly. They make you want to stop your car. They make you want to get out, and just be there among them.
Tonight, it's even more beautiful, the bows of these giant pines are bending under the weight of about a foot of fresh snow. They all seem to point point directly at me as I pass, very slowly by. This white blanket seems to blur the lines between the road and the forest even more than usual. I can see no road; only white. I feel like I'm on a path through the woods, to somewhere with promise, somewhere where there is a good friend, a warm embrace, a crackling fire.... something wonderful. In this moment, it's perfect... I can't seem to recall anything more beautiful.
For this beauty, there is however, a beast.
I am more white-knuckled than ever. I have much faith in Betty, but she's never been tested like this. For that matter, neither have I. The softness of the snow, and fresh powder which characterized the pass and the majority of the mountains was easy enough to navigate, but as I begin my decent down the west side of the range, and nearer the Ocean... the temperature begins to rise. The large puffs of snow that seemed to resemble floating cotton balls begin to transform. The relative peace, and tranquility- the silence of my journey... in actuality, and in my mind- begin to change. The tires that had been soft, and silenced by the fresh, airy snow, now became noticeable. The windshield wipers spring into action, to clear the now freezing, sleet like rainy-snowy mix from my view. The road feels as if it is coated with KY jelly. Betty morphed from a staunch, Minnesotan... a TRUE viking, conquering the terrain presented to her, into a drunk 19 year old, high-heeled wearing co-ed, walking down a slippery frozen campus sidewalk just after an ice storm.
Betty was skating down the pass, and she wasn't alone. Other cars, and their occupants, were turned into fearful 2000 pound curling stones without a proper broom to guide their path.
We made it through this hybrid storm, Betty and I.... the worst was over, after some downhill fish-tailing, and fear of pulling some unintended 360's. The road began appearing through the white that covered it. And this is when the wind began.
Once the snow had disappeared, and completely transformed into rain, the coast was in site. The bent sideways trees and bushes along the cliffs next to me were testament to the fact that this day's strong winds were not anything unusual. These trees had grown up with such staggering wind, that the position in which they were currently resting, was not due to a current gust, but were a result of years of constant battering from the wind and rain. They don't even seem to move anymore with the powerful blast of air, but Betty does.
WHOOOOSH! Betty is pushed quickly to the left, and she isn't a small drink of water.
WHOOOOSH again, and a slap of water, like a wave, hits me on the right, as if the ocean had a fire hose aimed at me while I flickered through the trees as I drove down the coastline.
The water wasn't a constant pour, it came in waves, just as if I was actually driving along side the breakers on the beach. And I kept waiting for Betty to take flight, albeit a quick one... one that ended in betty on her back, and me fairly unhappy.
It is beautiful. It is scary. I am alive. I am lucky to be here, to be right where I am.
This is perfect.
I made it through the blizzard, through the mountains, and finally, through the tsunami, to my new beach-side home. I finally ease my grip on Betty's wheel. The feeling returns to my hands... and I embark on my next journey; day one of Family Practice.
I'm the new guy again. I guess, after all, I am Newguy.
cn
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