I sometimes think about you, and our brief, yet terrifying, encounter. Almost never do my thoughts rest solely on you; what you might be doing, or how you've been. But instead, on my great escape.
I think about you all the time. More than just our magical, and all too short time together, but about what could have been. And, I am filled with regret.
I am overtaken by joy. As I today still feel the heart pounding in my chest, I recall the feeling of it slowly giving up, in some sort of agonal rhythm while the rest of me starved for oxygen, and as I gasped for a breath. My body shivered and convulsed in your hands... dying. You just grinned, as if taking pleasure in my demise.
When thinking about our tryst of sorts, I remember smiling gently as I held you in my hands. I had never seen such a perfect specimen. Such life, color and mystery.... such promise.
Trapped in your grip for what seemed like an eternity, I nearly slipped into unconsciousness, I almost gave in. Instead, I somehow slipped back into the sea. Whether it was a result of a last, desperate escape attempt, (a swift swing of my tail), or from a flash of pity that you felt for me, which made you loosen your grasp, I do not know. All I know is that I dove from your vessel, head first into the waves. Like a knife, I plunged through the surface of the water, and cut the hangman's noose from my neck. My heart began to beat more strongly, my muscles began to respond to my commands, my color returned, and the fog began to evaporate from my mind. I am alive.
I let you go. Whether it was clarity of mind and heart that allowed for this, or, just the opposite, was uncertain at the moment. (And, had remained this way for quite some time.) I watched you disappear into the depths of the ocean, as well as the ripple you left behind. With both you, and any evidence that you were actually real, gone, I am left alone... in silence. Nothing remains but the churning of my mind that mimics the slapping of the waves against the hull of the boat. I am left only with questions, most of them begin with "Why".
When the trance was broken, and Fear laid down to rest, I was left with a new feeling of confidence. I swam through the shallows of the clear blue sea, darted through the tapestry of coral, and rode the warm currents through my vast underwater home. I continued on with caution, yes, but more so with bravery... with wisdom and with an overwhelming sense of freedom. I had never felt so alive. It's strange when I think of it... that it took nearly dying to make me truly live.
Why did I let you go? Why did I not pull you in completely, bring you to the bottom of the boat, and lay there with you until your end? I could have made your beauty last forever. You would never have grown old, never have felt hurt, hunger, loss or pain again. You could have stayed with me for the rest of my days, frozen in time... this day, and this time. It only would have cost you your life. Instead, you're gone. And I'm left only with a memory, and the sorrow that is loss. I am alone.
Since our battle, I have met many other fish. I have swam to distant, foreign seas, seen amazing things that I thought impossible, and I have become even more beautiful as I've grown. I've never returned, in mind or body, to the spot of my near death... and subsequent new life...
I've not left the spot where we met all that time ago, in body, or mind. I float, alone and silent in my aluminum boat. I still cast a line for you, from time to time, but you never bite. I doubt you come around here anymore. I have caught other fish since you, but they all seem pale, lifeless and ordinary by comparison. None the less, I continue casting, it's all I can do anymore...
You will never have me again, for I know you and your lures. You must come to terms with it. I will stay away, never to see you again... but oddly thankful for our chance encounter...
I fear I will never see you again, but I cannot accept this. I am regret personified.
In nearly suffocating me, you gave me true life.
You gave me a glimpse of true happiness, then took it away.
I thank God every day that I am the one that got away.
I curse His name each day, for you are the one that got away.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Let us mend this first
Her knees give way under the force of her own body's weight. Though she is slight, it is enough to make them creak during their descent to the earth. It is a somewhat painful reminder of the years that they have weathered in concert with the rest of her equally talkative joints. Despite the pain, she continues to the ground, which has recently become a much more difficult, and dangerous, task. Though she knows the danger lies not within the bend, or even the possible break, but with the perception of such a bend.
Her squeaking hinges speak in some foreign language that only others who share her collection of years and experiences seem to understand. They ask not for pity or help, but only for someone to listen.
No one can seem to hear her over the ever present screams, bickering and explosions that poison her surroundings. How could they, she wonders. It is difficult to hear whispering in one ear while someone shouts in the other.
She is the whisper.
She continues to let gravity pull her to the ground until her arthritic patellae find the mat lain over the linoleum floor. With a slight jolt of pain that shoots up her thighs, her downward plunge is halted, and she is halfway there.
Other whisperers, and whispers alike, surround her. They slowly grow and build to a quiet crescendo, barely audible to even the keenest of ears, but somehow easily palpable and impossible to ignore.
As she wills her body nearer the floor, her ancient bones somehow keep pace with the other, less prehistoric skeletons, wrapped in equally less wrinkled skin. In this moment, what she sees, what she hears, and what she feels, is love. Though she knows that others may not interpret it in quite the same way.
She knows that we are scared, and that we are hurt, and that in times like these, even the best of us can loosen our grip on even our tightest held convictions.
At the conclusion of her daily bend, the whispers fade, and yet again give way to the now usual barks and fire that are the blaring minority. Though, none of us even seemed to notice the symphony of whispers in our one ear, as we were being bombarded with the lonely screeches in the other.
As she exits the mosque and steps back into the cacophony of the city where she was born so many years ago, through the throngs of protest signs, burning Qurans and angry faces, she feels as distant from an American citizen as she believes possible, yet instead of finding sadness, or hatred, her mind focuses only on one solitary thought. She hopes that her prayer is one day answered; please let them hear our whispers through the screams.
Her squeaking hinges speak in some foreign language that only others who share her collection of years and experiences seem to understand. They ask not for pity or help, but only for someone to listen.
No one can seem to hear her over the ever present screams, bickering and explosions that poison her surroundings. How could they, she wonders. It is difficult to hear whispering in one ear while someone shouts in the other.
