I'm hungry.
Which is funny, because if tried to eat something right now, I'd probably make myself ill from how full my belly is. I've eaten already, see. Two sandwiches - one PB&J, one PB&Honey. A KitKat bar. And a full bottle of water I guzzled down in an attempt to fill up my stomach. Oh, and let's not forget I had breakfast, too: a full bowl of Cheerios with skim milk and a glass of OJ to wash down my vitamins.
I find myself craving food. not just any food, FLAVORFUL food. I'm tired of bread and peanut butter and bananas and water and bland bland bland. I want soda. I want fries. I want a bacon-lettuce-tomatoe sandwich with avocado and mayonnaise, dripping with juices. I was chocolate and sugar and texture. Oh yes, texture. A mix of light crisp with squish behind it. The bread for the B.L.T. toasted, with the avocado ripe and squishy. Peanut-butter M&M's, with the crunch of the candied shell followed by the yielding creamy interior. A KitKat bar with the soft chocolate coating, hiding a delightfully light crispy cookie. Thick milk. Fizzy soda. These things I desire.
But I am not actually hungry. I have a full stomach. At least, it feels full. Ish. But I hunger still. It's higher in the stomach, deep down in the esophagus, a pit, a bubble of air that cries out for satisfaction from empty calories and fattening foods.
Hunger is one of the most basic needs of the living creature. The hypothalamus will not be denied. So how do I fight this war?
If I give in, I feel guilty, and know I have done my body a disservice.
If I hold out, I feel miserable and hungry and anxious and grumpy. My head hurts and stomach growls.
It is a war I do not yetknow how to win.
August 17, 2010
August 09, 2010
Loss For Words
I blog.
WHY do I blog?
I suppose it's partly because it's an outlet. Once upon a time, when I communicated pretty much strictly via email to long-distance friends (because I hate talking on the phone), I would write miniature novels to masses of recipients. Many of my friends appeared to appreciate these, and I got a few compliments on my writing style when it came to certain subjects, like being in the center of seven seperate wildfires whilst living in the mountains. I would write about the day, in all its simplicity, calling forth as much imagery as I could possibly muster and weaving it into a magnificent tapestry of something otherwise altogether negligible. I turned dreams into self-introspections explaining why I felt a need to reconnect with people, and described harrowing adventures of life in the mountains - complete with guns, bears, and wayward tourists.
But then - post college - something happened that put an end to those enormous emails. It took one simple sentence. And only one person to say it. Someone said they were too long, and "nobody reads them". Granted, I realize logically that this is a blanket statement. Also, the person who said it was kind of a nitwit who suggested that I find someone better than my then-boyfriend, who is my now-Fiance. I am deliriously happy with my choice of mate. So if she was wrong about that, what else could she be wrong about?
But at the time, it didn't matter. At the time, I was in such a delicate state emotionally (both because I was STILL angry about my previous breakup and because I was beginning to exhibit my first symptoms of depression) that it shattered my self confidence as a writer. I stopped writing emails altogether. The few that required responses got single-line replies. My depression - which, at the time, was still completely undiagnosed - worsened ever so slightly. My self-worth was tied to the belief that people cared what I had to say, that my opinion- no, my perspective mattered. That I had something worthwhile to contribute. And with the simple comment that my emails were "tl/dr", that belief was cut deeply. No longer were my long insights or observations, my carefully woven tapestries, my recounting of adventures... no longer were they worth anything.
What followed was a long period of silence. I did eventually go back to emailing folks, but only sporadically and only ever very few people. Eventually I stopped the entire habit of writing anything in emails, and only ever replying. Replies were as long as needed, or as long as felt appropriate, and so questions of "are you free this weekend" were only a few sentences, where requests for an opinion on this or that subject matter might involve more explanation. It was lonely-ish, because I felt disconnected somehow. But my "Need To Be Liked" program was strong enough to overcome my desire to express myself... and so disconnected I remained.
Eventually I discovered forums. It was like live chat but didn't require people to be on at the time. It was like writing emails, but nobody I really cared about would read them. It had upsides and downsides. And then, of course, there were trolls. How can anyone forget internet trolls? Lurking behind every corner, waiting to be completely full of idiocy in an otherwise perfectly fine forum. It wasn't satisfying. I wasn't connecting with my friends, but I still couldn't get past the irrational fear that nobody wanted to know anything about me (which is how I interpreted the "you write frigging novels" comment).
That's when I finally ventured onto MySpace. I could write a tiny little update. My status, as it were. Nobody had to look at it. It was optional. But there I was. You know, in case anybody cared. *insert emo here* In more seriousness, it helped me decide that it was okay to let people know how I was without it being an enormous stew of words. And then I saw that MySpace had a place to blog. I went for it.
And now, years later, here I am.
So... NOW why do I blog?
I don't actually know who reads my blog. Could be friends, could be family, could be a few random strangers. Some people blog for a living writing about completely random stuff, but their stuff is usually funny, and mine isn't always. I don't anticipate being famous from my blog (like, ever), but it's comforting to think that maybe, just maybe, a few people who DID like reading my overly-long emails will be happy reading them here, in sort of a non-intrusive, archived format.
Maybe.
You know, if anyone cares. ;P
WHY do I blog?
I suppose it's partly because it's an outlet. Once upon a time, when I communicated pretty much strictly via email to long-distance friends (because I hate talking on the phone), I would write miniature novels to masses of recipients. Many of my friends appeared to appreciate these, and I got a few compliments on my writing style when it came to certain subjects, like being in the center of seven seperate wildfires whilst living in the mountains. I would write about the day, in all its simplicity, calling forth as much imagery as I could possibly muster and weaving it into a magnificent tapestry of something otherwise altogether negligible. I turned dreams into self-introspections explaining why I felt a need to reconnect with people, and described harrowing adventures of life in the mountains - complete with guns, bears, and wayward tourists.
But then - post college - something happened that put an end to those enormous emails. It took one simple sentence. And only one person to say it. Someone said they were too long, and "nobody reads them". Granted, I realize logically that this is a blanket statement. Also, the person who said it was kind of a nitwit who suggested that I find someone better than my then-boyfriend, who is my now-Fiance. I am deliriously happy with my choice of mate. So if she was wrong about that, what else could she be wrong about?
But at the time, it didn't matter. At the time, I was in such a delicate state emotionally (both because I was STILL angry about my previous breakup and because I was beginning to exhibit my first symptoms of depression) that it shattered my self confidence as a writer. I stopped writing emails altogether. The few that required responses got single-line replies. My depression - which, at the time, was still completely undiagnosed - worsened ever so slightly. My self-worth was tied to the belief that people cared what I had to say, that my opinion- no, my perspective mattered. That I had something worthwhile to contribute. And with the simple comment that my emails were "tl/dr", that belief was cut deeply. No longer were my long insights or observations, my carefully woven tapestries, my recounting of adventures... no longer were they worth anything.
What followed was a long period of silence. I did eventually go back to emailing folks, but only sporadically and only ever very few people. Eventually I stopped the entire habit of writing anything in emails, and only ever replying. Replies were as long as needed, or as long as felt appropriate, and so questions of "are you free this weekend" were only a few sentences, where requests for an opinion on this or that subject matter might involve more explanation. It was lonely-ish, because I felt disconnected somehow. But my "Need To Be Liked" program was strong enough to overcome my desire to express myself... and so disconnected I remained.
Eventually I discovered forums. It was like live chat but didn't require people to be on at the time. It was like writing emails, but nobody I really cared about would read them. It had upsides and downsides. And then, of course, there were trolls. How can anyone forget internet trolls? Lurking behind every corner, waiting to be completely full of idiocy in an otherwise perfectly fine forum. It wasn't satisfying. I wasn't connecting with my friends, but I still couldn't get past the irrational fear that nobody wanted to know anything about me (which is how I interpreted the "you write frigging novels" comment).
That's when I finally ventured onto MySpace. I could write a tiny little update. My status, as it were. Nobody had to look at it. It was optional. But there I was. You know, in case anybody cared. *insert emo here* In more seriousness, it helped me decide that it was okay to let people know how I was without it being an enormous stew of words. And then I saw that MySpace had a place to blog. I went for it.
And now, years later, here I am.
So... NOW why do I blog?
I don't actually know who reads my blog. Could be friends, could be family, could be a few random strangers. Some people blog for a living writing about completely random stuff, but their stuff is usually funny, and mine isn't always. I don't anticipate being famous from my blog (like, ever), but it's comforting to think that maybe, just maybe, a few people who DID like reading my overly-long emails will be happy reading them here, in sort of a non-intrusive, archived format.
Maybe.
You know, if anyone cares. ;P
August 05, 2010
Wedding Worries
The Fiance and I were waiting until the other weddings were over to start our plans. It made the most sense. How stressful would it be to plan our own wedding while balancing our participation in another? Not to mention that it might detract from the spotlight of our dear friends who were much closer to their wedding date!
Im and Jess' wedding was last weekend and went off without a hitch. So much awesomeness. I knew they would make it precisely fit them, choosing things that suited not only their individual tastes but also tailoring the entire celebration to be very "them". Which was just so unbelievably awesome I can't even begin to describe. Everything, from location to dresses to the wine to the supremely cool photobooth, had a vibe of quirky sweetness that was distinctly like their relationship.
Now, with them off to their honeymoon and enjoying the first week of their new married lives, privately indulging in the wonders of a beautiful far-away island paradise, the planning, participation, and incredible efforts have come to an end.
Which means now it's our turn.
And dear heaven, where do we start?
We spoke a bit about this on the long (long!) drive home. What would the ceremony be like? Who would do what and where? Where should it be held? Where would we like to honeymoon? What should the dress look like? Some of it was easy. It helped having recently attended two weddings, to get an idea of what worked well and what didn't. The concept of the food+lodging+venue all being one place had much appeal, as did the hilarity and fun of the photobooth. We narrowed down a time, and an area (distance-wise) we'd like to look at. But everything is so vague... unformed.
Fiance is a hermetic. He likes his rituals filled with symbolism and meaning. I'm a shaman. It has to *feel* right. How do I plan that out? What does it look like? What should *I* look like?
I have to step back and remind myself of what I told the other brides: at the end of the day the two of us will be married, and that's all that matters. The rest is just gravy. And good gravy, I've hardly started the planning, and this is how I'm feeling?
If you see my sanity, tell it to come home, okay?
Im and Jess' wedding was last weekend and went off without a hitch. So much awesomeness. I knew they would make it precisely fit them, choosing things that suited not only their individual tastes but also tailoring the entire celebration to be very "them". Which was just so unbelievably awesome I can't even begin to describe. Everything, from location to dresses to the wine to the supremely cool photobooth, had a vibe of quirky sweetness that was distinctly like their relationship.
Now, with them off to their honeymoon and enjoying the first week of their new married lives, privately indulging in the wonders of a beautiful far-away island paradise, the planning, participation, and incredible efforts have come to an end.
Which means now it's our turn.
And dear heaven, where do we start?
We spoke a bit about this on the long (long!) drive home. What would the ceremony be like? Who would do what and where? Where should it be held? Where would we like to honeymoon? What should the dress look like? Some of it was easy. It helped having recently attended two weddings, to get an idea of what worked well and what didn't. The concept of the food+lodging+venue all being one place had much appeal, as did the hilarity and fun of the photobooth. We narrowed down a time, and an area (distance-wise) we'd like to look at. But everything is so vague... unformed.
Fiance is a hermetic. He likes his rituals filled with symbolism and meaning. I'm a shaman. It has to *feel* right. How do I plan that out? What does it look like? What should *I* look like?
I have to step back and remind myself of what I told the other brides: at the end of the day the two of us will be married, and that's all that matters. The rest is just gravy. And good gravy, I've hardly started the planning, and this is how I'm feeling?
If you see my sanity, tell it to come home, okay?
July 19, 2010
What Happens in Vegas...
... stays on YouTube.
Or so I've heard.
So last week was a crazy whirlwind of preperation. So many plans were in place, and so much needed to be accomplished in order to pull them off smoothly. Packing was in order, and not just packing, but packing for a very different climate. Directions needed printing. The guest room needed to be habitable. All the random crap we had removed from the closet needed to be neatly shoved aside to make room. All this to be done by Thursday.
Thursday night: J and I grabbed our tickets and drove to the arena, finding our seats and grabbing a couple drinks. We awaited the arrival of two more guests as the opening band (a rather mediocre and forgettable group) played. They arrived just in time, and soon it was the four of us in the nosebleed seats - me, my fiance, my brother, and my sis-in-law - awaiting the band we all came to see: Tool. Nosebleeds or not, we still had an awesome view of the stage, and our seats were in the only row of benches that actually had something resembling a backrest. Weird thing about Tool, though: Maynard doesn't like to be out with the rest of the band on stage. The first song was nearly over when I finally spotted him, hanging out by the drummer but off a little ways such that he was in the dark; none of the lights touched him, he was just a spectral presence at the back of the stage with a black tee-shirt and baseball cap. Apparently that's just how he rolls.
After several awesome songs and the most brilliantly mind-numbing drum-offs I think I will ever see in my life, he closed the night with a special cynical middle finger pointed at Los Angeles by playing Aenima. Maynard has a lot of juju he throws into his songs, and it wasn't surprising that one of the other fans we chatted with described him much like a warlock in some fashions. He is actually quite the well-read and well-studied fellow, rather well-educated in his Crowley and other such authors, so I wouldn't be at all surprised that he does a bit of enery-play on the stage. So when the crowd sang Aenima with him, it became less a song and something between a chant and a prayer, which was a little scary when I thought about it... I mean, I live in one of those spots that would sink into the ocean if Maynard had his 'druthers. I think. I don't know. He's an odd fellow. Maybe he knows LA is as much disliked by the rest of SoCal as by himself.
Anyway. Got home late (much contributed to by ass-hattery in the parking garage) and stayed up even later talking and drinking rum-and-cokes (which were my lame substitute for buying my brother a drink in celebration of his long non-smoking run). In the wee hours of the morning we finally all crashed out, having squeezed as much face-time in as possible before bed. I pledged that I would buy my brother a REAL drink when I saw him again.
Friday morning I got up early, packed the last on my toiletries, and printed out my boarding pass. Brother and sis-in-law took me to the airport, where I breezed through security and waited for a bit, chatting with some random girl about my Rubix cube. We had a grand ol' conversation, during which she pointed out a group of ladies - ranging between 20 and 60 - all laughing and kicking up a riot in the bar nearby. We boarded right behind them, and I ended up sitting with them: turns out they were all celebrating one of the younger ladies' birthday. Specifically, her 21st birthday. And really, what better way to spend it than in Vegas?
I touched down in Vegas around noon after a great flight with a bunch of crack-up stewardesses. It only took me a little getting lost, but I did eventually find the rest of my group: the bridal party and bride, for whom we were in Vegas, celebrating her bachelorette party.
That evening we dined at a tasty buffet (with a chocolate fountain and ice-cream machine... yum!), got gussied up, and booked it to the New York New York to catch a show: Cirque du Soleil's "Zumanity". One HELL of a show of limber and muscular men and women in very little, doing all kinds of incredible performances of strength and flexibility. Having had very little sleep, I crashed early (the rest of the girls went exploring). We all slept in, had mimosas at the brunch buffet, then wandered around the forum shops. When we got back, we spent a good few solid hours in the pool, sliding down the waterslides and generally enjoying each other's company. Afterwards, we rinsed off and made our evening plans, but I started to feel under the weather. Sadly, I ended up staying in due to feeling ill, but when they all came back, they shared the pictures from the night's festivities with me.
Sunday morning we dragged ourselves out of bed, cleaned up and packed, then checked out. The rest of the girls were flying out around noon; my plane wasn't due to leave until 9PM. I wandered the city, checking out the Bellagio lobby, the Conservatory, riding the tram, walking to the MGM Grand, taking pictures of the lions (and the cubs! squee!), and catching the monorail all the way back to the hotel. I grabbed my swimsuit, and spent two and a half hours at the pool, intermittantly sunning and swimming. Finally, getting really homesick and rather lonely (Vegas is NOT the kind of place I enjoy solo), I rinsed off, changed, and grabbed a shuttle to the airport. I looked for an earlier flight, nabbed one, and was home before 8:30PM.
A long, fantastic weekend, full of fun, sun, and awesome shows with awesome company. But I'm happy to be home now, snuggling with my dearheart. No hottie stripper, superstar rocker, or high-rolling gambler could ever take my sweetheart's place in my heart.
Or so I've heard.
So last week was a crazy whirlwind of preperation. So many plans were in place, and so much needed to be accomplished in order to pull them off smoothly. Packing was in order, and not just packing, but packing for a very different climate. Directions needed printing. The guest room needed to be habitable. All the random crap we had removed from the closet needed to be neatly shoved aside to make room. All this to be done by Thursday.
Thursday night: J and I grabbed our tickets and drove to the arena, finding our seats and grabbing a couple drinks. We awaited the arrival of two more guests as the opening band (a rather mediocre and forgettable group) played. They arrived just in time, and soon it was the four of us in the nosebleed seats - me, my fiance, my brother, and my sis-in-law - awaiting the band we all came to see: Tool. Nosebleeds or not, we still had an awesome view of the stage, and our seats were in the only row of benches that actually had something resembling a backrest. Weird thing about Tool, though: Maynard doesn't like to be out with the rest of the band on stage. The first song was nearly over when I finally spotted him, hanging out by the drummer but off a little ways such that he was in the dark; none of the lights touched him, he was just a spectral presence at the back of the stage with a black tee-shirt and baseball cap. Apparently that's just how he rolls.
After several awesome songs and the most brilliantly mind-numbing drum-offs I think I will ever see in my life, he closed the night with a special cynical middle finger pointed at Los Angeles by playing Aenima. Maynard has a lot of juju he throws into his songs, and it wasn't surprising that one of the other fans we chatted with described him much like a warlock in some fashions. He is actually quite the well-read and well-studied fellow, rather well-educated in his Crowley and other such authors, so I wouldn't be at all surprised that he does a bit of enery-play on the stage. So when the crowd sang Aenima with him, it became less a song and something between a chant and a prayer, which was a little scary when I thought about it... I mean, I live in one of those spots that would sink into the ocean if Maynard had his 'druthers. I think. I don't know. He's an odd fellow. Maybe he knows LA is as much disliked by the rest of SoCal as by himself.
