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.

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 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.