She is the whisper.
She continues to let gravity pull her to the ground until her arthritic patellae find the mat lain over the linoleum floor. With a slight jolt of pain that shoots up her thighs, her downward plunge is halted, and she is halfway there.
Other whisperers, and whispers alike, surround her. They slowly grow and build to a quiet crescendo, barely audible to even the keenest of ears, but somehow easily palpable and impossible to ignore.
As she wills her body nearer the floor, her ancient bones somehow keep pace with the other, less prehistoric skeletons, wrapped in equally less wrinkled skin. In this moment, what she sees, what she hears, and what she feels, is love. Though she knows that others may not interpret it in quite the same way.
She knows that we are scared, and that we are hurt, and that in times like these, even the best of us can loosen our grip on even our tightest held convictions.
At the conclusion of her daily bend, the whispers fade, and yet again give way to the now usual barks and fire that are the blaring minority. Though, none of us even seemed to notice the symphony of whispers in our one ear, as we were being bombarded with the lonely screeches in the other.
As she exits the mosque and steps back into the cacophony of the city where she was born so many years ago, through the throngs of protest signs, burning Qurans and angry faces, she feels as distant from an American citizen as she believes possible, yet instead of finding sadness, or hatred, her mind focuses only on one solitary thought. She hopes that her prayer is one day answered; please let them hear our whispers through the screams.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
The Sound of Science
It's physical... elemental even.
With the water splashing about me, shielded by my yet to be named car, I am hummed into a trance. Whether it be simply from the noise, and subtle low buzz from the spay hitting my black beauty... or from the tune flooding from her speakers, which dwarfs the water's buzz with it's own, deeper, stronger core-shaking earthquake-like rumble that comes in sequence. Cecil Otter seemed to calculate the baseline with this moment in mind, just for me. As the robotic arms encircle us, spinning too, in sequence, like a choreographed dance with Cecil's masterpiece, I enjoy every deep low of the base as it hits, with an extended shake, like that of a strong, yet smooth blast of thunder. It fills my body with a buzz, which feels strongest in my chest, and radiates outward like heat from a fire.
It's moving.
Even if I were to focus merely on the feeling that the sound waves bore into me, and ignore the poetry recited, it is still like a drug. It reminds me of the sensation of holding two magnets near, like-polarized ends together, and feeling the push-back of an all but invisible, and seemingly imaginary force. You wouldn't believe it if you hadn't felt it for yourself.
The arms of the car wash continue their repetitive journey around my nameless car, and I continue to slip deeper into my trance. I stare, helpless and smiling, at the rearview mirror to my left which has become a happy victim of the artificial thunder around us. With each roar, the largest beads of water, as if connected to one another, move in gravity's direction only during the buzz of sound's wave.
It's beautiful.
In a car-wash in downtown Milwaukee, music roaring, and miles away from the nearest tree, I feel connected to nature. Not trees, or animals, but elements; science.
I found myself, just as the beads of water did, at the mercy of the thunderous rumble of the bass. And, when I really thought about it a bit more, I realized that I really had no hope at a different fate than those drops of water, for I am indeed, made mostly of water. I'm elemental. Why would it then, in my body, be any less prone to being shaken in such a way than if it were not, strictly speaking, a part of me.
I guess the only real difference is that I could appreciate the words being sung to me, whereas the water that did not belong to my body, could not. Though, sometimes, I wonder about that too.
With the water splashing about me, shielded by my yet to be named car, I am hummed into a trance. Whether it be simply from the noise, and subtle low buzz from the spay hitting my black beauty... or from the tune flooding from her speakers, which dwarfs the water's buzz with it's own, deeper, stronger core-shaking earthquake-like rumble that comes in sequence. Cecil Otter seemed to calculate the baseline with this moment in mind, just for me. As the robotic arms encircle us, spinning too, in sequence, like a choreographed dance with Cecil's masterpiece, I enjoy every deep low of the base as it hits, with an extended shake, like that of a strong, yet smooth blast of thunder. It fills my body with a buzz, which feels strongest in my chest, and radiates outward like heat from a fire.
It's moving.
Even if I were to focus merely on the feeling that the sound waves bore into me, and ignore the poetry recited, it is still like a drug. It reminds me of the sensation of holding two magnets near, like-polarized ends together, and feeling the push-back of an all but invisible, and seemingly imaginary force. You wouldn't believe it if you hadn't felt it for yourself.
The arms of the car wash continue their repetitive journey around my nameless car, and I continue to slip deeper into my trance. I stare, helpless and smiling, at the rearview mirror to my left which has become a happy victim of the artificial thunder around us. With each roar, the largest beads of water, as if connected to one another, move in gravity's direction only during the buzz of sound's wave.
It's beautiful.
In a car-wash in downtown Milwaukee, music roaring, and miles away from the nearest tree, I feel connected to nature. Not trees, or animals, but elements; science.
I found myself, just as the beads of water did, at the mercy of the thunderous rumble of the bass. And, when I really thought about it a bit more, I realized that I really had no hope at a different fate than those drops of water, for I am indeed, made mostly of water. I'm elemental. Why would it then, in my body, be any less prone to being shaken in such a way than if it were not, strictly speaking, a part of me.
I guess the only real difference is that I could appreciate the words being sung to me, whereas the water that did not belong to my body, could not. Though, sometimes, I wonder about that too.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered
03:45; three quarters of the way through, what I've been told, is the bewitching hour, and it's darker than usual in here. Except of course, for the yellow glow emanating from the street lamp outside that is sneaking through the closed blinds of my bedroom. With each subtle, yet clumsy move of my head, the light dances, flicks, and pierces my half opened eyes through the gaps in the aluminum, cutting straight through my night-vision like a welding flash; it is nearly blinding.