Anyway. Got home late (much contributed to by ass-hattery in the parking garage) and stayed up even later talking and drinking rum-and-cokes (which were my lame substitute for buying my brother a drink in celebration of his long non-smoking run). In the wee hours of the morning we finally all crashed out, having squeezed as much face-time in as possible before bed. I pledged that I would buy my brother a REAL drink when I saw him again.
Friday morning I got up early, packed the last on my toiletries, and printed out my boarding pass. Brother and sis-in-law took me to the airport, where I breezed through security and waited for a bit, chatting with some random girl about my Rubix cube. We had a grand ol' conversation, during which she pointed out a group of ladies - ranging between 20 and 60 - all laughing and kicking up a riot in the bar nearby. We boarded right behind them, and I ended up sitting with them: turns out they were all celebrating one of the younger ladies' birthday. Specifically, her 21st birthday. And really, what better way to spend it than in Vegas?
I touched down in Vegas around noon after a great flight with a bunch of crack-up stewardesses. It only took me a little getting lost, but I did eventually find the rest of my group: the bridal party and bride, for whom we were in Vegas, celebrating her bachelorette party.
That evening we dined at a tasty buffet (with a chocolate fountain and ice-cream machine... yum!), got gussied up, and booked it to the New York New York to catch a show: Cirque du Soleil's "Zumanity". One HELL of a show of limber and muscular men and women in very little, doing all kinds of incredible performances of strength and flexibility. Having had very little sleep, I crashed early (the rest of the girls went exploring). We all slept in, had mimosas at the brunch buffet, then wandered around the forum shops. When we got back, we spent a good few solid hours in the pool, sliding down the waterslides and generally enjoying each other's company. Afterwards, we rinsed off and made our evening plans, but I started to feel under the weather. Sadly, I ended up staying in due to feeling ill, but when they all came back, they shared the pictures from the night's festivities with me.
Sunday morning we dragged ourselves out of bed, cleaned up and packed, then checked out. The rest of the girls were flying out around noon; my plane wasn't due to leave until 9PM. I wandered the city, checking out the Bellagio lobby, the Conservatory, riding the tram, walking to the MGM Grand, taking pictures of the lions (and the cubs! squee!), and catching the monorail all the way back to the hotel. I grabbed my swimsuit, and spent two and a half hours at the pool, intermittantly sunning and swimming. Finally, getting really homesick and rather lonely (Vegas is NOT the kind of place I enjoy solo), I rinsed off, changed, and grabbed a shuttle to the airport. I looked for an earlier flight, nabbed one, and was home before 8:30PM.
A long, fantastic weekend, full of fun, sun, and awesome shows with awesome company. But I'm happy to be home now, snuggling with my dearheart. No hottie stripper, superstar rocker, or high-rolling gambler could ever take my sweetheart's place in my heart.
July 06, 2010
Jobness!
I figured I owed people an explanation about my new job. Enough people have asked that I thought maybe I could get it all out in one fell swoop. So!
I got a call from my temp agency - which is apparently not a "temp" agency so much anymore but a perm-to-hire and/or direct-placement agency - about a job with a pathologist. At least, that's what I thought they said. Turned out to be for a lab that specializes in pathology-type stuffs. We'll get to that. Had a phone interview that went swimmingly, joking with the interviewer and relating on multiple levels, vetching about the dryness of Milton and sympathizing on generation gaps. At the end of it, he said I was one of the "5% of people who are fun to interview on the phone", and gave me a bunch of his contact info. A few days later I had a face-to-face interview, during which I got to be pround of my obessive need for organization and talk about obscure medical facts I learned from my dad and fiance. Eyebrows were raised in surprise. They complimented me a lot. We struck up conversations and had a blast. A few days later I was hired... for %25 more pay than I have EVER earned.
Things have settled in, but nothing is ever exactly the same each day. I've got a routine, sort of, since I need to basically get all the phone calls done by a certain point in the day in order to make contact with the vast majority of our clients, who are on the East Coast. The rest of the day is data entry... or, maybe it's copying. Faxing? No, filing. How about going through that old box of charts and finding out what the heck they were pulled for? Sure, boss, I can do that. And pull these charts: we need to ask for ICD codes. No problem. When you're done there, can you check with the lead scientist-doctor-lady to see where she's at with reviewing results? Don't forget to mark those charts as QNS. Oh hey, what have we here...
It's never dull. Things are always moving, and the system is malleable, evolving. The company is growing - and fast - so we're having to adapt and fill in gaps we didn't even know we had until someone asked, "hey, what about this?". The people here are awesome: smart, quick-witted, funny, educated, friendly, relaxed, and laid back without a hint of laziness. Everyone here is on top of their game. It's a hive of activity, with all the little bees bustling about their business to get the work done.
And the work is...
I would say glorious, but there is no glory here. Only what must be done, what SHOULD be done. Honor, perhaps. Thinking about it on the ride to work this morning, it occurred to me that I am part of the war on cancer.
The lab has two functions: cancer research, and cancer identification. The researchers research. It's what they do. The rest of us let them work, their brows furrowed in concentration as they work to perfect the test we use to identify cancer types. The rest of us test samples, identifying tumors for sources of cancer: this is based in the liver, this one in the stomach, this one in the lungs.
This is not what I do personally, but I am an integral part in making the process work. If there is in fact a "War on Cancer", the patient is the front line. They are the battleground AND the militia, the contested and the defense. The Oncologist is the General, the Pathologist his Strategist, both planning and ordering the best way to identify and counter the attacks. The labs are the arms manufacturers - creating the weapons to be used best on the battle ground - and the intelligence centers - cracking the codes, collecting information, and identifying the enemy. Our lab is of the latter kind. We take a sample of the tissue, when the doctors come up clueless as to where the origin of the cancer resides, and we run it against an enormous database of tumor samples to identify the type of cancer we're dealing with. Our accuracy is incredible.
We are the people in the back lines, in the little tent in the rear-base, listening in on the enemy's communications and triangulating their whereabouts. We find their base, so that the surgical strike-team can go in and attack the cancer directly, limiting the damage to the patient's system.
What we do is crucial.
And even though I'm far removed from the front line, even though I'm as far back in that little back tent as you can get, what I do is still very important to the process, and because of me the lab can run smoothly, swiftly cranking out accurate results to Oncologists so that the patient can get the right treatment that much faster.
THAT is my new job. And I am DAMN proud of it.
I got a call from my temp agency - which is apparently not a "temp" agency so much anymore but a perm-to-hire and/or direct-placement agency - about a job with a pathologist. At least, that's what I thought they said. Turned out to be for a lab that specializes in pathology-type stuffs. We'll get to that. Had a phone interview that went swimmingly, joking with the interviewer and relating on multiple levels, vetching about the dryness of Milton and sympathizing on generation gaps. At the end of it, he said I was one of the "5% of people who are fun to interview on the phone", and gave me a bunch of his contact info. A few days later I had a face-to-face interview, during which I got to be pround of my obessive need for organization and talk about obscure medical facts I learned from my dad and fiance. Eyebrows were raised in surprise. They complimented me a lot. We struck up conversations and had a blast. A few days later I was hired... for %25 more pay than I have EVER earned.
Things have settled in, but nothing is ever exactly the same each day. I've got a routine, sort of, since I need to basically get all the phone calls done by a certain point in the day in order to make contact with the vast majority of our clients, who are on the East Coast. The rest of the day is data entry... or, maybe it's copying. Faxing? No, filing. How about going through that old box of charts and finding out what the heck they were pulled for? Sure, boss, I can do that. And pull these charts: we need to ask for ICD codes. No problem. When you're done there, can you check with the lead scientist-doctor-lady to see where she's at with reviewing results? Don't forget to mark those charts as QNS. Oh hey, what have we here...
It's never dull. Things are always moving, and the system is malleable, evolving. The company is growing - and fast - so we're having to adapt and fill in gaps we didn't even know we had until someone asked, "hey, what about this?". The people here are awesome: smart, quick-witted, funny, educated, friendly, relaxed, and laid back without a hint of laziness. Everyone here is on top of their game. It's a hive of activity, with all the little bees bustling about their business to get the work done.
And the work is...
I would say glorious, but there is no glory here. Only what must be done, what SHOULD be done. Honor, perhaps. Thinking about it on the ride to work this morning, it occurred to me that I am part of the war on cancer.
The lab has two functions: cancer research, and cancer identification. The researchers research. It's what they do. The rest of us let them work, their brows furrowed in concentration as they work to perfect the test we use to identify cancer types. The rest of us test samples, identifying tumors for sources of cancer: this is based in the liver, this one in the stomach, this one in the lungs.
This is not what I do personally, but I am an integral part in making the process work. If there is in fact a "War on Cancer", the patient is the front line. They are the battleground AND the militia, the contested and the defense. The Oncologist is the General, the Pathologist his Strategist, both planning and ordering the best way to identify and counter the attacks. The labs are the arms manufacturers - creating the weapons to be used best on the battle ground - and the intelligence centers - cracking the codes, collecting information, and identifying the enemy. Our lab is of the latter kind. We take a sample of the tissue, when the doctors come up clueless as to where the origin of the cancer resides, and we run it against an enormous database of tumor samples to identify the type of cancer we're dealing with. Our accuracy is incredible.
We are the people in the back lines, in the little tent in the rear-base, listening in on the enemy's communications and triangulating their whereabouts. We find their base, so that the surgical strike-team can go in and attack the cancer directly, limiting the damage to the patient's system.
What we do is crucial.
And even though I'm far removed from the front line, even though I'm as far back in that little back tent as you can get, what I do is still very important to the process, and because of me the lab can run smoothly, swiftly cranking out accurate results to Oncologists so that the patient can get the right treatment that much faster.
THAT is my new job. And I am DAMN proud of it.
June 28, 2010
Augh!
Blah! Snarfblahgarble!
Which is to say, I've been busy, and I'm sorry!
No, wait. I'm GLAD I've been busy.
See, Sony and I parted ways at the end of May. So I found myself with an excess of free time. I was looking for jobs like crazy, while at the same time trying to find a way to fill up the time. The answer came in the form of my externship.
The next couple weeks were full of extra days at the clinic, where I successfully performed my first blood draw and two injections. As well as submitting Shiko to tortures hertofore unknown.
Let me explain.
My cat is crazy. Psycho. Insane. Loony. Feral with a side-salad and extra helping of posessed. She's nuts. And she's hostile. She's also longhaired, and needs to have her coat shaved during the summer so a.) she doesn't expire in the SoCal heat and b.) she doesn't shed ALL OVER EVERYTHING I OWN. Which she usually does anyway, but in the summer it comes in clouds of fluff that velcro to every. Possible. Surface.
So last year I'd dosed her up on tranquilizers and sent her to a groomer. The happy pills came from a vet I'd seen in Santa Cruz who'd had to gas the cat to get a frigging blood sample. (Morphine based painkillers? No effect. Tranquilizers? Took a swipe at the vet. Anesthesia gas chamber. Ohhh yeahhh.) So I kept them in reserve to give to her for events such as this. Two doses and she was unable to properly stand. Shipped her off to the groomer, who said they'd bathe her, shave her, trim her nails, and "express her glands".
Shiko wanted NOTHING to do with this, even drugged out of her mind. The best they got was shaving her. And she bit through the leather handler's glove. THROUGH IT.
So I figured, hey, they got the job done last year, let's take her there again. Drugged her up, dropped her off, and went to the clinic for a full day's work.
I got a call around noon. She'd laid open the groomer. They couldn't shave her.
I mentioned this to my coworkers. T said, "Bring her here!" I warned him she was NOT a cat to mess with, and he replied confidently that they'd be able to handle it. So, I picked her up at the groomers, and took her home to trim her nails quick-like, to give them a better chance.
She was PISSED. And going to trim her nails wasn't a great move, it turns out. Saucy wench bit through my nail on my right ring finger and scratched a good chunk from my right leg as I pinned her to the floor. Got the nails trimmed, though, and took her to the vet's office. Put her in the kennel immediately. Did not attempt to remove her from the crate, just stuck her in the kennel, crate and all.
The vet, T, and D sized her up. She was livid. I was now the enemy. Vet suggested we anesthetize her. We all agreed. She got out an injection that normally reduces cats to "cat shaped carpets", as T put it. I took her out, T scruffed her and held her down, D threw a towel over her head and patted her head to distract her, and the vet came in from the rear to inject her.
In one single motion, the vet administered the shot, and jumped nimbly back (nimble especially for a 50-something lady) from the wide-sweeping arms of a furious cat who had lept off the table two feet, screeching and spitting. T, still holding her scruff and rear, in one smooth motion tossed her into an open kennel, quickly locking the door.
A half hour passes. They keep checking to see if she falls over. Stubbornly vengeful, she does no such thing.
Eventually, they tell me to try to bring her out. I reach in, pick her up, and try to ignore the angry rumbling growls. I set her on the counter. She collapses. Apparently she was only tough while she had a wall to hold her up.
We move her into the surgery room, and plant her growling muzzle into a gas mask, where we proceed to pump her full of anesthesia. I grab the clippers and begin buzzing away. Yep, my first grooming experience and it's my own bleemin' cat. We get her shaved, nice and lion-cut, although the job's a bit uneven because - well, I did it, and I'm not real good at it yet. We lay her gently in the kennel, and I keep an eye on her. Every now and again, I see her still lying there, and I gently pet her. She growls. "Oh, you're doing okay then," I reason. Seems logical at the time.
Eventually she comes to, right about closing time. I hold out the open crate, which she walks into, if incredibly wobbly. Upon her arrival home, she emerges from the crate, and proceeds to fall over onto the floor, as dignified as possible.
Whee!
In other news, I have a new awesome job, but that will have to be for another entry.
Which is to say, I've been busy, and I'm sorry!
No, wait. I'm GLAD I've been busy.
See, Sony and I parted ways at the end of May. So I found myself with an excess of free time. I was looking for jobs like crazy, while at the same time trying to find a way to fill up the time. The answer came in the form of my externship.
The next couple weeks were full of extra days at the clinic, where I successfully performed my first blood draw and two injections. As well as submitting Shiko to tortures hertofore unknown.
Let me explain.
My cat is crazy. Psycho. Insane. Loony. Feral with a side-salad and extra helping of posessed. She's nuts. And she's hostile. She's also longhaired, and needs to have her coat shaved during the summer so a.) she doesn't expire in the SoCal heat and b.) she doesn't shed ALL OVER EVERYTHING I OWN. Which she usually does anyway, but in the summer it comes in clouds of fluff that velcro to every. Possible. Surface.
So last year I'd dosed her up on tranquilizers and sent her to a groomer. The happy pills came from a vet I'd seen in Santa Cruz who'd had to gas the cat to get a frigging blood sample. (Morphine based painkillers? No effect. Tranquilizers? Took a swipe at the vet. Anesthesia gas chamber. Ohhh yeahhh.) So I kept them in reserve to give to her for events such as this. Two doses and she was unable to properly stand. Shipped her off to the groomer, who said they'd bathe her, shave her, trim her nails, and "express her glands".
Shiko wanted NOTHING to do with this, even drugged out of her mind. The best they got was shaving her. And she bit through the leather handler's glove. THROUGH IT.
So I figured, hey, they got the job done last year, let's take her there again. Drugged her up, dropped her off, and went to the clinic for a full day's work.
I got a call around noon. She'd laid open the groomer. They couldn't shave her.
I mentioned this to my coworkers. T said, "Bring her here!" I warned him she was NOT a cat to mess with, and he replied confidently that they'd be able to handle it. So, I picked her up at the groomers, and took her home to trim her nails quick-like, to give them a better chance.
She was PISSED. And going to trim her nails wasn't a great move, it turns out. Saucy wench bit through my nail on my right ring finger and scratched a good chunk from my right leg as I pinned her to the floor. Got the nails trimmed, though, and took her to the vet's office. Put her in the kennel immediately. Did not attempt to remove her from the crate, just stuck her in the kennel, crate and all.
The vet, T, and D sized her up. She was livid. I was now the enemy. Vet suggested we anesthetize her. We all agreed. She got out an injection that normally reduces cats to "cat shaped carpets", as T put it. I took her out, T scruffed her and held her down, D threw a towel over her head and patted her head to distract her, and the vet came in from the rear to inject her.
In one single motion, the vet administered the shot, and jumped nimbly back (nimble especially for a 50-something lady) from the wide-sweeping arms of a furious cat who had lept off the table two feet, screeching and spitting. T, still holding her scruff and rear, in one smooth motion tossed her into an open kennel, quickly locking the door.
A half hour passes. They keep checking to see if she falls over. Stubbornly vengeful, she does no such thing.
Eventually, they tell me to try to bring her out. I reach in, pick her up, and try to ignore the angry rumbling growls. I set her on the counter. She collapses. Apparently she was only tough while she had a wall to hold her up.
We move her into the surgery room, and plant her growling muzzle into a gas mask, where we proceed to pump her full of anesthesia. I grab the clippers and begin buzzing away. Yep, my first grooming experience and it's my own bleemin' cat. We get her shaved, nice and lion-cut, although the job's a bit uneven because - well, I did it, and I'm not real good at it yet. We lay her gently in the kennel, and I keep an eye on her. Every now and again, I see her still lying there, and I gently pet her. She growls. "Oh, you're doing okay then," I reason. Seems logical at the time.
Eventually she comes to, right about closing time. I hold out the open crate, which she walks into, if incredibly wobbly. Upon her arrival home, she emerges from the crate, and proceeds to fall over onto the floor, as dignified as possible.
Whee!
In other news, I have a new awesome job, but that will have to be for another entry.
May 24, 2010
Veterinary Assistant Externship: Day 4
Again with the skipped week, this time because I went and caught the flu from somebody. It's going around. Yay.
So I went in the week, determined to work hard, even if I was still a little tired from being sick. I was the second person in the office, J being the first, and I noticed that the trash had't been taken out the night before. Neither had many counters been wiped down, nor dishes washed. I went in the back, and found the three newest boarders - dropped off just before I arrived - hadn't really been settled in yet with water or food. So I got to work making them comfortable. Oddly enough, it was the three from the week I'd been there before: the excitable piddler dachshund, the loveable orange tabby, and the grumpy-ass pretty kitty. Also there was a bearded dragon (settled in on a heating pad), and two shy stray kittens.
