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August 14th, 1945 was the day that Japan surrendered. The footage below of the spontaneous celebration that broke out was shot on the main street in Honolulu, Hawaii.
In the Navy, particularly Naval Aviation, a “good stick” is a highly skilled pilot. It is very high praise.
I should warn you now, though, that is not what I am talking about today.
Today, I’m talking about blood…so feel free to click away if you are squeamish.
I am a phlebotomist’s (the folks who draw blood for testing) worst nightmare. I no longer give blood, and having to have blood drawn is an occasion that fills me with dread. I don’t think the person on the other end of the needle feels any better about it than I do.
I have had corpsmen cringe. Experienced lab techs have left the room, before even trying, to go get their supervisor. On my very first medical screening at the Naval Academy, the words “ok well, let’s try the other arm again” led to my Squad Leader (the loose equivalent of a Drill Sargeant) to intervene. The discovery that it was, indeed, their seventh attempt to strike blood evoked something akin to sympathy – unheard of during Plebe Summer.
My record is twelve sticks, which wouldn’t be so bad if it was just the initial pinch, but, once the vein rolls away, there is always the inevitable fishing expedition, the micro-equivalent of fiddling around with a coat hanger trying to snag the lock button behind your car window…except it is not a coat hanger, it is a needle…plucking away at the veins inside my arm.
Or, at least, it is usually my arm. On that record-breaking occasion, though, the medical staff had begun examining my feet for a possible vein and someone had been sent for clippers in case they had to try my scalp behind my ear.
It hasn’t been all bad though. On one occasion, I got to hold hands with a very handsome pediatrician who had been called in to coax a few milli-litres of blood from a tiny vein in the back of my hand…after the usual multi-attempts in my arms.
Even better, this week I had blood drawn for routine testing. Three tubes of blood, one needle hole, no bruise!!!
Woo HOOO!!!!
If you, like me, dread blood draws, I highly recommend RGH Labs on Willow Pond Rd.
The tech there is a very good stick.
Spring in upstate New York is, shall we say, “changeable”.
Yesterday was sunny and mid-40′s. Today is gray and snowing.
This is not unusual. We had snow fall as late as May last year. It’s not unheard of to have a few snow flurries in June. I have vivid memories of Easter egg hunts out in six inches of fresh snow.
At this point in the season, though, most folks I know have had enough of the white stuff for the year and they are ready for shorts and barbecue. I am never ready for shorts and don’t require sunshine for barbecue. They are raging at the snow like it is some personal affront; some global climate conspiracy to drive them mad. I am counting the flakes as a blessing; a reprieve from the coming heat.
Even with flakes in the air I am cursing the filthy paws. Already, I am burdened by the debate over whether to shampoo the carpets now or wait till the mud stops (aka: November). Other households with dogs seem thrilled by the coming of Spring. I don’t get it. I could long sing the praises of frozen poop and mud-free paws.
Even before the beast, I was not such a big fan of this time of year. The end of Winter and rising temperatures depress me, like the final days of Summer depress “normal” people.
I suffer alone, though, as the rest of the world celebrates.
Maybe, in time, when the puddles recede, but before the grass needs mowing, I may find a little joy. I may learn to love the Spring-time.
I doubt it, though.
Some days you need to just get things off your chest; take a few rocks out of your pack; unload.
Sometimes, as I did yesterday, I look at the rocks and try figure out if I had been carrying them for a reason. Most days I try to live a pretty well unexamined life, but every once in a while it’s worth a look.
And if the rocks are worth looking at every once in a while, then certainly the gems should get an inspection, too.
Last Saturday morning my phone rang at a little after 9; a perfectly genteel hour. It was precisely the hour you would expect a call from the woman on the other end of the line. The call was from a friend of my mother’s.
One look at the caller ID and I knew in my heart that the conversation was going to start with “I don’t know if you had a chance to see the paper, but so-and-so, a friend of your parents, passed away.”
I knew it.
I knew wrong.
Although it was not a call to check the obituaries, it was still a somber topic. The woman was calling to ask me a few questions about nursing care for a family member with Alzheimer’s; sober questions about finance and Medicare, and staffing and activities, and waiting lists, and State health reports.
Beyond the red tape and black and white questions were the underlying worries. When is the right time to move? Beyond that report, and these services, how do you choose? What do you ask when you visit? What do you look for?
This woman, one of my mother’s peers, wanted to know which places I had looked and why; which I had liked and why.
I was pleased to be able to answer her questions; the ones she asked and the ones she didn’t.
More than that, I was honored to be called.
I am stuck.
On several occasions in the last 72 hours I have been this close to a solution, only to fall some indeterminable distance short of success. I was explaining my issue to a friend of mine the other day. She looked on sympathetically, nodded sagely, and confessed that she had no idea what I just said.
But she felt my pain.
Which may be all I can ask for, I suppose. I any case, it was nice of her to listen while I went over the options I had tried and where I thought I needed to head next.
It’s a spreadsheet problem, and, no, I don’t really think anyone else can help me either. I just wanted you to know that I have been typing a lot lately; just not, you know, words…
When I really put my mind to it, there are any number of good reasons for me to live in the small village that I do. Among those reasons are the proximity to the home my mother is in, the age and character of the neighborhood and the relative safety of small town life.