I dream awake.
Fifteen minutes remain, and as the ghosts dance about the land of the living, doing their ghostly deeds, I have been reluctantly plucked from my recurrent hibernation (where I am hidden away from such ghosts... on a different plane) out of the in between... in between alive, and.... not so much, and placed into another, different, in between... in between sleep and wake, with a brain that is, also, in between... useful, and useless... on, and off.... under my control, and also, no so much.
I sleep awake.
My brain, as if possessed, or stubborn, continues its story, without paying reverence to the welding-flashes in my eye, the beating of the air from the fan as it smashes against my bare back, or the plain fact that I am now awake, at least in the sense that I see, smell, feel, walk and talk. I test it; "I am awake." Still, the grey matter continues without the slightest of hesitations, the disc is scratch free, there will be no skips, freezes or stopping here. The movie, unrelenting, plays on. If only this were the one with that girl from 40 days and 40 nights.... or that mystery girl who joins me every so often, and seems to be perfect in every single way. Instead, it had to be this.
I wake to dreams.
Is it the ghosts, in their last unencumbered fifteen minutes of the day, that haunt me and possess my synapses? It couldn't be, for ghouls of the in between, in my new, forced in between, would be unknown to me, unrecognizable. Yet, I know these faces. I know these scenarios. These came from my life... came from my day, my yesterday... my in.... forget the between. These were real. Why is my conscious spilling into my somewhat conscious, and, why must I still be unable to stop the disc from spinning as my feet hit the wood floor of my kitchen.
I walk to dream's beat.
The slap of my feet as they hit the cold oak serves to bring me to reality, at least it should. The scenes continue, though I've left them at work, and let it all go, my mind, apparently, has not.
I worry in dreams.
Did you do right? Did you do wrong? Can you let it go? Can you live with your mistakes? How did you simply punch the clock and leave? How are you still smiling? These are all questions chirped to me relentlessly, by some cricket with a top hat and cane. Day, night, dreams, sleep, awake, alone, surrounded and all the imaginable in betweens, he chirps. At least, I hope it's him, and not the recently departed... who've left this world too early on because of me and my mistakes, and have thusly decided to spend their least captive hour with me, in my extra dark and ominous apartment, reminding me of our fateful encounter.
I hold on to it all.
I dream awake.
Fifteen minutes remain, and as the ghosts dance about the land of the living, doing their ghostly deeds, I have been reluctantly plucked from my recurrent hibernation (where I am hidden away from such ghosts... on a different plane) out of the in between... in between alive, and.... not so much, and placed into another, different, in between... in between sleep and wake, with a brain that is, also, in between... useful, and useless... on, and off.... under my control, and also, no so much.
I sleep awake.
My brain, as if possessed, or stubborn, continues its story, without paying reverence to the welding-flashes in my eye, the beating of the air from the fan as it smashes against my bare back, or the plain fact that I am now awake, at least in the sense that I see, smell, feel, walk and talk. I test it; "I am awake." Still, the grey matter continues without the slightest of hesitations, the disc is scratch free, there will be no skips, freezes or stopping here. The movie, unrelenting, plays on. If only this were the one with that girl from 40 days and 40 nights.... or that mystery girl who joins me every so often, and seems to be perfect in every single way. Instead, it had to be this.
I wake to dreams.
Is it the ghosts, in their last unencumbered fifteen minutes of the day, that haunt me and possess my synapses? It couldn't be, for ghouls of the in between, in my new, forced in between, would be unknown to me, unrecognizable. Yet, I know these faces. I know these scenarios. These came from my life... came from my day, my yesterday... my in.... forget the between. These were real. Why is my conscious spilling into my somewhat conscious, and, why must I still be unable to stop the disc from spinning as my feet hit the wood floor of my kitchen.
I walk to dream's beat.
The slap of my feet as they hit the cold oak serves to bring me to reality, at least it should. The scenes continue, though I've left them at work, and let it all go, my mind, apparently, has not.
I worry in dreams.
Did you do right? Did you do wrong? Can you let it go? Can you live with your mistakes? How did you simply punch the clock and leave? How are you still smiling? These are all questions chirped to me relentlessly, by some cricket with a top hat and cane. Day, night, dreams, sleep, awake, alone, surrounded and all the imaginable in betweens, he chirps. At least, I hope it's him, and not the recently departed... who've left this world too early on because of me and my mistakes, and have thusly decided to spend their least captive hour with me, in my extra dark and ominous apartment, reminding me of our fateful encounter.
I hold on to it all.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Our Knot
We are a tangled mess of Christmas lights.
One that, once, was placed with care, adorning snow capped trees, radiating a gentle golden-white glow that served to bring joy to those lucky enough to stroll by.
Instead, we now sit cold and dark in a snarl that only serves to frustrate.
To remember us as that soft glow, illuminating those around us - trees, streets and people alike - would be to forget the other 48 or 49 weeks of the year when we sat, twirled up in a box, tucked away in a cold, dark and musty attic, where our knots tightened and our bulbs cracked. Neither of us retain the patience to fix each bulb, one by one, or unbind what was bound.
Though our ensnared wires have become familiar, if not comfortable, we are of no good to each other or to those around us as we exist now.
Instead, perhaps it's best to simply buy a new strand
of lights.
One that, once, was placed with care, adorning snow capped trees, radiating a gentle golden-white glow that served to bring joy to those lucky enough to stroll by.
Instead, we now sit cold and dark in a snarl that only serves to frustrate.
To remember us as that soft glow, illuminating those around us - trees, streets and people alike - would be to forget the other 48 or 49 weeks of the year when we sat, twirled up in a box, tucked away in a cold, dark and musty attic, where our knots tightened and our bulbs cracked. Neither of us retain the patience to fix each bulb, one by one, or unbind what was bound.