I got the charts set up and cages stocked with litter boxes, water bowls, and fed everybody. T came in and turned on the heat lamp for the lizard, and informed me that the two strays were adoptable. We cleaned up as much as we could, doing a dang fine job if I may say so, and tried to ignore the small orange kitten as he started meowing. A lot. We ended up putting the kittens in isolation later because they werebeing super-noisey, but they were calmer as long as they were together. And well behaved, too. A little bit of comfort-petting and they purred readily.
The doctor, B, and D came in, returning from the early-morning rattlesnake vaccination clinic. Things got rolling. First patient was an exotic: a green-tree python. Beautiful snake with great big golden eyes and light emerald skin. One problem, though: his bowel had prolapsed. Not the best thing in the world. I reminded myself it probably felt worse than it looked, so I stayed sympathetic instead of being grossed out. We ended up anesthetizing him (I didn't know you could anesthetize a snake...) to surgically put things back in where they belonged. I got to "restrain" him for the procedure. I put "restrain" in quotation marks, because a sedated snake doesn't need much restraining. I just needed to keep him from slithering off the table. I tried to keep him warm, too.
After that, the aggressive chow-mix from two weeks prior came in for a recheck. He needed restraint. I was it. Awesomely enough, he offered very little resistance, and we did just fine. I felt like I passed a barrier, with confidence and skill.
A lot of cleaning was in order for the day, so when I wasn't holding animals, I was scrubbing equipment and wiping down exam tables. A hairless cat came in, apparently having flipped out and gone aggro on her owners to the point where he - a grown man - asked to not be in the same room when we opened up her box. It was double-taped shut, a thick filing box. The inside was dark, quiet, and ominous. I opened it up and...!
This little pink cat blinked squintily up at me. I pulled her out, she patiently held still, and let the doc prod and palpate with no trouble. We went to run a blood test, and the poor thing squeaked and twitched when we went to poke her. I ended up having to defer to T to hold her, since I wasn't keeping her still enough. I tried. *sigh*
She was very cuddly, though. And very sweet. We gave her back to the owners and assured them we'd get to the bottom of the behavioral issue.
Last part of the day, we had a dog with a foxtail in her ear. We ended up having to knock her out completely to get a good look. First time seeing an intubation. The doc was nice enough to let me observe, grabbing the tongue and hoisting it out of the way, shining the light down the dog's throat so I could see where things needed to go. At points I was a little worried, because the dog would stop breathing for longer than felt right, but D was there, monitoring everything, forcing air intake as correct. Turned out she just had a waxy blockage, not a foxtail, and I got to observe her coming out of anesthesia. I stayed with her for the requisite 10 minute observation period, to make sure she didn't get sick or collapse. She did freak out, so the doc had to give her some sedatives to keep her from failing and hurting herself, but she was fine by the time her owners came to get her.
End of the day and I cleaned up thoroughly, making sure everyone was fed, walked, bedded down, and everything was well stocked for Monday. The snake went home, all stitched up. It was quiet now, just the boarders and the two strays. It felt good to know I was leaving things better than I found them, and I spent a little extra time cuddling the two kittens. I told B that - if they weren't adopted by next Saturday - I'd be taking one home.
Lesson learned: success stories make it worthwhile. And kittens. But I knew that one already.
So I went in the week, determined to work hard, even if I was still a little tired from being sick. I was the second person in the office, J being the first, and I noticed that the trash had't been taken out the night before. Neither had many counters been wiped down, nor dishes washed. I went in the back, and found the three newest boarders - dropped off just before I arrived - hadn't really been settled in yet with water or food. So I got to work making them comfortable. Oddly enough, it was the three from the week I'd been there before: the excitable piddler dachshund, the loveable orange tabby, and the grumpy-ass pretty kitty. Also there was a bearded dragon (settled in on a heating pad), and two shy stray kittens.
I got the charts set up and cages stocked with litter boxes, water bowls, and fed everybody. T came in and turned on the heat lamp for the lizard, and informed me that the two strays were adoptable. We cleaned up as much as we could, doing a dang fine job if I may say so, and tried to ignore the small orange kitten as he started meowing. A lot. We ended up putting the kittens in isolation later because they werebeing super-noisey, but they were calmer as long as they were together. And well behaved, too. A little bit of comfort-petting and they purred readily.
The doctor, B, and D came in, returning from the early-morning rattlesnake vaccination clinic. Things got rolling. First patient was an exotic: a green-tree python. Beautiful snake with great big golden eyes and light emerald skin. One problem, though: his bowel had prolapsed. Not the best thing in the world. I reminded myself it probably felt worse than it looked, so I stayed sympathetic instead of being grossed out. We ended up anesthetizing him (I didn't know you could anesthetize a snake...) to surgically put things back in where they belonged. I got to "restrain" him for the procedure. I put "restrain" in quotation marks, because a sedated snake doesn't need much restraining. I just needed to keep him from slithering off the table. I tried to keep him warm, too.
After that, the aggressive chow-mix from two weeks prior came in for a recheck. He needed restraint. I was it. Awesomely enough, he offered very little resistance, and we did just fine. I felt like I passed a barrier, with confidence and skill.
A lot of cleaning was in order for the day, so when I wasn't holding animals, I was scrubbing equipment and wiping down exam tables. A hairless cat came in, apparently having flipped out and gone aggro on her owners to the point where he - a grown man - asked to not be in the same room when we opened up her box. It was double-taped shut, a thick filing box. The inside was dark, quiet, and ominous. I opened it up and...!
This little pink cat blinked squintily up at me. I pulled her out, she patiently held still, and let the doc prod and palpate with no trouble. We went to run a blood test, and the poor thing squeaked and twitched when we went to poke her. I ended up having to defer to T to hold her, since I wasn't keeping her still enough. I tried. *sigh*
She was very cuddly, though. And very sweet. We gave her back to the owners and assured them we'd get to the bottom of the behavioral issue.
Last part of the day, we had a dog with a foxtail in her ear. We ended up having to knock her out completely to get a good look. First time seeing an intubation. The doc was nice enough to let me observe, grabbing the tongue and hoisting it out of the way, shining the light down the dog's throat so I could see where things needed to go. At points I was a little worried, because the dog would stop breathing for longer than felt right, but D was there, monitoring everything, forcing air intake as correct. Turned out she just had a waxy blockage, not a foxtail, and I got to observe her coming out of anesthesia. I stayed with her for the requisite 10 minute observation period, to make sure she didn't get sick or collapse. She did freak out, so the doc had to give her some sedatives to keep her from failing and hurting herself, but she was fine by the time her owners came to get her.
End of the day and I cleaned up thoroughly, making sure everyone was fed, walked, bedded down, and everything was well stocked for Monday. The snake went home, all stitched up. It was quiet now, just the boarders and the two strays. It felt good to know I was leaving things better than I found them, and I spent a little extra time cuddling the two kittens. I told B that - if they weren't adopted by next Saturday - I'd be taking one home.
Lesson learned: success stories make it worthwhile. And kittens. But I knew that one already.
May 10, 2010
Veterinary Assistant Externship: Day 3
I missed last week. Woke up with a splitting headache that threatened to make me lose my lunch (last night's dinner?) if I even thought about getting up. Ended up sleeping half the day. Restorative, yes, but I felt like I'd wasted the day somehow. Especially since a full day's work of externshipy goodness had come and gone without me.
So, I vowed this week I would take care of myself, get to bed at a reasonable hour, and get my butt to the clinic like a good student. Had to leave a rather well-going Warcraft raid to do so... but work comes first. Er, study. Er... animals, dangit.
So I Got to the clinic bright and early. Oddly enough, D wasn't at the front desk like the last two times. A new lady was there, K. I said hi, discovered I was the first one to arrive that knew anything about the back rooms, shrugged and got to work, stocking syringes and setting out chairs and garbage bins. I went in the back to check on our boarders, if we had any. And boy howdy, did we.
Two regular old-fashioned boarders were there, a ginger kitty with a sweet disposition and a mini dachshund who could have vibrated into another dimension if she got excited enough. Seeing's how I was the first one there and her chart said she'd not been check up on this morning, I opted to walk her. I nabbed a leash and opened her kennel. She proceeded to get so excited she piddled all over her kennel floor.
Goody.
Slipped the leash over her face, set her down, and off we went. She knew right where the door was and was more than happy to get going. I got her outside to door, went to adjust her leash, and she rolled over onto her back. Clearly I was coming in to pet her tummy. Which apparently excited her again. A rather impressive stream of puppy piddle ran down the asphalt.
Well, at least we were outside.
Proceeded with the walk, she did her business (which impressed me that she had anything left), and came back in. I gave the ginger kitty some lovin's before scoping out the next row of cages.
Another regular boarder, a fluffy pretty kitty with a disposition not unlike Shiko's.
"Hi kitty..."
*hsssss.*
"... okie doke. Good to know."
*hsssssssss.*
"I got it the first time. Not a social girl. I'm going over here now, so chill."
It was a very matter-of-fact hiss. Not "I'm scared" or "I'm angry". Just... distilled "bugger off" with a scoop of grumpy for good measure. I left her alone for the rest of the day. She slept pretty much the entire time, so it wasn't an issue.
Then there was the feral.
Wrapped in an E-collar, tucked in a corner, a large gunmetal-grey male curled in obvious discomfort sat, unnamed, with a large tag on his door labeled "CAUTION". I looked a little closer, and he cried.
I say "cried" because there was no other word for it. It wasn't a howl or yowl. But it had that deep-mouthed tone to it, nothing as domestic as a mew or meow. It was a cry, a pathetic, forlorn sound of loss and fear. And my closer look showed me why. There, behind his E-collar, gazed one golden eye back at me... the other, sewed shut.
Ferals lead a hard life. They must hunt and forage for food, often risking poison from rodents who have ingested vermin-controlling substances (which is why I DESPISE rat-poison), dodging cars and loose dogs and bored humans with violence on their minds. You'd be amazed how many people will torture a cat and think nothing of it. Setting them on fire. Force-feeding them firecrackers. Drenching them in acid. Crushing them or beating them against a wall. Drowning them in a bag. I wish these were isolated horror stories, but those are the most common. Then, if they survive all that, and manage to eat for a day, they have to defend themselves from other ferals to eke out a territory and make a life for themselves. Unprotected from disease and the elements, even a small malady can become life-threatening.
This one had some run-in or another that cost him his eye. Fortunately for him, some good soul brought him in to get it seen to, but for the rest of his life he would bear that defect, and add an extra blind spot to his already difficult life.
Hard cases. Hard lessons. Necessary. If an animal is well, they don't need us. We have to be here for the ones who do.
So I checked on him periodically. Talking to him soothingly, he cried as though his heart would burst, as though he needed comfort but too afraid in this strange place to trust it. He cried, and I kept talking to him. Slowly his voice eased, and he cried less. It went from a mournful sound to a simply tired and sad one, and he drifted off to rest for a while.
T and B came in after the doctor did. Apparently today was my day to learn in-room techniques. I got to hold a Boston Terrier while he got shots, a bad-breathed Pomeranian while his canine influenza vaccine was administered (which is a nasal spray... which dogs DO NOT LIKE!), and a chow-shepherd mix that had to weigh nearly as much as I do as the doc administered eye drops. Again with the did-not-like. But It was important they stayed still, so I held my ground. I communicated with the other more protective chow-shepherd mix with body language, baring my throat and looking away, and he stopped growling at me. It was simple: his master and canine companion were in this strange place with strange people in it. It was possible we meant one or both of them harm. He would not allow this. Not wanting to get bit, I had to communicate that I meant no harm.
Granted, B came in to restrain that particular dog, since he had - prior to his recent extensive training - been much more aggressive. They weren't about to let a newbie handle an aggressive. But I did well with him when I was near him.
I also held onto a mellow but wary kitty with a hurt paw. He ended up staying with us a while while the anesthetic and other drugs knocked him out, and stayed with him when the doc fished around in his paw for whatever ailed him. I checked up on him later as he came out of it... dazed, disoriented, but all right.
As usual, I cleaned. I took the puppy out for her noon walk (she peed with excitement in her crate again), and ran a urinalysis. I even got to try my hand at running a blood sample. I'm still not confident enough to stab anything with a needle yet. T gave me confidence, telling me I would miss, it happens, everyone misses occasionally, but I'd be good because I'd be careful. I prepped drugs and antibiotics, shadowed the doctor, cleaned up rooms after visits so we could get a new patient into an exam room right away, and basically ran around doing as much helping things as I could. The doctor bought us lunch, which was awesome, and I learned some new dog-training techniques from him.
Close up came around, and I took the puppy out for her last walk (got her out to the right spot before she peed this time). I mopped the floors, put up the chairs, half a dozen other cleaning duties that worked up a good sweat. The mellow kitty we'd anesthetized earlier went home with his people with some antibiotics, and we started closing down for the night. B showed me a few new restraint techniques with the excited-piddler, who, of course, piddled on the table as we worked, thumping her tail gleefully. I told B I didn't mind, since I'd rather deal with a dog that piddled when excited than a dog who bit instead. She laughed and agreed.
It was a nice way to end the day, having helped T take off the E-collar from the feral, and seeing him curl up protectively in the corner again. I felt so sorry for that cat, knowing he'd probably be released well before I came back, and only being able to wish him well.
Lesson learned: a little laughter goes a long way.
So, I vowed this week I would take care of myself, get to bed at a reasonable hour, and get my butt to the clinic like a good student. Had to leave a rather well-going Warcraft raid to do so... but work comes first. Er, study. Er... animals, dangit.
So I Got to the clinic bright and early. Oddly enough, D wasn't at the front desk like the last two times. A new lady was there, K. I said hi, discovered I was the first one to arrive that knew anything about the back rooms, shrugged and got to work, stocking syringes and setting out chairs and garbage bins. I went in the back to check on our boarders, if we had any. And boy howdy, did we.
Two regular old-fashioned boarders were there, a ginger kitty with a sweet disposition and a mini dachshund who could have vibrated into another dimension if she got excited enough. Seeing's how I was the first one there and her chart said she'd not been check up on this morning, I opted to walk her. I nabbed a leash and opened her kennel. She proceeded to get so excited she piddled all over her kennel floor.
Goody.
Slipped the leash over her face, set her down, and off we went. She knew right where the door was and was more than happy to get going. I got her outside to door, went to adjust her leash, and she rolled over onto her back. Clearly I was coming in to pet her tummy. Which apparently excited her again. A rather impressive stream of puppy piddle ran down the asphalt.
Well, at least we were outside.
Proceeded with the walk, she did her business (which impressed me that she had anything left), and came back in. I gave the ginger kitty some lovin's before scoping out the next row of cages.
Another regular boarder, a fluffy pretty kitty with a disposition not unlike Shiko's.
"Hi kitty..."
*hsssss.*
"... okie doke. Good to know."
*hsssssssss.*
"I got it the first time. Not a social girl. I'm going over here now, so chill."
It was a very matter-of-fact hiss. Not "I'm scared" or "I'm angry". Just... distilled "bugger off" with a scoop of grumpy for good measure. I left her alone for the rest of the day. She slept pretty much the entire time, so it wasn't an issue.
Then there was the feral.
Wrapped in an E-collar, tucked in a corner, a large gunmetal-grey male curled in obvious discomfort sat, unnamed, with a large tag on his door labeled "CAUTION". I looked a little closer, and he cried.
I say "cried" because there was no other word for it. It wasn't a howl or yowl. But it had that deep-mouthed tone to it, nothing as domestic as a mew or meow. It was a cry, a pathetic, forlorn sound of loss and fear. And my closer look showed me why. There, behind his E-collar, gazed one golden eye back at me... the other, sewed shut.
Ferals lead a hard life. They must hunt and forage for food, often risking poison from rodents who have ingested vermin-controlling substances (which is why I DESPISE rat-poison), dodging cars and loose dogs and bored humans with violence on their minds. You'd be amazed how many people will torture a cat and think nothing of it. Setting them on fire. Force-feeding them firecrackers. Drenching them in acid. Crushing them or beating them against a wall. Drowning them in a bag. I wish these were isolated horror stories, but those are the most common. Then, if they survive all that, and manage to eat for a day, they have to defend themselves from other ferals to eke out a territory and make a life for themselves. Unprotected from disease and the elements, even a small malady can become life-threatening.
This one had some run-in or another that cost him his eye. Fortunately for him, some good soul brought him in to get it seen to, but for the rest of his life he would bear that defect, and add an extra blind spot to his already difficult life.
Hard cases. Hard lessons. Necessary. If an animal is well, they don't need us. We have to be here for the ones who do.
So I checked on him periodically. Talking to him soothingly, he cried as though his heart would burst, as though he needed comfort but too afraid in this strange place to trust it. He cried, and I kept talking to him. Slowly his voice eased, and he cried less. It went from a mournful sound to a simply tired and sad one, and he drifted off to rest for a while.
T and B came in after the doctor did. Apparently today was my day to learn in-room techniques. I got to hold a Boston Terrier while he got shots, a bad-breathed Pomeranian while his canine influenza vaccine was administered (which is a nasal spray... which dogs DO NOT LIKE!), and a chow-shepherd mix that had to weigh nearly as much as I do as the doc administered eye drops. Again with the did-not-like. But It was important they stayed still, so I held my ground. I communicated with the other more protective chow-shepherd mix with body language, baring my throat and looking away, and he stopped growling at me. It was simple: his master and canine companion were in this strange place with strange people in it. It was possible we meant one or both of them harm. He would not allow this. Not wanting to get bit, I had to communicate that I meant no harm.
Granted, B came in to restrain that particular dog, since he had - prior to his recent extensive training - been much more aggressive. They weren't about to let a newbie handle an aggressive. But I did well with him when I was near him.
I also held onto a mellow but wary kitty with a hurt paw. He ended up staying with us a while while the anesthetic and other drugs knocked him out, and stayed with him when the doc fished around in his paw for whatever ailed him. I checked up on him later as he came out of it... dazed, disoriented, but all right.
As usual, I cleaned. I took the puppy out for her noon walk (she peed with excitement in her crate again), and ran a urinalysis. I even got to try my hand at running a blood sample. I'm still not confident enough to stab anything with a needle yet. T gave me confidence, telling me I would miss, it happens, everyone misses occasionally, but I'd be good because I'd be careful. I prepped drugs and antibiotics, shadowed the doctor, cleaned up rooms after visits so we could get a new patient into an exam room right away, and basically ran around doing as much helping things as I could. The doctor bought us lunch, which was awesome, and I learned some new dog-training techniques from him.
