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.
April 26, 2010
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.
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