Though our ensnared wires have become familiar, if not comfortable, we are of no good to each other or to those around us as we exist now.
Instead, perhaps it's best to simply buy a new strand
of lights.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Get Your Garmin
"It tastes.... like, chemicals." I say out loud in my empty apartment.
Nothing but disappointment and I share this bitter moment together, as my beer induced curled-lip frown slowly fades away. Unfortunately, the taste lingers far longer than the stupid look on my face.
"Six weeks." I utter, with bitterness that nears the level of my failed beer.
It took six weeks from boil, to bottle... to get the crappiest tasting beer that has ever coursed across my tongue. It was simply undrinkable.
I don't know what went wrong.... whether I contaminated it during the fermentation, or if the sterilizing mix didn't get rinsed out properly, or if I managed to screw up the recipe during the boil somehow.
I guess it's all moot at this point, what matters to me, while stuck motionless in my kitchen... still staring at this flavor-forsaken, anti-freeze tasting home-brew, is that it sucks.... bad.
However, after getting some advice, I've learned that it's possible, (though unlikely) that my windex-infused ale just might need a few more weeks "bottle conditioning." Well, alright then.... all I have to do is wait.
Waiting and I have, if not gotten along quite well over the years, at least grown accustomed to each other, for, I am patient. Or, at least I can feign patience.
I've spent many tortured hours in malls, holding purses.... or stuck in traffic, tempering my temper.... waiting for my love to get ready for our dinner reservation that was 20 minutes ago, or keeping my cool when the computer decides to freeze up at the most inopportune of moments. All the while my insides scream out so loud that I'm sure someone could hear, or somehow see the pain bubbling over; but they never do. They never discover my secret, that I am a fake.
But, maybe that's all patience really is; pretending to be patient. I think that patience, by definition, requires some inner turmoil; when your mind screams out in frustration, but your outward appearance remains cool. Because without something to get you all hot and bothered, you wouldn't HAVE to be patient.... you would just, be.
It's like overwhelmed.... can you be just whelmed? I think not. Whelmed isn't even a word. And, to me, that is weird.
Anyway, that's alright with me, I can do that; pretend... but, today I noticed the first signs of my inner impatience bursting through the confines of my own personal world, and into my very public actions.
Someone caught me.
I walked into a patient's room today, sat down, and asked why they came to the ER. And, after explaining what a PA is, and what I do, (and for the very first time in my career, had to verbally judo someone into allowing me to see them, instead of "the doctor") the long and convoluted story began.... none of which could even begin to answer my first, well, my ONLY question of "What brings you to the ER today?" Before I had the chance to interrupt this person, and redirect them into a more useful course for the conversation, so I could understand why they were there, and thereby narrow down my options from doing a full-body scan, and a compete smattering of blood tests, their cell phone rings, which they proceed to pick up, and have a full conversation with their family member. "Yes, I'm in the hospital....... yea, no, I fell........... I don't know, there's a guy here..... who are you again????" "Chris." (sigh) "well, he's asking me a bunch of questions....." (I asked one) and it goes on for a while longer before I simply stand up, and walk out of the room, without words...
I. Need. To. Leave.
before I explode from pure and total frustration.
Why are you here? = my back hurts
how long has it hurt? = 1 day
did you have some sort of trauma? = no
I wish it was this simple... i wish people could just tell me what I needed to know, with me asking open-ended questions, like we were taught in school..... but we can't.... and, if it were only as easy as above. OH, that would be sweet.
I can't say it's like pulling teeth, because that would be easier than this. Much of the time, I can ask simple yes or no questions....or things like, "better or worse?" ...and get nothing... well, in fact, worse than nothing... I get a whole lot of words that equate to nothing close to an answer that addresses my question. So, I ask again.... is it BETTER, WORSE or the SAME? Like I'm talking to a 2 year old....
But somehow, I've managed to fake patience with my patients. I seem very calm, caring and level headed.... empathetic even. Not today.... I just walked out, without a word. Before I could get more than a few steps out the door, the patient calls out to me, "Hey, are you leaving?!?!"
"Well, yes, I have other patients here that I need to take care of." I say, very curtly.
"Wait, hold on.... I've got to go, he's getting mad at me.... ok, bye."
I wish we didn't allow cell phones in the ER.... this is not the first time this has happened to me, but usually, they answer, and tell whoever it is, "hey, the doctor's here, i'll call you back." -click-
Not this one.... there would have been a full on conversation while i stood there like a moron, waiting. So I left... or tried. Then, I think my patient realized how they had upset me.... it's not that they had realized that they were being rude or inappropriate, but instead, that they pissed me off.
So, in an instant, I bottle up my frustration, like my failed beer, and let it sit.... I turn around, and walk back in, kneel down at the bedside.... With my hands resting on the hospital bed, I apologize for making the patient feel as if she'd upset me. I say in a very empathetic tone, that I understand that her family is just worried about her, and that it's important to keep them informed.
I then finished the interview and physical in a much more directed manner, with leading questions and statements like, "You're not having chest pain today, no?"
My inner-carbonation began to settle as I took control of the conversation, and then left the room in the usual, much calmer, manner. But, it's still volatile. Nearly failing in an instant, it barely passed this test. In time, I will find out if my newly weakened veneer will regain its prior fortress status, or if it will crack and poison my insides, like a solitary bacteria in a fermenting batch of beer.... growing, reproducing and turning a clean and crisp Pale Ale into a death soup.
And, as for my real beer? Well, it needs a couple more weeks to mellow out.... and then I can test it again. Hopefully, not unlike my impatience, it will calm, and morph into something palatable... something respectable. For now, on both fronts, the direction is still unclear.