Close up came around, and I took the puppy out for her last walk (got her out to the right spot before she peed this time). I mopped the floors, put up the chairs, half a dozen other cleaning duties that worked up a good sweat. The mellow kitty we'd anesthetized earlier went home with his people with some antibiotics, and we started closing down for the night. B showed me a few new restraint techniques with the excited-piddler, who, of course, piddled on the table as we worked, thumping her tail gleefully. I told B I didn't mind, since I'd rather deal with a dog that piddled when excited than a dog who bit instead. She laughed and agreed.
It was a nice way to end the day, having helped T take off the E-collar from the feral, and seeing him curl up protectively in the corner again. I felt so sorry for that cat, knowing he'd probably be released well before I came back, and only being able to wish him well.
Lesson learned: a little laughter goes a long way.
April 26, 2010
Veterinary Assistant Externship: Day 2
Also titled: A Hard Lesson
I was a little less excited for my second day of the externship - not for any real professional reason - simply because I had a friend over from out-of-town and was fairly tired from a strenuous week. I wasn't really looking forward to coming home mid-afternoon, neck and head achy, back sore, feet throbbing. But, because I'm stoic like that, I pulled on my scrubs and got my tush down to the clinic like a good little student.
The morning was different, mostly because it was me and D, the front-desk/vet-tech guy. I got to stocking syringes and wiping down counters, taking down the chairs and setting out the trash bins... and then felt promptly useless. As I cleaned in the back, George the Bulldog (one of our boarders for the day) started barking incessantly. D came in the back and said, "that's it, you're going to iso." Promptly the barking quieted after George was placed in isolation. His companion, Gracie, was unfazed, and looked plainly bored. Much of the morning was spend hosing dog poo off the kennel mats, and sanitizing them for the next occupants.
Eventually folks came in, and I started real hands on work with restraint. First was a little puppy who had really thick skin, and it took a couple of us a few tries to finally get him the fluids he needed. He was a tough little guy, but it was a painful process, and it took a fair bit to keep him still when he couldn't take it anymore. Lesson learned: tiny dogs are difficult to restrain - their heads are really small and will slip right through your headlock if they squirm too much.
A couple of cats needed restraint too. Bloodwork, vaccines... mostly bloodwork. One poor kitty was on chemo. She was thin as a rake and fragile... but she was friendly and very patient with us. Given that she was dehydrated, it was hard to find her veins. But of all the poking from the techs, she didn't fight me. She protested in kind of a quiet, displeased "murrrr!", but no claws, no biting. Can't say the same for all the cats who came in that day. Fortunately nobody got hurt.
I ran my first UA on my own, although I got a second opinion from one of the other techs because... no way could the test be THAT positive for blood in the urine. Sure enough, um, yes there was. Hey, doc!
Got my first look as a UA under the slide. Normally T does that, he knows what he's looking for. But I asked if I could take a peek and he let me. I kept things clean, cleaned things that needed it, tossed used paper towels and soiled linens in the proper recepticle.
And then he came in.
He had an appointment, but he came in early. Apparently this patient - a large German Shepard - had bit his owner four days prior because he wasn't feeling well. Sent the man to the hospital with stitches. Looked like a badly-done ear-piercing. He "just ran out of gas", according to his owner, who brought him in with a few family members, all large and imposing men who had trouble fitting through our narrow hallway.
The owner was an unkempt fellow, and the dog wasn't exactly groomed. I imagined this was a yard dog that was never properly trained out of his aggression, probably in a less affluent area, and given that he was obviously unneutered and had several skin conditions, well... I can't judge people for how they choose to care for their animals, I suppose. It's not my place, unless it's cruelty or abuse or true neglect. But there's a part of me that pities the animal for having been taken up by someone who probably never thought to bathe them, much less take them in for a teeth cleaning or proper vaccination. But right then, as we brought the dog in on a stretcher - to weak to move at all - all the focus was on helping the dog, no matter how he got there.
A number of patients came in during that time. We tried to deal with them speedily, to get them taken care of without a terrible wait, but inevitably some people had to wait longer than they should have. One poor kitty was an "unsociable" lass who'd never been to the vet before. You'd never have guessed: she was as placid and well-behaved as any vet could ask for. Lots of teeth problems came in. Tartar, calculus, infections.
Hey - go get your pet's teeth cleaned. WORTH IT. Those little "dental snacks"? Yeah, not gonna cut it.
We finally managed to get through the majority of the other patients so we could focus everyone on the emergency. Muzzled for safety, he was ferried into the x-ray room by T and I. Not that a muzzle was really necessary... the dog couldn't even manage his bodily functions. T then took the opportunity to teach me even as he utilized my free pair of hands: we took two x-rays, one of the lateral recumbancy, one of dorsal-ventral. We needed to see what was wrong in that dog's abdomen. So, T - who is slightly smaller than I - and myself... we were tasked with wrangling this obviously-suffering dog who was about our own individual weights into a position for the x-rays. We did so as best we could, wearing our latex gloves... there was so much bile, and there were traces of vomit on the front foreleg. As we attempted to x-ray him, he started losing control of his bowels. Poor T nearly retched, but I didn't have the heart in me to react. I couldn't. How cruel would I be if I reacted to this animal's plight with revulsion? I didn't fault anyone else for avoiding contact and commenting on the smell. But I couldn't bring myself to do anything other than help as best I could.
T went back and forth, developing the film, getting a second opinion, taking more x-rays because the last ones weren't clear enough, getting cleanser, throwing away soiled towels, reading the chart, leaving, coming back, leaving, coming back. He was busy on his feet, and quick in knowing what needed doing next. I, however, was tasked with staying with the dog. Lesson learned: never leave an animal unattended on the exam table, as it may flail or fall and hurt itself.
Hours went by. I had to have spent two hours with my hand on the dog's head, stroking him gently, talking to him as soothingly as I could. At one point I knelt down to be eye-level, and looked into the big liquid-brown eyes. They were filled with pain. It was like looking into a cup or a jar that was filled to the brim with suffering. It was terrible. "Live," I told him quietly, "if you can. But if you need to, let go."
After about two and a half hours of me working with this terribly sick dog, the vet came into the x-ray room. He palpated and probed the abdomen. The dog barely moved. The vet's face was a mask of concentration. I just just begin to hold the front paws on one hand, an exposed ear in the other, trying to warm them. I told the vet his ears and paws were going cold, and his already labored breathing had gotten faster. The vet looked grim, and walked out, saying nothing. I was alone again. Ten minutes later, T came in again. "Did he say anything?" he asked. No, I told him. T nodded, said he'd be right back, and left again.
I'd felt it when the animal had come in. I didn't think he was going to make it. I'd hoped otherwise. But now...? Now I was pretty sure. There wasn't anymore time for this dog.
T came back, we gently hoisted him back onto the stretcher, and took him into the exam room to be with his owner. Just two of them now, the owner and another man, both big imposing fellows. The owner welcomed the dog back in, and murmured something about getting him help. A part of me sank. He believed he was going to make it. But I dare not say ANYTHING.
Time passed. I cleaned up as much as I could, sterilizing the holy bajeezus out of the x-ray table with bleach and isopropyl. I was a little dazed. Cleaning helped. As I was starting to feel better, I was helping B in the kennel... the companion of the dog's owner opened the door to the kennel area. You know, that back door in a veterinary exam room you're not supposed to go into. He poked his head in. "Excuse me," he said, disoriented, "we need help. The dog..." He stepped aside as B went in. I caught a glimpse of the owner, his face contorted in agony. In a voice I've had nightmares about, he said, "he's dying!" I looked at the dog, still on the stretcher on the floor, his muzzle off... and his jaw almost feverishly gulping at the air, his lungs fighting to breathe.
The dog did die. I did not witness it. But it could not have been any more ugly than it already had been. The suffering and agony hat animal suffered would finally be over, but from our side of the veil, it would look only like the suffering had frozen in place, transfixed upon the creature's body.
Animal Control was notified. They wanted the animal for rabies testing and incineration, since he'd bitten a human recently. Normally, said B, they go into the freezer right away for disposal. But we couldn't freeze it: Animal Control neede the brain intact and unfrozen.
And so, for the next two hours, the dog lay dead in the exam room.
At cleanup time, I swept around him. His sad form lay limp on the stretcher. His eyes were open, glazed. Why didn't they close his eyes? I will never know.
At closing Animal Control finally came. Unceremoniously he was bagged in two large black trash bags, and carried out to the Animal Control Vehicle. I didn't go with them. I stayed behind to mop the blood and urine and feces and bile from the floor with heavy amounts of bleach. It's not glorious work, and it occasionally thankless. It's dirty work. It has to be. Someone has to do it.
I washed my hands and arms (I'd gotten a fair amount of bodily fluids on myself as I held the dying dog), walked Gracie and George, gathered up the trash full of soiled paper towels and used latex gloves, washed down the counters, sanitized everything, and mopped all the floors. Sweating and achy, but not as bad as the prior week, I went home. A hot shower, a bottle of cold water, and hugs, followed by an afternoon of friends and Warcraft... I was feeling a little better. I could still smell him on occasion. Fiancé told me it was a hallucinated scent. I don't know.
Hard day, but a good one.
Hard lesson learned: I can't save all of them. But I can make it easier on them. And just because I can't save all of them, doesn't mean I can't save any.
I was a little less excited for my second day of the externship - not for any real professional reason - simply because I had a friend over from out-of-town and was fairly tired from a strenuous week. I wasn't really looking forward to coming home mid-afternoon, neck and head achy, back sore, feet throbbing. But, because I'm stoic like that, I pulled on my scrubs and got my tush down to the clinic like a good little student.
The morning was different, mostly because it was me and D, the front-desk/vet-tech guy. I got to stocking syringes and wiping down counters, taking down the chairs and setting out the trash bins... and then felt promptly useless. As I cleaned in the back, George the Bulldog (one of our boarders for the day) started barking incessantly. D came in the back and said, "that's it, you're going to iso." Promptly the barking quieted after George was placed in isolation. His companion, Gracie, was unfazed, and looked plainly bored. Much of the morning was spend hosing dog poo off the kennel mats, and sanitizing them for the next occupants.
Eventually folks came in, and I started real hands on work with restraint. First was a little puppy who had really thick skin, and it took a couple of us a few tries to finally get him the fluids he needed. He was a tough little guy, but it was a painful process, and it took a fair bit to keep him still when he couldn't take it anymore. Lesson learned: tiny dogs are difficult to restrain - their heads are really small and will slip right through your headlock if they squirm too much.
A couple of cats needed restraint too. Bloodwork, vaccines... mostly bloodwork. One poor kitty was on chemo. She was thin as a rake and fragile... but she was friendly and very patient with us. Given that she was dehydrated, it was hard to find her veins. But of all the poking from the techs, she didn't fight me. She protested in kind of a quiet, displeased "murrrr!", but no claws, no biting. Can't say the same for all the cats who came in that day. Fortunately nobody got hurt.
I ran my first UA on my own, although I got a second opinion from one of the other techs because... no way could the test be THAT positive for blood in the urine. Sure enough, um, yes there was. Hey, doc!
Got my first look as a UA under the slide. Normally T does that, he knows what he's looking for. But I asked if I could take a peek and he let me. I kept things clean, cleaned things that needed it, tossed used paper towels and soiled linens in the proper recepticle.
And then he came in.
He had an appointment, but he came in early. Apparently this patient - a large German Shepard - had bit his owner four days prior because he wasn't feeling well. Sent the man to the hospital with stitches. Looked like a badly-done ear-piercing. He "just ran out of gas", according to his owner, who brought him in with a few family members, all large and imposing men who had trouble fitting through our narrow hallway.
The owner was an unkempt fellow, and the dog wasn't exactly groomed. I imagined this was a yard dog that was never properly trained out of his aggression, probably in a less affluent area, and given that he was obviously unneutered and had several skin conditions, well... I can't judge people for how they choose to care for their animals, I suppose. It's not my place, unless it's cruelty or abuse or true neglect. But there's a part of me that pities the animal for having been taken up by someone who probably never thought to bathe them, much less take them in for a teeth cleaning or proper vaccination. But right then, as we brought the dog in on a stretcher - to weak to move at all - all the focus was on helping the dog, no matter how he got there.
A number of patients came in during that time. We tried to deal with them speedily, to get them taken care of without a terrible wait, but inevitably some people had to wait longer than they should have. One poor kitty was an "unsociable" lass who'd never been to the vet before. You'd never have guessed: she was as placid and well-behaved as any vet could ask for. Lots of teeth problems came in. Tartar, calculus, infections.
Hey - go get your pet's teeth cleaned. WORTH IT. Those little "dental snacks"? Yeah, not gonna cut it.
We finally managed to get through the majority of the other patients so we could focus everyone on the emergency. Muzzled for safety, he was ferried into the x-ray room by T and I. Not that a muzzle was really necessary... the dog couldn't even manage his bodily functions. T then took the opportunity to teach me even as he utilized my free pair of hands: we took two x-rays, one of the lateral recumbancy, one of dorsal-ventral. We needed to see what was wrong in that dog's abdomen. So, T - who is slightly smaller than I - and myself... we were tasked with wrangling this obviously-suffering dog who was about our own individual weights into a position for the x-rays. We did so as best we could, wearing our latex gloves... there was so much bile, and there were traces of vomit on the front foreleg. As we attempted to x-ray him, he started losing control of his bowels. Poor T nearly retched, but I didn't have the heart in me to react. I couldn't. How cruel would I be if I reacted to this animal's plight with revulsion? I didn't fault anyone else for avoiding contact and commenting on the smell. But I couldn't bring myself to do anything other than help as best I could.
T went back and forth, developing the film, getting a second opinion, taking more x-rays because the last ones weren't clear enough, getting cleanser, throwing away soiled towels, reading the chart, leaving, coming back, leaving, coming back. He was busy on his feet, and quick in knowing what needed doing next. I, however, was tasked with staying with the dog. Lesson learned: never leave an animal unattended on the exam table, as it may flail or fall and hurt itself.
Hours went by. I had to have spent two hours with my hand on the dog's head, stroking him gently, talking to him as soothingly as I could. At one point I knelt down to be eye-level, and looked into the big liquid-brown eyes. They were filled with pain. It was like looking into a cup or a jar that was filled to the brim with suffering. It was terrible. "Live," I told him quietly, "if you can. But if you need to, let go."
After about two and a half hours of me working with this terribly sick dog, the vet came into the x-ray room. He palpated and probed the abdomen. The dog barely moved. The vet's face was a mask of concentration. I just just begin to hold the front paws on one hand, an exposed ear in the other, trying to warm them. I told the vet his ears and paws were going cold, and his already labored breathing had gotten faster. The vet looked grim, and walked out, saying nothing. I was alone again. Ten minutes later, T came in again. "Did he say anything?" he asked. No, I told him. T nodded, said he'd be right back, and left again.
I'd felt it when the animal had come in. I didn't think he was going to make it. I'd hoped otherwise. But now...? Now I was pretty sure. There wasn't anymore time for this dog.
T came back, we gently hoisted him back onto the stretcher, and took him into the exam room to be with his owner. Just two of them now, the owner and another man, both big imposing fellows. The owner welcomed the dog back in, and murmured something about getting him help. A part of me sank. He believed he was going to make it. But I dare not say ANYTHING.
Time passed. I cleaned up as much as I could, sterilizing the holy bajeezus out of the x-ray table with bleach and isopropyl. I was a little dazed. Cleaning helped. As I was starting to feel better, I was helping B in the kennel... the companion of the dog's owner opened the door to the kennel area. You know, that back door in a veterinary exam room you're not supposed to go into. He poked his head in. "Excuse me," he said, disoriented, "we need help. The dog..." He stepped aside as B went in. I caught a glimpse of the owner, his face contorted in agony. In a voice I've had nightmares about, he said, "he's dying!" I looked at the dog, still on the stretcher on the floor, his muzzle off... and his jaw almost feverishly gulping at the air, his lungs fighting to breathe.
The dog did die. I did not witness it. But it could not have been any more ugly than it already had been. The suffering and agony hat animal suffered would finally be over, but from our side of the veil, it would look only like the suffering had frozen in place, transfixed upon the creature's body.
Animal Control was notified. They wanted the animal for rabies testing and incineration, since he'd bitten a human recently. Normally, said B, they go into the freezer right away for disposal. But we couldn't freeze it: Animal Control neede the brain intact and unfrozen.
And so, for the next two hours, the dog lay dead in the exam room.
At cleanup time, I swept around him. His sad form lay limp on the stretcher. His eyes were open, glazed. Why didn't they close his eyes? I will never know.
At closing Animal Control finally came. Unceremoniously he was bagged in two large black trash bags, and carried out to the Animal Control Vehicle. I didn't go with them. I stayed behind to mop the blood and urine and feces and bile from the floor with heavy amounts of bleach. It's not glorious work, and it occasionally thankless. It's dirty work. It has to be. Someone has to do it.
I washed my hands and arms (I'd gotten a fair amount of bodily fluids on myself as I held the dying dog), walked Gracie and George, gathered up the trash full of soiled paper towels and used latex gloves, washed down the counters, sanitized everything, and mopped all the floors. Sweating and achy, but not as bad as the prior week, I went home. A hot shower, a bottle of cold water, and hugs, followed by an afternoon of friends and Warcraft... I was feeling a little better. I could still smell him on occasion. Fiancé told me it was a hallucinated scent. I don't know.
Hard day, but a good one.
Hard lesson learned: I can't save all of them. But I can make it easier on them. And just because I can't save all of them, doesn't mean I can't save any.
April 19, 2010
Veterinary Assistant Externship: Day 1
So a couple weeks ago I finally sold a veterinary facility on the idea of having me come and shadow their staff in exchange for free labor. It surprised me how difficult it had been to do, given the idea that "free" is usually something people jump at. I'd finished my last chapter in straight book-learning back in December. All my tests had been on time, all had been passing grades (laboratory work being my weakest and animal behavior being my strongest), and I had been prepared to begin immediately.
In case you hadn't noticed, it's April now.
So for the past four months and change, I've been calling various locations in an attempt to volunteer as a student at their locations. Most places never called back, no matter how many times I called to talk to the office manager, got their names, or left messages for them. A couple of them I managed to even get their schedules so I could call during the time they'd be there. One place I hounded for an entire month before I finally got the manager on the phone... only to be met with "no". Discouraging to say the least. But I kept plugging away, hoping SOME place would take me that wasn't in, say, Los Angeles. I'd be willing to drive a fair distance. But budget being what it is, only so far was possible.
One week I finally got mad, and did a Google search to find every vet hospital in a 50 mile radius. I got a lot of returns, and filtered them down based on schedule and distance. With a substantial list of places open at hours I could work (Saturdays in particular) that weren't in Mexico, I began calling. Every. Day.
One place actually seemed interested in talking to me. HUGE step forward. So I worked out a time to come see the facility, printed up my resume, and dressed myself as professionally as I know how. It's less than two miles from my house. Bonus, I thought. Went in, and though it was a very small facility, everyone there seemed friendly and capable. I talked to the office manager for a goodly while, talking about what kinds of things I'd been taught, what my current skillset was, and why I wanted to volunteer. He said he'd talk to the doctor, but "didn't see any problem with it."
Fingers crossed and excited with the biggest break in months, I called my coordinator. She was ecstatic, and gave me a rundown of all the paperwork that would need to happen before I could officially walk through the door as a student. I'd be covered under the school's insurance to protect not just me but the facility as well, and they needed to sign a bunch of things...
Later in the week I got the call. The paperwork had been filed. I was on for the following Saturday, 8:30AM.
I was nervous and excited Friday night. I laid out my student scrubs, put a notebook and pencil out, and set my alarm for extra early. I slept well, although I did have trouble falling asleep initially, to jazzed about the next morning to drift off right away. I worried that I'd forgotten too much in the four months since my last exam, that I would make a huge mistake, that I'd do something that endangered a patient or worse. What if I looked like an idiot? What if I forgot how to scrub properly? What if I mixed up procedure?
I was up bright an early, washed, dressed, primped and groomed. I wore no scents (bad idea when around animals with sensitive noses) and limited makeup (proper professional etiquette). I made the hard decision to leave my engagement ring at home at the suggestion of my textbook, preventing the risk of damage or soiling on the ring itself but also the damage to the rubber gloves I might need to wear. Jewelry of most kinds is dangerous to wear in an environment where the patient might struggle and entangle hoops or loops with fur and fangs. Finally ready with plenty of time, I walked out the door with my hair pinned up primly, and drove down the quiet empty streets to the facility, enjoying the cool air and warm sunshine.
I arrived early and presented myself. Immediately I set about asking what I could do to help. We stocked rooms, wiped down exam tables, and walked the dog that was being boarded there. We set about putting new stickers on old files and setting up blank charts for new patients. We went over the schedule, prepared for our appointments, and made sure everything was in order. The doctor veterinarian came in, introduced himself (he's quite the talker), and our first appointment arrived.
Now, everyone knows doctors wade through blood and pus. And nurses, too. But sometimes I think folks don't really realize that vets and vet staff have it tough, too. See, while we don't have quite the myriad of maladies to treat that human-doctors do, we do have to run tests on animals that humans would find abhorrent. Animals can't say "hey, doc, it hurts here when I do this and the pain is sharp (or dull)". Take, for example, the urinalysis. In humans, we ask the patient to pee in a cup, right? Well, in animals we can't do that. We have to flip them onto their backs (secure in the foam safety-wedge for comfort), and withdraw the urine directly from the bladder with a needle and syringe. It's not graceful or dignified, but it gets the job done. And don't even get me started on poop.
You can tell a lot about an animal by its poop. Hydration, diet, internal health, parasitic infection... and to determine all this, we have to smush it on a slide with solution and look at it under a microscope. It smells bad, the animal hates it, and it's messy. But it's important, even necessary. The animal's well-being is more important than the bad smell. So the staff ignores it and does the fecal smear with all the professional precision one might expect of medical staff.
My first real hands-on animal experience was one of the most disgusting procedures I can name. Fiancé gets green around the gills every time I mention it. It doesn't bother me, partly because it needs to NOT bother me if I'm going to expect to do this kind of work, and partly because I've gotten so used to urine, feces, blood, pus, and vomit from owning animals my whole life that it just doesn't shock me anymore. I am referring, of course, to the procedure known as "anal gland expression". From a medical standpoint, it's interesting and important. Cats and dogs have these little glands that can become impacted, infected, and downright problematic, and need to be cleared out. The fluid itself is a vile-smelling goo that would fit in well at the Bog Of Eternal Stench, and, like the Bog itself, one drop has enough potency to last for a week on your clothes. And while nasty and uncomfortable for both the animal and the staff, it's incredibly good for the critter's system. Was it gross? Oh yes. But did it bother me? Not so much.
The rest of the day was mainly cleaning. At one point my eyes burned with the bleach and I needed to take a break. I sanitized two surgical wards, dry-mopped the floors, then bleach-mopped the floors, walked the dogs again for their noontide breaks, took out the trash, stocked the rooms with syringes, and socialized with a poor kitty whose bladder refused to give a urinalysis and had been poked and prodded no less then five times that day. Such a sweetie. At day's close the owner came to take her home, and we noticed a puddle of pee in the bottom of the cage... with blood in it. She was immediately rescheduled for another exam. I hope she's okay.
It was a slow day. We had pizza, and chips and homemade guacamole. We shot the breeze as we ran lab tests. I got to see two urine tests run, two fecal floats, two smears, and one blood draw. We teased each other and talked about training methods for dogs and cats. We chatted about our own pets and why it was silly to call up old clients from five years past who had brought in their rodents. They taught, I listened. I asked questions, they demonstrated answers. They explained, I took notes. We talked about music and significant others.
It was a great day.
After the doctor went home following the last appointment, we started cleaning up. Nobody else was due in for the day, we'd had no calls, and it didn't look like anyone was coming in. We walked the boarding dogs one last time, moved the barker out of isolation, and sanitized everything. I worked up a sweat mopping the whole facility. I was proud of my work. It felt honest and solid, "true" in a fashion. Wholesome. Right. I cleaned up the mop and bucket, grabbed my stuff, and went home, back by 3PM.
My back hurt, my feet throbbed from standing all day, and my head ached enormously from having my hair tied back for so long. I took a hot shower to clean up, washed my scrubs, and relaxed for the rest of the afternoon with equally-achey Fiancé, who'd spent the better part of the day in physical exercise and activity.
And I get to do it all again next week.
I love my life.
In case you hadn't noticed, it's April now.
So for the past four months and change, I've been calling various locations in an attempt to volunteer as a student at their locations. Most places never called back, no matter how many times I called to talk to the office manager, got their names, or left messages for them. A couple of them I managed to even get their schedules so I could call during the time they'd be there. One place I hounded for an entire month before I finally got the manager on the phone... only to be met with "no". Discouraging to say the least. But I kept plugging away, hoping SOME place would take me that wasn't in, say, Los Angeles. I'd be willing to drive a fair distance. But budget being what it is, only so far was possible.
One week I finally got mad, and did a Google search to find every vet hospital in a 50 mile radius. I got a lot of returns, and filtered them down based on schedule and distance. With a substantial list of places open at hours I could work (Saturdays in particular) that weren't in Mexico, I began calling. Every. Day.
One place actually seemed interested in talking to me. HUGE step forward. So I worked out a time to come see the facility, printed up my resume, and dressed myself as professionally as I know how. It's less than two miles from my house. Bonus, I thought. Went in, and though it was a very small facility, everyone there seemed friendly and capable. I talked to the office manager for a goodly while, talking about what kinds of things I'd been taught, what my current skillset was, and why I wanted to volunteer. He said he'd talk to the doctor, but "didn't see any problem with it."
Fingers crossed and excited with the biggest break in months, I called my coordinator. She was ecstatic, and gave me a rundown of all the paperwork that would need to happen before I could officially walk through the door as a student. I'd be covered under the school's insurance to protect not just me but the facility as well, and they needed to sign a bunch of things...
Later in the week I got the call. The paperwork had been filed. I was on for the following Saturday, 8:30AM.
I was nervous and excited Friday night. I laid out my student scrubs, put a notebook and pencil out, and set my alarm for extra early. I slept well, although I did have trouble falling asleep initially, to jazzed about the next morning to drift off right away. I worried that I'd forgotten too much in the four months since my last exam, that I would make a huge mistake, that I'd do something that endangered a patient or worse. What if I looked like an idiot? What if I forgot how to scrub properly? What if I mixed up procedure?
I was up bright an early, washed, dressed, primped and groomed. I wore no scents (bad idea when around animals with sensitive noses) and limited makeup (proper professional etiquette). I made the hard decision to leave my engagement ring at home at the suggestion of my textbook, preventing the risk of damage or soiling on the ring itself but also the damage to the rubber gloves I might need to wear. Jewelry of most kinds is dangerous to wear in an environment where the patient might struggle and entangle hoops or loops with fur and fangs. Finally ready with plenty of time, I walked out the door with my hair pinned up primly, and drove down the quiet empty streets to the facility, enjoying the cool air and warm sunshine.
I arrived early and presented myself. Immediately I set about asking what I could do to help. We stocked rooms, wiped down exam tables, and walked the dog that was being boarded there. We set about putting new stickers on old files and setting up blank charts for new patients. We went over the schedule, prepared for our appointments, and made sure everything was in order. The doctor veterinarian came in, introduced himself (he's quite the talker), and our first appointment arrived.
Now, everyone knows doctors wade through blood and pus. And nurses, too. But sometimes I think folks don't really realize that vets and vet staff have it tough, too. See, while we don't have quite the myriad of maladies to treat that human-doctors do, we do have to run tests on animals that humans would find abhorrent. Animals can't say "hey, doc, it hurts here when I do this and the pain is sharp (or dull)". Take, for example, the urinalysis. In humans, we ask the patient to pee in a cup, right? Well, in animals we can't do that. We have to flip them onto their backs (secure in the foam safety-wedge for comfort), and withdraw the urine directly from the bladder with a needle and syringe. It's not graceful or dignified, but it gets the job done. And don't even get me started on poop.
You can tell a lot about an animal by its poop. Hydration, diet, internal health, parasitic infection... and to determine all this, we have to smush it on a slide with solution and look at it under a microscope. It smells bad, the animal hates it, and it's messy. But it's important, even necessary. The animal's well-being is more important than the bad smell. So the staff ignores it and does the fecal smear with all the professional precision one might expect of medical staff.
My first real hands-on animal experience was one of the most disgusting procedures I can name. Fiancé gets green around the gills every time I mention it. It doesn't bother me, partly because it needs to NOT bother me if I'm going to expect to do this kind of work, and partly because I've gotten so used to urine, feces, blood, pus, and vomit from owning animals my whole life that it just doesn't shock me anymore. I am referring, of course, to the procedure known as "anal gland expression". From a medical standpoint, it's interesting and important. Cats and dogs have these little glands that can become impacted, infected, and downright problematic, and need to be cleared out. The fluid itself is a vile-smelling goo that would fit in well at the Bog Of Eternal Stench, and, like the Bog itself, one drop has enough potency to last for a week on your clothes. And while nasty and uncomfortable for both the animal and the staff, it's incredibly good for the critter's system. Was it gross? Oh yes. But did it bother me? Not so much.
The rest of the day was mainly cleaning. At one point my eyes burned with the bleach and I needed to take a break. I sanitized two surgical wards, dry-mopped the floors, then bleach-mopped the floors, walked the dogs again for their noontide breaks, took out the trash, stocked the rooms with syringes, and socialized with a poor kitty whose bladder refused to give a urinalysis and had been poked and prodded no less then five times that day. Such a sweetie. At day's close the owner came to take her home, and we noticed a puddle of pee in the bottom of the cage... with blood in it. She was immediately rescheduled for another exam. I hope she's okay.
It was a slow day. We had pizza, and chips and homemade guacamole. We shot the breeze as we ran lab tests. I got to see two urine tests run, two fecal floats, two smears, and one blood draw. We teased each other and talked about training methods for dogs and cats. We chatted about our own pets and why it was silly to call up old clients from five years past who had brought in their rodents. They taught, I listened. I asked questions, they demonstrated answers. They explained, I took notes. We talked about music and significant others.
It was a great day.
After the doctor went home following the last appointment, we started cleaning up. Nobody else was due in for the day, we'd had no calls, and it didn't look like anyone was coming in. We walked the boarding dogs one last time, moved the barker out of isolation, and sanitized everything. I worked up a sweat mopping the whole facility. I was proud of my work. It felt honest and solid, "true" in a fashion. Wholesome. Right. I cleaned up the mop and bucket, grabbed my stuff, and went home, back by 3PM.
My back hurt, my feet throbbed from standing all day, and my head ached enormously from having my hair tied back for so long. I took a hot shower to clean up, washed my scrubs, and relaxed for the rest of the afternoon with equally-achey Fiancé, who'd spent the better part of the day in physical exercise and activity.
And I get to do it all again next week.
I love my life.
April 12, 2010
Green Growing Things
I never thought I had mom's green thumb. She always had this magical ability to somehow know what was ailing a plant, what kind of soil it needed, whether it needed more or less water, how to make it bloom with the biggest and most colorful blossoms. She knew their names and species, the light they craved, the nutrients they wanted most, and how to set them together to create the most colorful array such that the garden was alive with color year round.
I always figured I am to animals what mom is to plants. There's a gift there, a knack, an uncanny sense of what it is and how to relate to it. Mom's roses were my cats. Mom's birch were my turtles. Mom's gladiolas were my fish. Mom's Johnny-Jump-Ups were my bunnies. And sometimes my animals and her plants interacted... sometimes favorably, sometimes not so much. (Bunnies like to eat pansies, btw.)
But this year I craved the soil. I live on the third floor of an apartment in a city. Granted, it's not like I'm in the downtown metro area where there's nothing but concrete and lampposts in every direction... but I don't exactly have a yard, either. I have animals - a cat, a mouse, a fish - but the plants were absent for the longest time. I started sneaking clippings and buying those silly little short-lived things at grocery stores, needing them somehow like a starved thing. You may or may not have remembered my minor battle with the landlord over a patch of ground. I craved the earth, and the things that grow from it... quietly, surely, determinedly.
So something happened. I'm not sure what, or how, or why. I pulled out an old seed-starter kit I bought years ago with the intent to use it for herbs and never did. Dusty and aged, I poured good potting soil - again, bought for a use it never fulfilled - into the little trays and poked seeds gathered from various places into the waiting dirt. Carefully I watched them, watering them. A few seedlings I'd nabbed from Pantheacon sat in timid pots, and I hovered over them like a mother hen, tending them carefully, needing them to survive, to sustain me even as I sustained them.
Lo and behold, the weather warmed, and little green things poked their tender shoots out of the dark moist earth. I had to guard them against the cat, who - as an indoor-only entity - saw them as a snack. Slowly but surely they grew in strength and size, joined by others of different species and type: cat-grass, nasturtium, a strange unidentifiable black-spotted bean thing. Soon I had a little army of seedlings. Quickly they outgrew the starter kit.
In one afternoon, I potted a half-dozen of the little living things. Even plants previously in pots, struggling to survive from my neglect and inattention, were repotted and carefully tended. Dirt went everywhere, old pots were dragged out of the storage, and sweat dripped down my temples to mix with the grime.
I LOVED it.
Now, on my little balcony, are two tiny pots of nasturtium, a tray of crocus, a tall pot of fresia, another of daffodil, a happy squash in flower, a tall green trunk of plumaria, three plastic pots of wide-leaved bean-thingy, another of yarrow, a cactus and aloe, all watched over by a hanging pot of cat-grass. Perhaps I don't have a garden... or maybe I made one where there wasn't one before.
Perhaps I have a green thumb after all.
I always figured I am to animals what mom is to plants. There's a gift there, a knack, an uncanny sense of what it is and how to relate to it. Mom's roses were my cats. Mom's birch were my turtles. Mom's gladiolas were my fish. Mom's Johnny-Jump-Ups were my bunnies. And sometimes my animals and her plants interacted... sometimes favorably, sometimes not so much. (Bunnies like to eat pansies, btw.)
But this year I craved the soil. I live on the third floor of an apartment in a city. Granted, it's not like I'm in the downtown metro area where there's nothing but concrete and lampposts in every direction... but I don't exactly have a yard, either. I have animals - a cat, a mouse, a fish - but the plants were absent for the longest time. I started sneaking clippings and buying those silly little short-lived things at grocery stores, needing them somehow like a starved thing. You may or may not have remembered my minor battle with the landlord over a patch of ground. I craved the earth, and the things that grow from it... quietly, surely, determinedly.
So something happened. I'm not sure what, or how, or why. I pulled out an old seed-starter kit I bought years ago with the intent to use it for herbs and never did. Dusty and aged, I poured good potting soil - again, bought for a use it never fulfilled - into the little trays and poked seeds gathered from various places into the waiting dirt. Carefully I watched them, watering them. A few seedlings I'd nabbed from Pantheacon sat in timid pots, and I hovered over them like a mother hen, tending them carefully, needing them to survive, to sustain me even as I sustained them.
Lo and behold, the weather warmed, and little green things poked their tender shoots out of the dark moist earth. I had to guard them against the cat, who - as an indoor-only entity - saw them as a snack. Slowly but surely they grew in strength and size, joined by others of different species and type: cat-grass, nasturtium, a strange unidentifiable black-spotted bean thing. Soon I had a little army of seedlings. Quickly they outgrew the starter kit.
In one afternoon, I potted a half-dozen of the little living things. Even plants previously in pots, struggling to survive from my neglect and inattention, were repotted and carefully tended. Dirt went everywhere, old pots were dragged out of the storage, and sweat dripped down my temples to mix with the grime.
I LOVED it.
Now, on my little balcony, are two tiny pots of nasturtium, a tray of crocus, a tall pot of fresia, another of daffodil, a happy squash in flower, a tall green trunk of plumaria, three plastic pots of wide-leaved bean-thingy, another of yarrow, a cactus and aloe, all watched over by a hanging pot of cat-grass. Perhaps I don't have a garden... or maybe I made one where there wasn't one before.
Perhaps I have a green thumb after all.