Nothing but disappointment and I share this bitter moment together, as my beer induced curled-lip frown slowly fades away. Unfortunately, the taste lingers far longer than the stupid look on my face.
"Six weeks." I utter, with bitterness that nears the level of my failed beer.
It took six weeks from boil, to bottle... to get the crappiest tasting beer that has ever coursed across my tongue. It was simply undrinkable.
I don't know what went wrong.... whether I contaminated it during the fermentation, or if the sterilizing mix didn't get rinsed out properly, or if I managed to screw up the recipe during the boil somehow.
I guess it's all moot at this point, what matters to me, while stuck motionless in my kitchen... still staring at this flavor-forsaken, anti-freeze tasting home-brew, is that it sucks.... bad.
However, after getting some advice, I've learned that it's possible, (though unlikely) that my windex-infused ale just might need a few more weeks "bottle conditioning." Well, alright then.... all I have to do is wait.
Waiting and I have, if not gotten along quite well over the years, at least grown accustomed to each other, for, I am patient. Or, at least I can feign patience.
I've spent many tortured hours in malls, holding purses.... or stuck in traffic, tempering my temper.... waiting for my love to get ready for our dinner reservation that was 20 minutes ago, or keeping my cool when the computer decides to freeze up at the most inopportune of moments. All the while my insides scream out so loud that I'm sure someone could hear, or somehow see the pain bubbling over; but they never do. They never discover my secret, that I am a fake.
But, maybe that's all patience really is; pretending to be patient. I think that patience, by definition, requires some inner turmoil; when your mind screams out in frustration, but your outward appearance remains cool. Because without something to get you all hot and bothered, you wouldn't HAVE to be patient.... you would just, be.
It's like overwhelmed.... can you be just whelmed? I think not. Whelmed isn't even a word. And, to me, that is weird.
Anyway, that's alright with me, I can do that; pretend... but, today I noticed the first signs of my inner impatience bursting through the confines of my own personal world, and into my very public actions.
Someone caught me.
I walked into a patient's room today, sat down, and asked why they came to the ER. And, after explaining what a PA is, and what I do, (and for the very first time in my career, had to verbally judo someone into allowing me to see them, instead of "the doctor") the long and convoluted story began.... none of which could even begin to answer my first, well, my ONLY question of "What brings you to the ER today?" Before I had the chance to interrupt this person, and redirect them into a more useful course for the conversation, so I could understand why they were there, and thereby narrow down my options from doing a full-body scan, and a compete smattering of blood tests, their cell phone rings, which they proceed to pick up, and have a full conversation with their family member. "Yes, I'm in the hospital....... yea, no, I fell........... I don't know, there's a guy here..... who are you again????" "Chris." (sigh) "well, he's asking me a bunch of questions....." (I asked one) and it goes on for a while longer before I simply stand up, and walk out of the room, without words...
I. Need. To. Leave.
before I explode from pure and total frustration.
Why are you here? = my back hurts
how long has it hurt? = 1 day
did you have some sort of trauma? = no
I wish it was this simple... i wish people could just tell me what I needed to know, with me asking open-ended questions, like we were taught in school..... but we can't.... and, if it were only as easy as above. OH, that would be sweet.
I can't say it's like pulling teeth, because that would be easier than this. Much of the time, I can ask simple yes or no questions....or things like, "better or worse?" ...and get nothing... well, in fact, worse than nothing... I get a whole lot of words that equate to nothing close to an answer that addresses my question. So, I ask again.... is it BETTER, WORSE or the SAME? Like I'm talking to a 2 year old....
But somehow, I've managed to fake patience with my patients. I seem very calm, caring and level headed.... empathetic even. Not today.... I just walked out, without a word. Before I could get more than a few steps out the door, the patient calls out to me, "Hey, are you leaving?!?!"
"Well, yes, I have other patients here that I need to take care of." I say, very curtly.
"Wait, hold on.... I've got to go, he's getting mad at me.... ok, bye."
I wish we didn't allow cell phones in the ER.... this is not the first time this has happened to me, but usually, they answer, and tell whoever it is, "hey, the doctor's here, i'll call you back." -click-
Not this one.... there would have been a full on conversation while i stood there like a moron, waiting. So I left... or tried. Then, I think my patient realized how they had upset me.... it's not that they had realized that they were being rude or inappropriate, but instead, that they pissed me off.
So, in an instant, I bottle up my frustration, like my failed beer, and let it sit.... I turn around, and walk back in, kneel down at the bedside.... With my hands resting on the hospital bed, I apologize for making the patient feel as if she'd upset me. I say in a very empathetic tone, that I understand that her family is just worried about her, and that it's important to keep them informed.
I then finished the interview and physical in a much more directed manner, with leading questions and statements like, "You're not having chest pain today, no?"
My inner-carbonation began to settle as I took control of the conversation, and then left the room in the usual, much calmer, manner. But, it's still volatile. Nearly failing in an instant, it barely passed this test. In time, I will find out if my newly weakened veneer will regain its prior fortress status, or if it will crack and poison my insides, like a solitary bacteria in a fermenting batch of beer.... growing, reproducing and turning a clean and crisp Pale Ale into a death soup.
And, as for my real beer? Well, it needs a couple more weeks to mellow out.... and then I can test it again. Hopefully, not unlike my impatience, it will calm, and morph into something palatable... something respectable. For now, on both fronts, the direction is still unclear.
Monday, March 29, 2010
A Terrible Deed
Finesse.
Right, finesse, I'm thinking, as the beads of sweat drip down my face.