April 06, 2010
Shakin'
There was an earthquake Sunday. It started as a bit of a gentle shake, then intensified a bit... and then hung about a bit at that intense level.
I lived through the Loma Prieta Quake of 1989. I was a wee tyke, seven or so, and one of my uncles was over. We had this big chandelier in the breakfast nook, a big wagon-wheel thing with lamps on it. We're sitting around doing whatever and my uncle says, "earthquake!". Mom thought he was kidding, until she saw the chandelier swaying back and forth like a drunken sailor. Next thing I knew we were outside on the grass in the back yard. The cats were going nuts, running from one side of the yard to the other, ears pinned back and tails fluffed to the max. And then we watched the pool empty out about three feet of water as it sloshed... back and forth... back and forth... like some kind of child playing in the tub.
I know quakes can be devastating. Heck, some of the nasties have reared their ugly heads in the past decade. The last 9-pointer caused a tsunami that killed almost a quarter of a million people. And then of course there's Chile and Haiti. They're not to be taken too lightly.
And yet, most quakes are hardly a sneeze. Every now and again the earth trembles, but it's gone within moments.
Mom and dad described the one that happened earlier this year as a rumble, then a BANG. I once sat through one of those (not anywhere near as strong). The bang was frightening. A sudden jolt as though a truck had hit the building. And having been in a building hit by a truck, I'd know. So when this one came, that's what I was expecting. It lasted too long to be an "ordinary" quake, and soon I tensed, awaiting the jolt... that never came.
Just a leisurely rumble, enough to shake a few things out of their places, but nothing more.
Yes, we are lucky.
Does anyone else notice how much the earth is waking up lately?
I lived through the Loma Prieta Quake of 1989. I was a wee tyke, seven or so, and one of my uncles was over. We had this big chandelier in the breakfast nook, a big wagon-wheel thing with lamps on it. We're sitting around doing whatever and my uncle says, "earthquake!". Mom thought he was kidding, until she saw the chandelier swaying back and forth like a drunken sailor. Next thing I knew we were outside on the grass in the back yard. The cats were going nuts, running from one side of the yard to the other, ears pinned back and tails fluffed to the max. And then we watched the pool empty out about three feet of water as it sloshed... back and forth... back and forth... like some kind of child playing in the tub.
I know quakes can be devastating. Heck, some of the nasties have reared their ugly heads in the past decade. The last 9-pointer caused a tsunami that killed almost a quarter of a million people. And then of course there's Chile and Haiti. They're not to be taken too lightly.
And yet, most quakes are hardly a sneeze. Every now and again the earth trembles, but it's gone within moments.
Mom and dad described the one that happened earlier this year as a rumble, then a BANG. I once sat through one of those (not anywhere near as strong). The bang was frightening. A sudden jolt as though a truck had hit the building. And having been in a building hit by a truck, I'd know. So when this one came, that's what I was expecting. It lasted too long to be an "ordinary" quake, and soon I tensed, awaiting the jolt... that never came.
Just a leisurely rumble, enough to shake a few things out of their places, but nothing more.
Yes, we are lucky.
Does anyone else notice how much the earth is waking up lately?
March 30, 2010
Different, Yet the Same
I keep getting asked if I feel different now that I'm engaged. It's a surprisingly difficult question to answer. On the one hand, I feel completely the same, the only real difference being a euphoric feeling of happiness that occasionally pops in to say hey for whatever reason. On some level it's different, though, as I find myself feeling even more secure and loved. It's complicated.
Fiancé and I have been together for around 4 years. We set an arbitrary estimated "anniversary" of our dating because... well... to be honest neither of us could really come up with anything resembling a set "first date" or benchmark of when we became official. Heck, when I started calling him my boyfriend it was because he surprised me by announcing to a small group that we were in a relationship. I hadn't really known what we were before. We were friends, to be certain. We've known each other for just about ten years at this point (or close to, anyway, since I met him when I began college in the fall of 2000), and some high points peppered by low points, with a few branches of not speaking to one another for a short period (my bad). I've matured a lot in that decade, and he's changed considerably as well. We did a lot of that changing together, supporting each other through job losses and job hunting (he taught me how to be a temp, for example), breakups, frustrations, new game releases, financial hardships and bouts of terrible inebriation. He taught me to take tequila shots, I taught him how to play Super Smash Brothers. We learned how to team up on WarCraft 3 maps, I did housework, he cooked. We were friends, then housemates. Then somewhere a long ways down the line we became something more, it just took us both a little while to realize what it was, I think.
He has shouldered my debts, I've nursed him through considerable illnesses. He's carried me out of clinics and bore the stress of caring for me out of surgery. I've watched the IV drip enough saline into his system to fill several big bottles of soda. I've paid his gas, he's bought my lunch. I've done his laundry, he's upped my spice tolerance. It's a relationship of respect and honesty, with a few moments of intense frustration... hey, we're both cardinal signs with horns on our heads, sometimes we can be stubborn. (I can almost hear his voice now, "SOMETIMES?!") Not all of these things happened while we were officially a couple... but the line between when we weren't and when we became one is blurry. Like friendship... but upgraded with intense love.
Now now it's like that: a couple, boyfriend-girlfriend, but upgraded somehow. I can't keep from smiling when the word Fiancé passes my lips, and it melts my heart when the word Fiancée comes from his. And let's not forget the enormous shiny ring he put on my finger! I catch myself staring at it frequently (especially in sunlight), not just because it's gorgeous (it's that too!), but because it's a symbol of his love for me, his desire to be a part of my life forever, come hell or high water.
So is it different? Yes. And no. Both. And neither. I'm coming to the conclusion that it just is, and inexplicable in its being. Much like I cannot define myself wholly with words, or fathom what forever really looks like, I can't simply describe what it is I am and what I'm feeling.
Other than, well, incredibly happy. Let's go with that for now, 'kay? :)
Fiancé and I have been together for around 4 years. We set an arbitrary estimated "anniversary" of our dating because... well... to be honest neither of us could really come up with anything resembling a set "first date" or benchmark of when we became official. Heck, when I started calling him my boyfriend it was because he surprised me by announcing to a small group that we were in a relationship. I hadn't really known what we were before. We were friends, to be certain. We've known each other for just about ten years at this point (or close to, anyway, since I met him when I began college in the fall of 2000), and some high points peppered by low points, with a few branches of not speaking to one another for a short period (my bad). I've matured a lot in that decade, and he's changed considerably as well. We did a lot of that changing together, supporting each other through job losses and job hunting (he taught me how to be a temp, for example), breakups, frustrations, new game releases, financial hardships and bouts of terrible inebriation. He taught me to take tequila shots, I taught him how to play Super Smash Brothers. We learned how to team up on WarCraft 3 maps, I did housework, he cooked. We were friends, then housemates. Then somewhere a long ways down the line we became something more, it just took us both a little while to realize what it was, I think.
He has shouldered my debts, I've nursed him through considerable illnesses. He's carried me out of clinics and bore the stress of caring for me out of surgery. I've watched the IV drip enough saline into his system to fill several big bottles of soda. I've paid his gas, he's bought my lunch. I've done his laundry, he's upped my spice tolerance. It's a relationship of respect and honesty, with a few moments of intense frustration... hey, we're both cardinal signs with horns on our heads, sometimes we can be stubborn. (I can almost hear his voice now, "SOMETIMES?!") Not all of these things happened while we were officially a couple... but the line between when we weren't and when we became one is blurry. Like friendship... but upgraded with intense love.
Now now it's like that: a couple, boyfriend-girlfriend, but upgraded somehow. I can't keep from smiling when the word Fiancé passes my lips, and it melts my heart when the word Fiancée comes from his. And let's not forget the enormous shiny ring he put on my finger! I catch myself staring at it frequently (especially in sunlight), not just because it's gorgeous (it's that too!), but because it's a symbol of his love for me, his desire to be a part of my life forever, come hell or high water.
So is it different? Yes. And no. Both. And neither. I'm coming to the conclusion that it just is, and inexplicable in its being. Much like I cannot define myself wholly with words, or fathom what forever really looks like, I can't simply describe what it is I am and what I'm feeling.
Other than, well, incredibly happy. Let's go with that for now, 'kay? :)
March 22, 2010
Surprise!
So I was worried about making this weekend as awesome as possible. I had planned and schemed and plotted to surprise and delight Boyfriend for his 30th birthday weekend.
I had no idea.
Friday I got off work early, unbeknownst to Boyfriend. Came home and did a bunch of chores, taking recycling to the recycling center and taking out the trash, cleaning the cat box and mouse cage and fish bowl, vacuuming and doing several loads of laundry. I washed dishes and put them away, scrubbed counters, and proceeded to pack us both plenty of clothes and toiletries for the trip. With our bag of personal stuff packed, I dragged out the tent and sleeping bags, started packing supplies and foods into bags and coolers, and stacking them near the door so when we all arrived, we could grab everything and go. I finished in just a couple hours, and quickly prettied up for the next event.
I showed up at his office at 3:15. His boss and co-workers had already decorated the main meeting room and laid out a spread of fiesta foods and drinks. He had no idea I'd be there. At 3:30, he and another coworker with a birthday right next to his walked in, and a great big surprise party ensued, complete with beers and nachos. Much fun was had... and the weekend was only beginning.
I still had no idea.
I returned home to await the arrival of two friends from up north, and soon the arrival of Boyfriend as well. We nabbed some last-minute supplies, such as firewood, and wound our way up the swiftly-darkening slopes of Mount Laguna. We pitched the tents in the last vestiges of twilight, the guys built a fire, and I dragged out the food. We chatted and cooked hot dogs and made s'mores, while our astronomically-inclined friend showed us incredible sights through her telescope: the Orion Nebula, the Pleiades, Mars. The night turned cold as we went to bed, and kept getting colder, chasing us to our cars to sleep through the night, turning on our heaters to thaw our frozen feet. We woke to a beautiful clear day, and more friends joined us for breakfast, which was eggs and bacon over the campfire.
We chatted and talked about random things, and I laid out my next surprise: a card signed by all the friends present, and a birthday gift: a small piece of the Berlin Wall. I was riding high on the thought that I had managed to monopolize the surprises for the weekend, with one still planned in the form of a birthday cake to be had later.
But still, I had no idea.
Boyfriend then suggested we head to his "spot" on the mountain, a beautiful scenic place where the mountain descends rapidly into a canyon that drops immediately into the flat white expanse of the desert beyond. I have shared this place with him before and loved it every time. It's a gorgeous place, where the earth reaches up to kiss the sky and the hot fire from the desert is met by the damp mountain biome. It is a sacred place. "Bring your cameras," he said, and I brought mine too. I agreed whole heartedly: it was definitely worth taking pictures of. Little did I know.
We reached our destination and piled out of the cars, and immediately I set to tracking. I found evidence of deer and rabbit, but most exciting I found mountain lion tracks. I followed them, pointing them out, pleased with myself for knowing what to look for and feeling all smart-like. We ventured down the hill a ways where the view got extra wide, and wandered around, folks taking pictures of everything. I wandered away a bit to sit with the mountain for a time. Boyfriend came up and kept me company, then suggested we move away from the cliff. I followed him over to another spot, and he held my hand tightly, asking if I knew he loved me.
We do this every now and then. I suspected nothing. Except for the fact that he was shaking like a leaf and his voice was trembling. I hugged him and asked if he was okay. He said, "Yeah, I'm okay," but I wasn't exactly convinced. I asked him was was wrong, and he said he was nervous. His heart was racing like he'd just run up ten flights of stairs. He said, "well, I'm nervous."
Nervous? Why?
"Because I want you to say yes," and he pulled out a gorgeous star-sapphire ring.
...
It gets a little blurry after that. I was too excited to think straight. I said "Of course!" and gave him a big hug, and he placed the ring on my finger. (Apparently he was worried he hadn't got the size right, but it was perfect.) The whole world sort of faded out for a bit. We hugged and kissed for a long time. Then at some point I became vaguely aware of the clickety click click clicky click of cameras going off like a press conference. I suddenly felt self-conscious and started laughing. And with that, the conspiracy broke, and everyone congratulated us.
I was apparently the last to know this was coming.
I am now engaged. Boyfriend is now Fiancé.
Later in the car, he explained that no, he hadn't in fact been calling my dad last week to talk about health insurance. He'd called to ask my dad for my hand. And he'd planned a flowery speech for me... but it all went right out the window. It wasn't anything like either of us had planned, but it was perfect just the way it happened. He said jokingly, "You know, you haven't actually said 'yes'." Well, I said, he hadn't exactly asked me the question, either.
So he asked me, now no longer nervous, and I said yes, perfectly prepared.
Surprise!
I had no idea.
Friday I got off work early, unbeknownst to Boyfriend. Came home and did a bunch of chores, taking recycling to the recycling center and taking out the trash, cleaning the cat box and mouse cage and fish bowl, vacuuming and doing several loads of laundry. I washed dishes and put them away, scrubbed counters, and proceeded to pack us both plenty of clothes and toiletries for the trip. With our bag of personal stuff packed, I dragged out the tent and sleeping bags, started packing supplies and foods into bags and coolers, and stacking them near the door so when we all arrived, we could grab everything and go. I finished in just a couple hours, and quickly prettied up for the next event.
I showed up at his office at 3:15. His boss and co-workers had already decorated the main meeting room and laid out a spread of fiesta foods and drinks. He had no idea I'd be there. At 3:30, he and another coworker with a birthday right next to his walked in, and a great big surprise party ensued, complete with beers and nachos. Much fun was had... and the weekend was only beginning.
I still had no idea.
I returned home to await the arrival of two friends from up north, and soon the arrival of Boyfriend as well. We nabbed some last-minute supplies, such as firewood, and wound our way up the swiftly-darkening slopes of Mount Laguna. We pitched the tents in the last vestiges of twilight, the guys built a fire, and I dragged out the food. We chatted and cooked hot dogs and made s'mores, while our astronomically-inclined friend showed us incredible sights through her telescope: the Orion Nebula, the Pleiades, Mars. The night turned cold as we went to bed, and kept getting colder, chasing us to our cars to sleep through the night, turning on our heaters to thaw our frozen feet. We woke to a beautiful clear day, and more friends joined us for breakfast, which was eggs and bacon over the campfire.
We chatted and talked about random things, and I laid out my next surprise: a card signed by all the friends present, and a birthday gift: a small piece of the Berlin Wall. I was riding high on the thought that I had managed to monopolize the surprises for the weekend, with one still planned in the form of a birthday cake to be had later.
But still, I had no idea.
Boyfriend then suggested we head to his "spot" on the mountain, a beautiful scenic place where the mountain descends rapidly into a canyon that drops immediately into the flat white expanse of the desert beyond. I have shared this place with him before and loved it every time. It's a gorgeous place, where the earth reaches up to kiss the sky and the hot fire from the desert is met by the damp mountain biome. It is a sacred place. "Bring your cameras," he said, and I brought mine too. I agreed whole heartedly: it was definitely worth taking pictures of. Little did I know.
We reached our destination and piled out of the cars, and immediately I set to tracking. I found evidence of deer and rabbit, but most exciting I found mountain lion tracks. I followed them, pointing them out, pleased with myself for knowing what to look for and feeling all smart-like. We ventured down the hill a ways where the view got extra wide, and wandered around, folks taking pictures of everything. I wandered away a bit to sit with the mountain for a time. Boyfriend came up and kept me company, then suggested we move away from the cliff. I followed him over to another spot, and he held my hand tightly, asking if I knew he loved me.
We do this every now and then. I suspected nothing. Except for the fact that he was shaking like a leaf and his voice was trembling. I hugged him and asked if he was okay. He said, "Yeah, I'm okay," but I wasn't exactly convinced. I asked him was was wrong, and he said he was nervous. His heart was racing like he'd just run up ten flights of stairs. He said, "well, I'm nervous."
Nervous? Why?
"Because I want you to say yes," and he pulled out a gorgeous star-sapphire ring.
...
It gets a little blurry after that. I was too excited to think straight. I said "Of course!" and gave him a big hug, and he placed the ring on my finger. (Apparently he was worried he hadn't got the size right, but it was perfect.) The whole world sort of faded out for a bit. We hugged and kissed for a long time. Then at some point I became vaguely aware of the clickety click click clicky click of cameras going off like a press conference. I suddenly felt self-conscious and started laughing. And with that, the conspiracy broke, and everyone congratulated us.
I was apparently the last to know this was coming.
I am now engaged. Boyfriend is now Fiancé.
Later in the car, he explained that no, he hadn't in fact been calling my dad last week to talk about health insurance. He'd called to ask my dad for my hand. And he'd planned a flowery speech for me... but it all went right out the window. It wasn't anything like either of us had planned, but it was perfect just the way it happened. He said jokingly, "You know, you haven't actually said 'yes'." Well, I said, he hadn't exactly asked me the question, either.
So he asked me, now no longer nervous, and I said yes, perfectly prepared.
Surprise!
March 16, 2010
Arghsnarf.
Arghsnarf is my new favorite word. I'm not sure where I found it, but I'm pretty certain somebody else came up with it first. It encompasses so much. It can be a feeling, an emotion, a mood, a situation, an epithet, or just a random word to be thrown about like a cat fluffing it's tail right in your face as you're trying to watch a movie. (Come to think of it, it's entirely possible that a cat fluffing it's tail into one's face may illicit a sound much like "arghsnarf".)
It rather describes the feeling and mood I'm in right now. Tired, close to falling asleep at my desk due to last night's rather substantial tossing and turning, ambivalent and struggling to stay motivated to work due to the impending possibility of unemployment, the apathy and distaste for looking for yet ANOTHER means of employment, the stress of looking for a place willing to take me on for my externship (REALLY people, it's an unpaid volunteer position! free labor! TEACH ME for heaven's sake!!), knitter's block, writer's block, a general listlessness and desire to do nothing more than eat chocolate and play video games that involve very little mental stimulation.
But I'm not in a foul mood. All these flavors of stress and weariness are really just background noise, an occasional annoyance not unlike laundry or bills or my co-worker's rather obnoxious musical choices. I'm also happy and excited, what with the weekend promising friends and fun and time in the woods. There are surprises I am in on, and I am happy to be a part of them, and feel honored in some cases to have been asked to join in. The day is passing quickly and I have caught up on my work. I have taken care of several bits of paperwork that have been nagging at me, been drinking my water and eating healthy. My knee has healed faster from it's little flare-up than I have ever seen it do before, I have finished traffic school and am otherwise satisfied with things.