From the edge of my fifteen year-old-esque sideburns, down, what could only be labeled as a '4 o'clock shadow', (it never quite reaches 5 o'clock... and not because I'm diligent when it comes to shaving, but simply for a lack of growing) to the greater angle of my jaw... where it swells to a bead so large that my face's grip can no longer resist gravity's pull, and it falls through the frenzied air, full of odd noises, limbs and chemicals.
I picture the anatomy in my head, as if this will assure that I make all the appropriate moves by which to ensure my eventual success. The leg bone's connected to the..... hip bone.... the hip bone's connected to... my wristwatch. Wait, that's not right...
The bead of sweat falls from A to B in the most direct of paths, nearly colliding with a swinging limb. The sodium-infused sphere ends up dodging a field of blue to end up on the only green in the room. In an instant, the glob turns the green where it has just landed, a darker shade of the same. Its wild, perilous and hasty exodus from me ends in a calm silence that stands in stark opposition to the way it began, which makes me think about the duality of such a singular thing. How in the world did chaos turn into tranquility? How in the world do these things happen? And they do!
With a sudden grunt that seemed to escape my lungs without my consent, I am immediately aware that the recent resolve to work out again is making this whole situation more painful. My entire upper body feels as if it's a sneeze away from complete spasm - a full body charlie-horse. This is not only painful in a physical sense, but is a terrible blast to my ego, for it is only the result of about 50 pushups and some rotator cuff exercises the day prior.
I reposition, bracing my right knee on the rectangle of green in order to get some damn leverage.... my left foot still on the ground, now flexing so that only my toes touch the ground, my heel raising off the linoleum causing my left calf to tighten into what feels like a solid piece of granite.
Still nothing.
Now, my left leg abandons the cold white floor, rises the two vertical feet, and rejoins its counterpart on the green cloth... feet now planted firmly on the soft cushion below. My left hand grips my right wrist so tightly that my right hand begins to change color. No matter, the two joined hands create more strength and stability. The force is directed from the crook of my right elbow, which is mashed into another person's flesh, to the union of my right and left hands. It feels strong. If only I could take some of this strain of my back, I think, as I reposition closer to the blob of carbon below me, now barely conscious. I get my feet under me, finally, and my back quiets its shriek somewhat. With my feet directly under me, my knees no longer bearing my weight, I am towering above everything.
The sweat is now pouring, and is dampening my clothes, which I'll have to change later. From powder blue, to navy blue... to salty blue.
She isn't fighting as much now.... how much total? Is she breathing? Did you feel it? Did you feel anything?
And then, as unexpectedly as the initial failure that got us to this point, a snap, slide, thunk and quiet signal the end.
Seconds tick by, silently. We stand motionless.
The duality reenters my mind. From chaos to peaceful, albeit uneasy, silence.
The silence remains for what seems like minutes.
I stare at the green sheet on the bed.
"How do you feel?"....... nothing.
"How do you feel?" is asked yet again.
The carbon blob begins to take more of a human shape, and is reclaiming some of her misplaced consciousness. The monitor beeps, signaling to us that it has been in some way displeased by what we have done to this poor woman.
"How are you feeling?" is again asked. In fact, it is nearly shouted, and spoken in a manner that is nearly identical to that which you'd speak to an infant, or a dog.
She looks up from the hospital bed, the forest green sheet surrounding her, a haze of amnesia surrounding that, and a mass of blotchy powder blue, navy blue and recently farmer-tanned, 4 o'clock shadowed PA standing on top of her cot, dripping sweat onto her hospital gown, still holding that same bit of flesh.
"How are you feeling?" I ask.
A pause....... (thinking, or i suppose she was thinking.... taking a bit longer than normal... dredging her way through the medicines; propofol and fentanyl)
"Good." She says. "Much better.... can I have another blanket?"
And that's how you relocate a hip.
Right, finesse, I'm thinking, as the beads of sweat drip down my face.
From the edge of my fifteen year-old-esque sideburns, down, what could only be labeled as a '4 o'clock shadow', (it never quite reaches 5 o'clock... and not because I'm diligent when it comes to shaving, but simply for a lack of growing) to the greater angle of my jaw... where it swells to a bead so large that my face's grip can no longer resist gravity's pull, and it falls through the frenzied air, full of odd noises, limbs and chemicals.
I picture the anatomy in my head, as if this will assure that I make all the appropriate moves by which to ensure my eventual success. The leg bone's connected to the..... hip bone.... the hip bone's connected to... my wristwatch. Wait, that's not right...
The bead of sweat falls from A to B in the most direct of paths, nearly colliding with a swinging limb. The sodium-infused sphere ends up dodging a field of blue to end up on the only green in the room. In an instant, the glob turns the green where it has just landed, a darker shade of the same. Its wild, perilous and hasty exodus from me ends in a calm silence that stands in stark opposition to the way it began, which makes me think about the duality of such a singular thing. How in the world did chaos turn into tranquility? How in the world do these things happen? And they do!
With a sudden grunt that seemed to escape my lungs without my consent, I am immediately aware that the recent resolve to work out again is making this whole situation more painful. My entire upper body feels as if it's a sneeze away from complete spasm - a full body charlie-horse. This is not only painful in a physical sense, but is a terrible blast to my ego, for it is only the result of about 50 pushups and some rotator cuff exercises the day prior.
I reposition, bracing my right knee on the rectangle of green in order to get some damn leverage.... my left foot still on the ground, now flexing so that only my toes touch the ground, my heel raising off the linoleum causing my left calf to tighten into what feels like a solid piece of granite.
Still nothing.