The two mitigate one another, leaving me with a confounded and confuzzled conflagration of contrary consciousness. Converse conversations contain copious quantities of quizzical correspondences within my battered brain. The resultant mess is best described - succinctly - as "arghsnarf". Rather ineloquent, perhaps, but more accurate than any alternative I have found thusfar.
And so, paradoxically bored but content, burned tongue and full belly, I settle in to wait out the waning hours and hope that tonight will last longer than the day has seemed so far.
It rather describes the feeling and mood I'm in right now. Tired, close to falling asleep at my desk due to last night's rather substantial tossing and turning, ambivalent and struggling to stay motivated to work due to the impending possibility of unemployment, the apathy and distaste for looking for yet ANOTHER means of employment, the stress of looking for a place willing to take me on for my externship (REALLY people, it's an unpaid volunteer position! free labor! TEACH ME for heaven's sake!!), knitter's block, writer's block, a general listlessness and desire to do nothing more than eat chocolate and play video games that involve very little mental stimulation.
But I'm not in a foul mood. All these flavors of stress and weariness are really just background noise, an occasional annoyance not unlike laundry or bills or my co-worker's rather obnoxious musical choices. I'm also happy and excited, what with the weekend promising friends and fun and time in the woods. There are surprises I am in on, and I am happy to be a part of them, and feel honored in some cases to have been asked to join in. The day is passing quickly and I have caught up on my work. I have taken care of several bits of paperwork that have been nagging at me, been drinking my water and eating healthy. My knee has healed faster from it's little flare-up than I have ever seen it do before, I have finished traffic school and am otherwise satisfied with things.
The two mitigate one another, leaving me with a confounded and confuzzled conflagration of contrary consciousness. Converse conversations contain copious quantities of quizzical correspondences within my battered brain. The resultant mess is best described - succinctly - as "arghsnarf". Rather ineloquent, perhaps, but more accurate than any alternative I have found thusfar.
And so, paradoxically bored but content, burned tongue and full belly, I settle in to wait out the waning hours and hope that tonight will last longer than the day has seemed so far.
March 08, 2010
Big Day
Boyfriend's birthday swiftly approaches. And a big number for him, too. Although I confess I've never put too terribly much energy into the number he now faces, it very clearly and obviously means quite a bit to him. As a result, I find myself searching for ways to make it extra memorable (in good ways). Alas, I feel inadequate as I plan, wanting to offer him the moon and a new house and a trip to Vegas while I'm at it. But being in the pickle I have put myself in, I'll have to content myself with small achievements in the direction of making his birthday a great one. Yet even so I am troubled.
Given that we both are attempting to eat a bit more healthy, should I make him a cake or no? Should I try to put together a surprise party? Give him alone time? Take him to the mountains? Go dancing? And what do I get for him as a gift? Should I make something?
Filled with uncertainty because I wish it to be wonderful, and worried I'll fall short, does not a winning recipe make. So perhaps I shall just breathe deeply, do what I can, and what feels right... and let him have the day he desires.
At least it's on a weekend.
Given that we both are attempting to eat a bit more healthy, should I make him a cake or no? Should I try to put together a surprise party? Give him alone time? Take him to the mountains? Go dancing? And what do I get for him as a gift? Should I make something?
Filled with uncertainty because I wish it to be wonderful, and worried I'll fall short, does not a winning recipe make. So perhaps I shall just breathe deeply, do what I can, and what feels right... and let him have the day he desires.
At least it's on a weekend.
March 04, 2010
Home
The last two days have been spent working from home. And why? Because it feels like I swallowed the offspring of a chestburster and a hedgehog that decided to play basketball in my insides.
Arghh.
Arghh.
February 22, 2010
Writer's Block
Once upon a time I used to write rather frequently. Usually when I wasn't supposed to - i.e. mid class. It was usually accompanied by doodle and sketching (which I wasn't supposed to be doing either) and occasional meditative contemplations on morality and existence and sometimes even things as mundane as the intricacies of the human hand. I keep a journal to keep myself writing. Or rather, I KEPT a journal for that purpose. It still sits beside the bed, covered in dust, outdated and in sore need of a new entry. Most of my updating happens here, on the internet.
Part of this is because I simply don't know what to say to paper anymore. I used to write random stories, have conversations written out between my hands (the left had terrible handwriting, and was a darker persona), stray thoughts that came to mind. When I type it's easier to follow stream of consciousness because my fingers don't ache after ten minutes of solid writing and I don't forget where I was headed with a train of thought before I'm done writing it down. Also, it's easier to go back and fix mistakes.
But there's a romantic part of me that knows that writing is a much more elegant, classic, permanent means of creation. It can be carried into the woods, read by candle light, passed down from generation to generation. It can survive long after hardware and software has made this or that program obsolete. I lost a short story when Windows went from Works to Word, simply because I no longer had the means to retrieve it. A book or journal is limited only by user's ability to read it, the language through sight and recognition of characters.
But what do I tell my journal, long since neglected in favor of my electronic world? What do I write when my fingers cramp and eyes get tired or glaring at the stubborn pages?
And my drawing, too, has suffered. Once I could conjure worlds and personalities from a pen, breathing life into art with a stroke of a pencil. Now? Now I struggle to think of what to draw. A blank page, FULL of possibility!... but I do nothing, paralyzed by my indecision. The words, the worlds... my pen has lost it's edge, my pencil is broken, my armor and shield in the creative process are dull and colorless.
But perhaps I am still creating, here, where you can read it. Where I can revisit it. Here, where it - far more than my simple written journal - can possibly tough the heart of someone else. Perhaps it will conjure to mind a memory or stray thought of your own.
And in that, I am satisfied.
Part of this is because I simply don't know what to say to paper anymore. I used to write random stories, have conversations written out between my hands (the left had terrible handwriting, and was a darker persona), stray thoughts that came to mind. When I type it's easier to follow stream of consciousness because my fingers don't ache after ten minutes of solid writing and I don't forget where I was headed with a train of thought before I'm done writing it down. Also, it's easier to go back and fix mistakes.
But there's a romantic part of me that knows that writing is a much more elegant, classic, permanent means of creation. It can be carried into the woods, read by candle light, passed down from generation to generation. It can survive long after hardware and software has made this or that program obsolete. I lost a short story when Windows went from Works to Word, simply because I no longer had the means to retrieve it. A book or journal is limited only by user's ability to read it, the language through sight and recognition of characters.
But what do I tell my journal, long since neglected in favor of my electronic world? What do I write when my fingers cramp and eyes get tired or glaring at the stubborn pages?
And my drawing, too, has suffered. Once I could conjure worlds and personalities from a pen, breathing life into art with a stroke of a pencil. Now? Now I struggle to think of what to draw. A blank page, FULL of possibility!... but I do nothing, paralyzed by my indecision. The words, the worlds... my pen has lost it's edge, my pencil is broken, my armor and shield in the creative process are dull and colorless.
But perhaps I am still creating, here, where you can read it. Where I can revisit it. Here, where it - far more than my simple written journal - can possibly tough the heart of someone else. Perhaps it will conjure to mind a memory or stray thought of your own.
And in that, I am satisfied.
February 08, 2010
That Time o' Year
February seems to invoke different reactions in different people. For some it's Groundhog Day and a time to think on the end of Winter. For others it's Candlemas, for still others it's Imbolc, both celebrations with a focus on Winter's waning and Spring's stirring. Others think of Valentine's Day - to the lonelier folk it's Corporate Love Day - a celebration of love (or, to the embittered, a reminder of heartache). That's the most common one I find. For a few select World of Warcraft players, it's the week of "Love Is In The Air", and for a few weekend warriors (or folks in desperate need of a vacation) it's the month with all those Presidential birthdays in it.
To me, it's that cold dark month with a few more causes for being happy than January, which always strikes me as the loneliest and darkest month. I mean, January is the month a lot of folks rip down their decorations and turn off their twinkling lights, tossing dried and dead trees to the curb and basically bending their will toward going back to work post-hangover from all the holiday cheer and New Year celebrations. It is incredibly dark, due to the recent passing of the Winter Solstice, and cold... and more grey and hollow for all the lack of holiday spirit that keeps so many people afloat. No bright ribbons or gaily adorned wreathes. No reminders for parties or Salvation Army drives. No Santas, no sugar cookies, no lit reindeer on front lawns. Cold. Dark. Absent.
So February - while still chilly and grey - seems so much brighter for all the boxes of candies with crinkling pink and red crepe paper held by glass-eyed plushies. The little hearts and balloons do much to chase the chill away, the flowers in pots or in damp buckets neatly arranged just so warm the heart and thaw out the smiles. Granted, to me it's mainly an excuse to cuddle plush kitties and scarf down more chocolate than is really healthy, inhaling deeply of freshly cut roses, for while I don't feel a need or desire to revel in the holiday itself, I don't mind taking in the sights and smells (and tastes) while they're available.
But more than that, February is the month of Pantheacon, a once-a-year event dedicated to the exploration, refinement, and practice of alternative spiritualities. This year we have a fair representation from ancient Hebrew culture, covering some of their more in-depth astrology as well as some of their philosophical points. The theme is "Back to Basics", something that everyone could benefit by covering every now and again, with several classes ending in "101". Not least among these being Psychic Self Defense, a class I took last year with surprising and profound results. As with the convention every year, there are a few classes and workshops I have no interest in, some that are just plain silly, and some bordering on the creepily weird. But a good number of these classes are useful and insightful, providing perspectives on multiple spiritual paths.
So I am looking forward to this weekend. I will have to pack, and take many warm clothes, as being somewhat northward from here it will be chilly. Fortunately, unlike last year, it shouldn't be a torrential downpour, just a threat of a little rain on Friday. I feel hopeful about this trip, which is my Valentine's Day present... and I plan to make the most of it. I will be busy from early morning to late night four four days, studying and learning. It will be a good weekend.
To me, it's that cold dark month with a few more causes for being happy than January, which always strikes me as the loneliest and darkest month. I mean, January is the month a lot of folks rip down their decorations and turn off their twinkling lights, tossing dried and dead trees to the curb and basically bending their will toward going back to work post-hangover from all the holiday cheer and New Year celebrations. It is incredibly dark, due to the recent passing of the Winter Solstice, and cold... and more grey and hollow for all the lack of holiday spirit that keeps so many people afloat. No bright ribbons or gaily adorned wreathes. No reminders for parties or Salvation Army drives. No Santas, no sugar cookies, no lit reindeer on front lawns. Cold. Dark. Absent.
So February - while still chilly and grey - seems so much brighter for all the boxes of candies with crinkling pink and red crepe paper held by glass-eyed plushies. The little hearts and balloons do much to chase the chill away, the flowers in pots or in damp buckets neatly arranged just so warm the heart and thaw out the smiles. Granted, to me it's mainly an excuse to cuddle plush kitties and scarf down more chocolate than is really healthy, inhaling deeply of freshly cut roses, for while I don't feel a need or desire to revel in the holiday itself, I don't mind taking in the sights and smells (and tastes) while they're available.
But more than that, February is the month of Pantheacon, a once-a-year event dedicated to the exploration, refinement, and practice of alternative spiritualities. This year we have a fair representation from ancient Hebrew culture, covering some of their more in-depth astrology as well as some of their philosophical points. The theme is "Back to Basics", something that everyone could benefit by covering every now and again, with several classes ending in "101". Not least among these being Psychic Self Defense, a class I took last year with surprising and profound results. As with the convention every year, there are a few classes and workshops I have no interest in, some that are just plain silly, and some bordering on the creepily weird. But a good number of these classes are useful and insightful, providing perspectives on multiple spiritual paths.
So I am looking forward to this weekend. I will have to pack, and take many warm clothes, as being somewhat northward from here it will be chilly. Fortunately, unlike last year, it shouldn't be a torrential downpour, just a threat of a little rain on Friday. I feel hopeful about this trip, which is my Valentine's Day present... and I plan to make the most of it. I will be busy from early morning to late night four four days, studying and learning. It will be a good weekend.
February 01, 2010
Temptation
In the efforts I am undertaking in order to wrestle my finances into something resembling beneficial, I am still tackling my goals set at New Year. I've taken to ignoring my spreadsheet, not because it doesn't work but simply because I forget to use it. Some of the goals I know enough to attempt automatically, such as drinking 64 ounces of water a day, or stretching for ten minutes. Some of them have become less important, like crafting every day or writing. Some goals have suddenly become more important, and need extra tending to. So, somehow I got the idea of going back to my "box".
The box is a simple square with each side labeled for an aspect of my life: Emotional, things like self expression and relationships; Mental, for things like career and money matters; Physical, for all the stuff pertaining to my corporeal form; and Spiritual, pertaining to my personal paradigm and growth therein. On the piece of paper with this box at the top, I write the day's ate, and in a descending list, the initials for each side. It looks a bit silly, with the date and then "PEMS" listed down the page, but it's important. Next to each initial, I rank myself in that area from one to ten, ten being the best I know how to be and one being the worst I've ever felt. Then, I assess the ranking I've given myself, and write three little goals for the day in each area (simple and easy things, like "take a hot bath" or "go for a walk") that might boost that rank a bit.
See, I've discovered that lofty goals are great and all, but it gets really easy to get bogged down in the process. Day-to-day life becomes consumed by the larger goals and the attaining becomes almost more hazardous to the health than the benefit at the end is worth. So the smaller, easy-to-attain goals for the day give me the daily lift I need to keep going. So far it's been highly beneficial. I drink my water, take my medication, make the bed, get up and move around instead of slumping for hours on end at my desk, and so on.
But one little nagging thing keeps coming back to me. The little temptations are almost as easy to give into as the little goals are to attain.
For example, I want to be healthier. But those little candies on my co-worker's desk are too easy to access, too easy to say "I'll just have ONE more" to. The biggest challenge lately is soda, which I KNOW isn't a good idea, but the addiction I once had has reared its ugly head again and I'll allow myself one... to end up quenching my thirst on that and not finishing my water intake goal. The little distractions are too easy to give in to, and it makes the process terribly challenging. For just as a large goal can be supplemented by a host of smaller ones, it can be waylaid rather substantially by a horde of little vices each taking its own bite like a school of piranha taking down a cow.
So here I am, taking baby steps and trying to swat away the tiny gnats of detraction.
Lead me not into temptation, I'm already finding it everywhere anyway.
The box is a simple square with each side labeled for an aspect of my life: Emotional, things like self expression and relationships; Mental, for things like career and money matters; Physical, for all the stuff pertaining to my corporeal form; and Spiritual, pertaining to my personal paradigm and growth therein. On the piece of paper with this box at the top, I write the day's ate, and in a descending list, the initials for each side. It looks a bit silly, with the date and then "PEMS" listed down the page, but it's important. Next to each initial, I rank myself in that area from one to ten, ten being the best I know how to be and one being the worst I've ever felt. Then, I assess the ranking I've given myself, and write three little goals for the day in each area (simple and easy things, like "take a hot bath" or "go for a walk") that might boost that rank a bit.
See, I've discovered that lofty goals are great and all, but it gets really easy to get bogged down in the process. Day-to-day life becomes consumed by the larger goals and the attaining becomes almost more hazardous to the health than the benefit at the end is worth. So the smaller, easy-to-attain goals for the day give me the daily lift I need to keep going. So far it's been highly beneficial. I drink my water, take my medication, make the bed, get up and move around instead of slumping for hours on end at my desk, and so on.
But one little nagging thing keeps coming back to me. The little temptations are almost as easy to give into as the little goals are to attain.
For example, I want to be healthier. But those little candies on my co-worker's desk are too easy to access, too easy to say "I'll just have ONE more" to. The biggest challenge lately is soda, which I KNOW isn't a good idea, but the addiction I once had has reared its ugly head again and I'll allow myself one... to end up quenching my thirst on that and not finishing my water intake goal. The little distractions are too easy to give in to, and it makes the process terribly challenging. For just as a large goal can be supplemented by a host of smaller ones, it can be waylaid rather substantially by a horde of little vices each taking its own bite like a school of piranha taking down a cow.
So here I am, taking baby steps and trying to swat away the tiny gnats of detraction.
Lead me not into temptation, I'm already finding it everywhere anyway.
January 29, 2010
Sleep Deprivation, Day 39
(Okay, it's not that exact many days. It's actually closer to two months.)
I'm seriously tired. I mean honest-to-goodness, fall-down, having-worries-about-driving kind of tired.
I have trouble staying asleep. I fall asleep most times fairly quickly. I go to be around the same time each night, and get up most days at the same time. I don't drink heavily caffeinated beverages, I don't eat spicy food, but I do eat regular nutritious meals... at least a few hours before bedtime. I have a "getting ready for bed" routine, including making sure I'm comfortable for bed. I sleep in a secure place with soft warm covers, next to a portable human heating blanket who is great to cuddle with.
And yet, in the middle of the night, I wake up.
Lately it's been worse. I caught a cold a fortnight ago (jeezus, was it only that long ago?) and have a lingering cough that only seems to affect me when I'm trying to sleep. During the day? No real problems. Sleeping? I wake up coughing my lungs out to the point of painfully scratching my throat from the force. When I was sick, Boyfriend woke me up to dose me with cough syrup. I was coughing in my sleep. Now at least I wake myself up so I can take care of it on my own, but the downside is I hardly get any sleep. Last night, for example, I woke up coughing, but had already taken a dose and a half of NyQuil, so to avoid sleeping right through my alarm, I tried drinking water. It worked for about a half an hour. Then I was back up again.
Oh, yeah. I take NyQuil, and still wake up coughing. Most recently it's NyQuil Cough, after NyQuil regular didn't fix things. It made a dent, but only a dent. Still waking up. Still coughing.
But even before trying to medicate myself with cough-suppressing sedatives and tranquilizers, I was waking up. Too cold. Too hot. Covers too wrinkled. Blankets too bunched. Crazy ass dreams. Moonlight too bright. Cat jumped onto the bed. Boyfriend rolled over. I rolled over. Sometimes no reason at all. Just... awake. I blink a few times, maybe check the clock (if I even WANT to know what time it effin' is), get myself comfortable... and drift off. Usually to wake back up again later. Anywhere between two and five times a night.