Now, my left leg abandons the cold white floor, rises the two vertical feet, and rejoins its counterpart on the green cloth... feet now planted firmly on the soft cushion below. My left hand grips my right wrist so tightly that my right hand begins to change color. No matter, the two joined hands create more strength and stability. The force is directed from the crook of my right elbow, which is mashed into another person's flesh, to the union of my right and left hands. It feels strong. If only I could take some of this strain of my back, I think, as I reposition closer to the blob of carbon below me, now barely conscious. I get my feet under me, finally, and my back quiets its shriek somewhat. With my feet directly under me, my knees no longer bearing my weight, I am towering above everything.
The sweat is now pouring, and is dampening my clothes, which I'll have to change later. From powder blue, to navy blue... to salty blue.
She isn't fighting as much now.... how much total? Is she breathing? Did you feel it? Did you feel anything?
And then, as unexpectedly as the initial failure that got us to this point, a snap, slide, thunk and quiet signal the end.
Seconds tick by, silently. We stand motionless.
The duality reenters my mind. From chaos to peaceful, albeit uneasy, silence.
The silence remains for what seems like minutes.
I stare at the green sheet on the bed.
"How do you feel?"....... nothing.
"How do you feel?" is asked yet again.
The carbon blob begins to take more of a human shape, and is reclaiming some of her misplaced consciousness. The monitor beeps, signaling to us that it has been in some way displeased by what we have done to this poor woman.
"How are you feeling?" is again asked. In fact, it is nearly shouted, and spoken in a manner that is nearly identical to that which you'd speak to an infant, or a dog.
She looks up from the hospital bed, the forest green sheet surrounding her, a haze of amnesia surrounding that, and a mass of blotchy powder blue, navy blue and recently farmer-tanned, 4 o'clock shadowed PA standing on top of her cot, dripping sweat onto her hospital gown, still holding that same bit of flesh.
"How are you feeling?" I ask.
A pause....... (thinking, or i suppose she was thinking.... taking a bit longer than normal... dredging her way through the medicines; propofol and fentanyl)
"Good." She says. "Much better.... can I have another blanket?"
And that's how you relocate a hip.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
i don't feel the break, but i feel the bend
I find it interesting, or perhaps perplexing better describes it, how our perspective can dictate exactly what we see.
As I stare at the floor I can see where the hardwood meets the wall. It is flush, strait.... perfect. Well, for the most part. As my eyes trace the line it makes with the wall, running horizontally along my living room, I see a gap. It starts ever so small, like a poorly timed smile you dare not let escape for fear of reprimand. And not unlike that smile, it widens in the center, and tapers near the other end.
As I sit, staring at the smile in my floor, I try to decide whether it's the floor that has strayed from the strait and narrow, or if it is the wall which has warped with time. I decide it is the wall which is flawed, then, I rescind this assertion and call the floor a poor excuse for a level surface.
And then the argument begins again, and again.
I peer at a shadow, and call the floor crooked.... I inspect the light reflecting from the wooden floorboards and name the wall the culprit.
Though I know not who is at fault, I know that something displeases me. I wish for a more put-together seam.
I cannot decide who is to blame. I cannot blame the floor if it has bent with age... and I cannot blame the wall if it has curved with time. It would only be their natural reaction to a stress applied. One, or both, had to react in some way to the pressure of time, age, weather, hurt and consequence.
To blame an inanimate object for a less than desirable reaction to stress, I decide, is at least equally unfair as to blame an inherently flawed person for a similar bend.
No matter who is to blame, (if anyone at all), at least the bend creates a smile.
So, I lean back, release my held breath into a sigh, and let it all go.
As I stare at the floor I can see where the hardwood meets the wall. It is flush, strait.... perfect. Well, for the most part. As my eyes trace the line it makes with the wall, running horizontally along my living room, I see a gap. It starts ever so small, like a poorly timed smile you dare not let escape for fear of reprimand. And not unlike that smile, it widens in the center, and tapers near the other end.
As I sit, staring at the smile in my floor, I try to decide whether it's the floor that has strayed from the strait and narrow, or if it is the wall which has warped with time. I decide it is the wall which is flawed, then, I rescind this assertion and call the floor a poor excuse for a level surface.
And then the argument begins again, and again.
I peer at a shadow, and call the floor crooked.... I inspect the light reflecting from the wooden floorboards and name the wall the culprit.
Though I know not who is at fault, I know that something displeases me. I wish for a more put-together seam.
I cannot decide who is to blame. I cannot blame the floor if it has bent with age... and I cannot blame the wall if it has curved with time. It would only be their natural reaction to a stress applied. One, or both, had to react in some way to the pressure of time, age, weather, hurt and consequence.
To blame an inanimate object for a less than desirable reaction to stress, I decide, is at least equally unfair as to blame an inherently flawed person for a similar bend.
No matter who is to blame, (if anyone at all), at least the bend creates a smile.
So, I lean back, release my held breath into a sigh, and let it all go.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Betty, 1989-2010
"Was that you?" I ask.
It was as if Betty took offense to this simple question, because she then seemed to begin to shut down.
"All I was wondering, Betty, was if you made it smell... like, that, in here? Or, was it the car next to us?"
It was too late.... she took it personally. Though, I doubt she would have if it actually hadn't been her. I truly believe that, rather than upset, she was embarrassed, ashamed and frightened of what was happening to her more than anything.
She was dying in my arms.
Her last breathes were sour, and filled her insides where I sat. The aroma slowly faded, as did her strength.
"Betty, please... please get me home," I plead.
She responds as best she can, though rigor mortis is beginning to creep inside of her tissues, and it is slowly winning the battle- the wheel begins to tighten.
Betty's responses slow.... new and unknown lights begin to flash on, off, then on again. She seems to quiet with every passing block. Her usual rumble dissipates under my feet; she becomes oddly smooth- discordant, only slightly... but eerily noticeable to me, when compared to her normal dysarthria.... which was never obnoxious, but comforting instead- like the voice of Louis Armstrong.
She had been singing to me for 5 years... and now all I could hear was "what a wonderful world...." fading into the dark of the night.
As I wrestled with the ever stiffening wheel, begging her to make the corners, I feared the worst. Though, I had fleeting thoughts that this was not Betty's goodbye, but only a power steering problem. Perhaps we would part on better terms, on our own time, when we decide. Though, after the body was cold, I realized that this is the way it had to be. Only death could part us.... neither she nor I would be able to let go otherwise.
It had to be this way.
She left a trail of blood... or perhaps it was tears, or perhaps both. It led from the streets, where we used to roam together, into the garage. She was bleeding out. Steam was rising from her chest, like her soul was escaping from the mess that had become her withering body. It was as if it needed to finally be free of its ever aging cage, one that failed a little bit more every day.
She needed a tow to get to the car doctor, where the diagnosis was terminal. It would be that Sunday, February the 7th was our last ride together.
She will always hold a place in my heart. Even in the end, she never failed me. She did, in fact, get me home.
There were no long goodbyes, reminiscing, or tears shed as I cleared the remaining things from her comforting, yet stark and now empty interior. She had gone. All that was left were pieces of metal, rubber, glass and leather. So, I didn't fear for her when I snapped off the hood ornament that had, throughout her life, adorned Betty as a proud, strong and beautiful Cadillac.
She wasn't there to feel the break. I, however, did.
It was as if Betty took offense to this simple question, because she then seemed to begin to shut down.
"All I was wondering, Betty, was if you made it smell... like, that, in here? Or, was it the car next to us?"
It was too late.... she took it personally. Though, I doubt she would have if it actually hadn't been her. I truly believe that, rather than upset, she was embarrassed, ashamed and frightened of what was happening to her more than anything.
She was dying in my arms.
Her last breathes were sour, and filled her insides where I sat. The aroma slowly faded, as did her strength.
"Betty, please... please get me home," I plead.
She responds as best she can, though rigor mortis is beginning to creep inside of her tissues, and it is slowly winning the battle- the wheel begins to tighten.
Betty's responses slow.... new and unknown lights begin to flash on, off, then on again. She seems to quiet with every passing block. Her usual rumble dissipates under my feet; she becomes oddly smooth- discordant, only slightly... but eerily noticeable to me, when compared to her normal dysarthria.... which was never obnoxious, but comforting instead- like the voice of Louis Armstrong.
She had been singing to me for 5 years... and now all I could hear was "what a wonderful world...." fading into the dark of the night.
As I wrestled with the ever stiffening wheel, begging her to make the corners, I feared the worst. Though, I had fleeting thoughts that this was not Betty's goodbye, but only a power steering problem. Perhaps we would part on better terms, on our own time, when we decide. Though, after the body was cold, I realized that this is the way it had to be. Only death could part us.... neither she nor I would be able to let go otherwise.
It had to be this way.
She left a trail of blood... or perhaps it was tears, or perhaps both. It led from the streets, where we used to roam together, into the garage. She was bleeding out. Steam was rising from her chest, like her soul was escaping from the mess that had become her withering body. It was as if it needed to finally be free of its ever aging cage, one that failed a little bit more every day.
She needed a tow to get to the car doctor, where the diagnosis was terminal. It would be that Sunday, February the 7th was our last ride together.
She will always hold a place in my heart. Even in the end, she never failed me. She did, in fact, get me home.
There were no long goodbyes, reminiscing, or tears shed as I cleared the remaining things from her comforting, yet stark and now empty interior. She had gone. All that was left were pieces of metal, rubber, glass and leather. So, I didn't fear for her when I snapped off the hood ornament that had, throughout her life, adorned Betty as a proud, strong and beautiful Cadillac.
She wasn't there to feel the break. I, however, did.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Betty's Kicks
Each and every day I have to fill up my left rear tire. (I suppose Betty can't be perfect, though I still think she is.)
It seems to be slowly leaking; I find it nearly flat every morning. It's been quite a nuisance the past few days... and it serves to remind me of the constant drain, and subsequent refill that is my energy, my confidence and the joy for the work that I do.
I have had wins, and I have had losses. But when the tire empties, I continue to fill it back up, despite the losses.... and I am happy.
I recently filled the tire by nailing my first solo Lumbar Puncture.
"Champagne", as they say.... and, just like that, I was filled to 30 PSI.
Today, I suppose, was neutral. My love for procedures was fed, but... to the point of nausea and bloating.... like the horrible feeling you get when you eat a whole Chipotle burrito and weren't really ready for it.
I'm on day 5 of a 5 day stretch tomorrow... and, it's the longest stretch of work days in a row I've had in 3 months at the ER. So, I guess I should just count my blessings and shut my face.
I still love life, and I still love my job.
oh, and I still love Chipotle.
It seems to be slowly leaking; I find it nearly flat every morning. It's been quite a nuisance the past few days... and it serves to remind me of the constant drain, and subsequent refill that is my energy, my confidence and the joy for the work that I do.
I have had wins, and I have had losses. But when the tire empties, I continue to fill it back up, despite the losses.... and I am happy.
I recently filled the tire by nailing my first solo Lumbar Puncture.
"Champagne", as they say.... and, just like that, I was filled to 30 PSI.
Today, I suppose, was neutral. My love for procedures was fed, but... to the point of nausea and bloating.... like the horrible feeling you get when you eat a whole Chipotle burrito and weren't really ready for it.
I'm on day 5 of a 5 day stretch tomorrow... and, it's the longest stretch of work days in a row I've had in 3 months at the ER. So, I guess I should just count my blessings and shut my face.
I still love life, and I still love my job.
oh, and I still love Chipotle.
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