Obviously, this isn't a good thing. I've been doing the breathing exercises, the routines, the careful management of habits. Soon I'm going to try very slow yoga. It could be stress, it could be something in my brain. I don't know anymore. I don't know if I ever knew in the first place, but my mind's so fogged and scrambled I can barely tell which way is up anymore. I've mentioned this to a doctor, she gave me some advice... but told me that - should this continue - I may need to go with over-the-counter medication to help me get some downtime. The brain without sleep can handle things for a short time, but - like water - it doesn't take long for the deprivation to start causing damage.
Oddly enough, much like water, lack of sleep after a sustained period causes permanent damage... and death. While dehydration causes multiple organs to shut down, lack of sleep causes the brain to start to short out, like an overheating circuit board. Hallucinations, severe personality shifts - usually to a much darker, paranoid level - and nervous tics are signs of severe sleep deprivation. Pretty soon the brain starts to experience irreversible damage. After about a week or so of extended lack of sleep, the body shuts down, and the subject dies. I did a report on sleep deprivation in college and read up on all the horrible gory details of the experiments on rats, the violent reactions of self-mutilation and lack of ability to function. I read the story of the radio personality who went sleepless for a fundraiser, and by the end of the run, his mental state was permanently altered into a much darker form.
SO I know the dangers. I know the risks. I don't know the cause. I don't know the reason. But before too much longer, I think I'm going to have to choose a more drastic solution. This can't continue. I'm becoming a hazard to myself and others.
Sleep. It's a necessity, not an option.
I'm seriously tired. I mean honest-to-goodness, fall-down, having-worries-about-driving kind of tired.
I have trouble staying asleep. I fall asleep most times fairly quickly. I go to be around the same time each night, and get up most days at the same time. I don't drink heavily caffeinated beverages, I don't eat spicy food, but I do eat regular nutritious meals... at least a few hours before bedtime. I have a "getting ready for bed" routine, including making sure I'm comfortable for bed. I sleep in a secure place with soft warm covers, next to a portable human heating blanket who is great to cuddle with.
And yet, in the middle of the night, I wake up.
Lately it's been worse. I caught a cold a fortnight ago (jeezus, was it only that long ago?) and have a lingering cough that only seems to affect me when I'm trying to sleep. During the day? No real problems. Sleeping? I wake up coughing my lungs out to the point of painfully scratching my throat from the force. When I was sick, Boyfriend woke me up to dose me with cough syrup. I was coughing in my sleep. Now at least I wake myself up so I can take care of it on my own, but the downside is I hardly get any sleep. Last night, for example, I woke up coughing, but had already taken a dose and a half of NyQuil, so to avoid sleeping right through my alarm, I tried drinking water. It worked for about a half an hour. Then I was back up again.
Oh, yeah. I take NyQuil, and still wake up coughing. Most recently it's NyQuil Cough, after NyQuil regular didn't fix things. It made a dent, but only a dent. Still waking up. Still coughing.
But even before trying to medicate myself with cough-suppressing sedatives and tranquilizers, I was waking up. Too cold. Too hot. Covers too wrinkled. Blankets too bunched. Crazy ass dreams. Moonlight too bright. Cat jumped onto the bed. Boyfriend rolled over. I rolled over. Sometimes no reason at all. Just... awake. I blink a few times, maybe check the clock (if I even WANT to know what time it effin' is), get myself comfortable... and drift off. Usually to wake back up again later. Anywhere between two and five times a night.
Obviously, this isn't a good thing. I've been doing the breathing exercises, the routines, the careful management of habits. Soon I'm going to try very slow yoga. It could be stress, it could be something in my brain. I don't know anymore. I don't know if I ever knew in the first place, but my mind's so fogged and scrambled I can barely tell which way is up anymore. I've mentioned this to a doctor, she gave me some advice... but told me that - should this continue - I may need to go with over-the-counter medication to help me get some downtime. The brain without sleep can handle things for a short time, but - like water - it doesn't take long for the deprivation to start causing damage.
Oddly enough, much like water, lack of sleep after a sustained period causes permanent damage... and death. While dehydration causes multiple organs to shut down, lack of sleep causes the brain to start to short out, like an overheating circuit board. Hallucinations, severe personality shifts - usually to a much darker, paranoid level - and nervous tics are signs of severe sleep deprivation. Pretty soon the brain starts to experience irreversible damage. After about a week or so of extended lack of sleep, the body shuts down, and the subject dies. I did a report on sleep deprivation in college and read up on all the horrible gory details of the experiments on rats, the violent reactions of self-mutilation and lack of ability to function. I read the story of the radio personality who went sleepless for a fundraiser, and by the end of the run, his mental state was permanently altered into a much darker form.
SO I know the dangers. I know the risks. I don't know the cause. I don't know the reason. But before too much longer, I think I'm going to have to choose a more drastic solution. This can't continue. I'm becoming a hazard to myself and others.
Sleep. It's a necessity, not an option.
January 19, 2010
Stressed Out
Everyone knows stress is bad for you. It causes tension, indigestion, high blood pressure, all sorts of maladies. It's even been blamed for heart disease and migraines. That said, I got a bit of a wakeup call as to how stressed I've been because it lowered my immune system... and I got sick.
I get sick less often than I used to. I had mono a couple years ago which was the equivalent of having a perpetual cold for about a year and a half. Fortunately I was an adult suffering from it, since when it hits adolescents it causes such a level of fatigue as to make normal daily activities impossible. (One poor friend of mine described it as "get up, walk down stairs to use bathroom, collapse on couch because upstairs was too hard.")
But these days I know I've run myself down, despite my attempts to live healthier. I don't eat as well as I ought, opting for easy instead of nutritious. The balance of my meals is off, high in carbs and sugar instead of vegetables and fruit. I haven't been hydrating myself properly and though I've been getting to the gym more often, it's neither regular or terribly long. But aside from all that, I stress out a lot about my job and my externship and all the eight million things that all need to be done. I have a house to keep up and animals to care for, a boyfriend to spend time with... all of which I like doing, but cannot be neglected. There is no day off from feeding the cat, for example. Laundry is a perpetual beast, dust is forever settling and floors constantly getting dirty. Paperwork needs filing, bills need paying, groceries purchasing and putting away. All this surrounding the day job and trying to have a moment to breathe in between... I start feeling guilty for taking time to myself to relax and unwind.
But, as a few good friends pointed out, play time reduces stress, which keeps me more functional. Therefore, playtime IS necessary as well. And as boyfriend keeps reminding me, I can't take care of everything else if I don't take care of myself. So now that I'm recovering from a somewhat enforced long weekend (and by "enforced" I mean "body said no to going to work"), I'm back to drinking water and breathing deeply and stretching and so on. As with everything else, it takes effort and will.
So if you see me doing something I shouldn't encourage - don't scold (that'll set off my Capricornian stubbornness) - me to do something else. I'll try not to be a snit about listening to you.
I get sick less often than I used to. I had mono a couple years ago which was the equivalent of having a perpetual cold for about a year and a half. Fortunately I was an adult suffering from it, since when it hits adolescents it causes such a level of fatigue as to make normal daily activities impossible. (One poor friend of mine described it as "get up, walk down stairs to use bathroom, collapse on couch because upstairs was too hard.")
But these days I know I've run myself down, despite my attempts to live healthier. I don't eat as well as I ought, opting for easy instead of nutritious. The balance of my meals is off, high in carbs and sugar instead of vegetables and fruit. I haven't been hydrating myself properly and though I've been getting to the gym more often, it's neither regular or terribly long. But aside from all that, I stress out a lot about my job and my externship and all the eight million things that all need to be done. I have a house to keep up and animals to care for, a boyfriend to spend time with... all of which I like doing, but cannot be neglected. There is no day off from feeding the cat, for example. Laundry is a perpetual beast, dust is forever settling and floors constantly getting dirty. Paperwork needs filing, bills need paying, groceries purchasing and putting away. All this surrounding the day job and trying to have a moment to breathe in between... I start feeling guilty for taking time to myself to relax and unwind.
But, as a few good friends pointed out, play time reduces stress, which keeps me more functional. Therefore, playtime IS necessary as well. And as boyfriend keeps reminding me, I can't take care of everything else if I don't take care of myself. So now that I'm recovering from a somewhat enforced long weekend (and by "enforced" I mean "body said no to going to work"), I'm back to drinking water and breathing deeply and stretching and so on. As with everything else, it takes effort and will.
So if you see me doing something I shouldn't encourage - don't scold (that'll set off my Capricornian stubbornness) - me to do something else. I'll try not to be a snit about listening to you.
January 11, 2010
Freefall
Lately I've had a lot on my plate. And by a lot, I mean with serious legal repercussions if I'm not careful. I need to carefully negotiate between deadlines and paychecks, trying to make sure I pay people I need to and don't go over what I have. Now I have to also figure out how to juggle paperwork that was generated by a bank's continual mistakes and registering my new vehicle, in addition to continuing my education in veterinary assistant school and sorting out payments that were mistakenly ceased by the hospital.
There are days I don't feel like dealing with it. I'd rather relax than worry about it. But not doing anything about it doesn't make it go away. I feel lost, light, listless, somewhat airy in a strange worry/no worry state of mind. I'm in the middle of a freefall, not sure if I should pull the chute, or if it'll even open, not wanting to experience the jerk of it working or the panic of it not.
Useless, it is. It does not serve me in the least. I just haven't figured out how to escape it yet.
There are days I don't feel like dealing with it. I'd rather relax than worry about it. But not doing anything about it doesn't make it go away. I feel lost, light, listless, somewhat airy in a strange worry/no worry state of mind. I'm in the middle of a freefall, not sure if I should pull the chute, or if it'll even open, not wanting to experience the jerk of it working or the panic of it not.
Useless, it is. It does not serve me in the least. I just haven't figured out how to escape it yet.
January 04, 2010
For Fun and Gaming
Recently I played a Werewolf game and found my character in a rather unenviable position of knowing a Big Bad Awful was coming and the leaders of the city in which she found herself were unwilling to look past protocol to hear her out. Since then a tirade has been burning in my brain and this was as good a forum to let it out as any. Without further ado, the tongue-lashing of Has-No-Name, Lupus Theurge Silent Strider.
"Hear me, o nobles, and leaders of tribes! Hear and hark! Your doom is closer than you know.
"Long have you heard the End Of Times proclaimed. Long have you seen the signs. Long have your advisors whispered that the Apocolypse comes. I bring a different message: it is here; it has opened its eyes and is yawning a wide open maw as I speak to you now. What you saw in the streets today was a mere beginning, a tiny drop in an ocean of terrible power. You squabble and bicker amongst yourselves like cubs, vying for dominance and lording your ranks like proud fools. You know the End comes... but you are blind that you cannot see it is already here.
"Long have I been an outlier of Garou life. Long have the nights been where I hunted in the deepest darkest places for the answers of when and where the Wyrm will strike. And answers I found, at the cost of the packs you hold so dear and homelands in which you feast and gorge. I have no home to call my own. I have no pack to whom I can turn. I am alone in a dark desert of suffering for YOUR benefit... and when I bring the answers to you, I am handled like a willful pup and ignored in favor of your politics and powermongering. One who does not know the answers I do - instead of opening her ears to warnings - allowed her pride to usurp me, and so the caern's heart had your metal and steel and vile stinking fluids poured into it. Another, who preferred to bully and batter as though he were my Alpha... he allowed the bonds to be broken unchecked and the Eldest let loose from beneath the earth.
"I am called a doomsayer and blamed for bringing news too late, 'and too many are already dead' *spit*... but I say to you, it is YOUR hubris and arrogance that shall bring the death of your precious city. I have done my part, and it was tossed aside as a fool who cannot see the worth in a pure seed tosses it away. I was told I go to my death, and none shall remember. What good your memory and songs if there be none left to sing and remember? What good your marks of honor and glory if they are worn like shrouds upon Dancers and Fomor? What good your heraldry and rank if they are but further reason to rape your kin and devour your children?
"I may be doomsayer, I may be impertinent bitch, but you WILL hear these words and know them as truth. YOU did not fight the Wyrm when it came until too many were dead. Where were you when it burst forth from the womb of the Mother? In your precious constructions of steel and concrete? Bowing and scraping to each other and posturing for position in your packs? Fools! Idiots! Throat me, then, if you have no better answer, and lose the answers with my spirit as my life's blood is spilled, but I name thee truthfully cowards and jackals who would rather have the adornments of names and silver than the earth upon which you tread. You have become prideful, and your pride has made you weak, blind, petty, 'civilized lords'... but you will be lords of cesspools and bane pits for your inaction. Protect your city now, for all it is worth, for the Eldest awakens, and you will not be able to stop him if he does."
"Hear me, o nobles, and leaders of tribes! Hear and hark! Your doom is closer than you know.
"Long have you heard the End Of Times proclaimed. Long have you seen the signs. Long have your advisors whispered that the Apocolypse comes. I bring a different message: it is here; it has opened its eyes and is yawning a wide open maw as I speak to you now. What you saw in the streets today was a mere beginning, a tiny drop in an ocean of terrible power. You squabble and bicker amongst yourselves like cubs, vying for dominance and lording your ranks like proud fools. You know the End comes... but you are blind that you cannot see it is already here.
"Long have I been an outlier of Garou life. Long have the nights been where I hunted in the deepest darkest places for the answers of when and where the Wyrm will strike. And answers I found, at the cost of the packs you hold so dear and homelands in which you feast and gorge. I have no home to call my own. I have no pack to whom I can turn. I am alone in a dark desert of suffering for YOUR benefit... and when I bring the answers to you, I am handled like a willful pup and ignored in favor of your politics and powermongering. One who does not know the answers I do - instead of opening her ears to warnings - allowed her pride to usurp me, and so the caern's heart had your metal and steel and vile stinking fluids poured into it. Another, who preferred to bully and batter as though he were my Alpha... he allowed the bonds to be broken unchecked and the Eldest let loose from beneath the earth.
"I am called a doomsayer and blamed for bringing news too late, 'and too many are already dead' *spit*... but I say to you, it is YOUR hubris and arrogance that shall bring the death of your precious city. I have done my part, and it was tossed aside as a fool who cannot see the worth in a pure seed tosses it away. I was told I go to my death, and none shall remember. What good your memory and songs if there be none left to sing and remember? What good your marks of honor and glory if they are worn like shrouds upon Dancers and Fomor? What good your heraldry and rank if they are but further reason to rape your kin and devour your children?
"I may be doomsayer, I may be impertinent bitch, but you WILL hear these words and know them as truth. YOU did not fight the Wyrm when it came until too many were dead. Where were you when it burst forth from the womb of the Mother? In your precious constructions of steel and concrete? Bowing and scraping to each other and posturing for position in your packs? Fools! Idiots! Throat me, then, if you have no better answer, and lose the answers with my spirit as my life's blood is spilled, but I name thee truthfully cowards and jackals who would rather have the adornments of names and silver than the earth upon which you tread. You have become prideful, and your pride has made you weak, blind, petty, 'civilized lords'... but you will be lords of cesspools and bane pits for your inaction. Protect your city now, for all it is worth, for the Eldest awakens, and you will not be able to stop him if he does."
Back to the Grind
After weeks of family gatherings and friends visiting, wrapping gifts and presenting presents, trying on new clothes and trying out new gadgets, now I get to finish up the rest of the holiday whirlwind and start picking up where I left off. The guest bed will need to be stripped and laundered again, the floors vacuumed, the remnants of the New Years' celebrations taken out with the rest of the recycling. Along with it are the piles of scrapped wrapping paper and empty boxes, some clothes and worn out objects headed for Goodwill replaced by newer and fresher things, and old calendars sticking out from underneath them all.
With the passing of the old year and the beginning of a new, it's more than a simple changeover into a numerical account of time. I have declared new goals for myself, resolutions I have not put into effect, such as going to the gym twice a week and building up my strength and endurance until I am able to swim ten laps in the pool easily. Along with that goal, I have declared I shall drink no more soda, have a job as a vet-assistant, be off my medication with the blessing of my doctor, therapist, and boyfriend, and other such things... by year's end. It is the beginning of a new decade, and I will soon be turning 30. It's time to really get my act together and stop dilly-dallying. My physical body has grown soft and weak with poor constitution, my career has stagnated, my savings dwindled, and my creative spark diminished. All of these must be rebuilt in order to fully achieve my potential and grow positively into success and happiness. It will take work, and diligence, and education. I have chapters to brush up on for my externship interview. I am learning Spanish in my car. I must make the time to do what I can to expand my knowledge and awareness, and I must use the time I have wisely to maximize the effect.
And so I throw out things that do not serve me, and work toward things that do. I have many hurdles to clear yet, old debts that need to be paid off and holes that need to be filled in. It will simply be effort, time, and willpower to stop putting it off and just do it.
It's another year, another day back at the office, past the insane holiday season and back into the swing of things. A routine is re-established, but *what* goes into the routine is different. Streamlined. Focused.
Everyday, I am moving forward toward my dreams.
With the passing of the old year and the beginning of a new, it's more than a simple changeover into a numerical account of time. I have declared new goals for myself, resolutions I have not put into effect, such as going to the gym twice a week and building up my strength and endurance until I am able to swim ten laps in the pool easily. Along with that goal, I have declared I shall drink no more soda, have a job as a vet-assistant, be off my medication with the blessing of my doctor, therapist, and boyfriend, and other such things... by year's end. It is the beginning of a new decade, and I will soon be turning 30. It's time to really get my act together and stop dilly-dallying. My physical body has grown soft and weak with poor constitution, my career has stagnated, my savings dwindled, and my creative spark diminished. All of these must be rebuilt in order to fully achieve my potential and grow positively into success and happiness. It will take work, and diligence, and education. I have chapters to brush up on for my externship interview. I am learning Spanish in my car. I must make the time to do what I can to expand my knowledge and awareness, and I must use the time I have wisely to maximize the effect.
And so I throw out things that do not serve me, and work toward things that do. I have many hurdles to clear yet, old debts that need to be paid off and holes that need to be filled in. It will simply be effort, time, and willpower to stop putting it off and just do it.
It's another year, another day back at the office, past the insane holiday season and back into the swing of things. A routine is re-established, but *what* goes into the routine is different. Streamlined. Focused.
Everyday, I am moving forward toward my dreams.
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