I have within walking distance several lovely parks, a walking trail along the canal, a small grocery store where I am greeted by name and an Irish Pub with really good (although I know it sounds like an oxymoron) pub food.
On Saturday mornings from May through November the parking lot of the small shopping mall in the center of town becomes a fairly substantial farmers market, where I can get farm fresh eggs, fresh fruits and vegetables, Mennonite baked goods, plants for my garden
and Maple syrup for my sweet tooth.
Still there are times when these advantages don’t leap to the forefront of my consciousness; like when I would just like to get the beast and I to class with sufficient time to settle before most of the other dogs arrive. Last Saturday, eager to return to class on a calm and collected note, I turned out of my street and landed in a complete snarl of traffic. It was Homecoming weekend. There was a parade.
Ack.
Certain that even my charming little village couldn’t possibly host parades two weeks running, I thought this week would be smooth sailing. It didn’t quite work out that way. After creeping my way through the remnants of a 5K run, I found that the lift-bridge was up. I managed to wind may way down to the next bridge over, only to discover (thunk – the sound of my forehead hitting the steering wheel in defeat) that I was stuck waiting on a train.
It is times like these that I think about moving.
It is images like these that keep me here.
I am blessed that, for me, dark days do pass. I don’t always remember that, but even in my deepest holes, I think that somewhere in the corners of my brain I do know that this will not last forever, or, at the very least, I have the kind of friends who will stop and the top of the hole and bellow down for me to get my sorry butt out.
It doesn’t make the hole any less deep, but at some point in my misery the thought will emerge that I need go in search of a ladder. I need to let someone wrap their arms around me and say it will be OK. I need to listen to the voices of those who have been there; who know the pain and also know that it gets better. I need to take their offers to help.
It’s amazing what happens when I look up out of the hole.
When I look out of my hole I realize that I can begin to reshape friendships that no longer have the benefit of geographic proximity and form them into something that capitalizes on the distance; that revels in their new experiences.
Even though I cannot change the course of my mother’s illness and I cannot change the timeline, when I look past the gloom I can remind myself that I am here because I long ago decided that this was the choice I could best live with in the long run; regardless of the challenges in the near-term.
I also remember that I am not alone in this vigil; that 14 million families in the U.S. alone are in this boat with me; that millions more have done this before me; many without the support of their families, the benefit of understanding the process, the ability to distinguish between the illness and their loved one, or the means to get assistance.
When I let the beast get close enough, I am reminded that she does have some endearing qualities. I find out that she can be good. She can listen… and, given the chance, the girl can snuggle. Her being curled up next to me, breathing on my ice-cold feet came as a potent reminder that I didn’t really want to give her away or give up on her.
So now I just need to get writing again. Then, maybe, I will have put last week behind me.
As far as the 4th is going, my celebrations are pretty low-key. A number of friends and family are out of town for the holiday, so it has been a pretty solitary weekend - and quite a nice one, at that. While I am not unmindful of the events that came about on the 4th of July some 234 years ago; my own musings have focused less on the nation’s independence, but rather on my own freedom from worry and stress.
The weather has been clear – a tad hot today - but not bad. The neighborhood has been relatively free of the marauding pack of teenagers that occasionally stalk the mean streets of my little village. My mother is content and the garden continues to grow. As I said in yesterday’s post, the beast and I had a very good class together this weekend. We have just returned from an astonishingly pleasant walk.
I am finding the smells and tastes of summer to be new and wonderful…all over again. I have recently re-discovered the restorative properties of seltzer and pomegranate juice combined with ever so little lemon vodka. I had my first batch of peas picked fresh from the garden last night. Served with tomato orzo and just a bit of fresh chopped mint, it was a little slice of heaven in my bowl.
A good friend has come through a critical moment in very good form.
Ooh…and I have won the lottery!
…or more accurately (???) since I won $5 on a$5 scratch off ticket, I suppose I should say I broke even on the lottery – which is way better than I normally do, so I’ll score that in the win column.
All good things.
I hope this weekend has brought all of you some cause for celebration as well.
Most of us have gone to a doctor for a physical exam or two in our lives. Many of us have seen a doctor for some ache or pain, probably, too. How many of us, though, have considered how physically painful we are to those who treat us?
I did not allow myself to discuss this last week, for fear of racking up some serious whining points, but hefting a body around is hard work. Holding your share of a person’s weight dead-still also takes a toll, and crawling around on your knees over buckles and equipment is, frankly, pretty damn uncomfortable. And, please, don’t even get me started on the toll that just standing there takes on a body.
I came home each day last week physically tired and achy despite the fact that this year’s set of studies, having evolved in the ten years the group has been engaged in research, looked at the uses of a number of mechanically assisted methods for patient handling. Sometimes it was the equipment itself that was the source of my pain. While testing the table used to turn patients over, I can’t tell you how many times I got whacked by the frame as it came over, too. Pinched fingers were normal. Bumps and bruises came with the territory.
You might point out that even the medical experts don’t have to do this stuff every day, but how much time do you think an ER doc spends behind a desk with his feet up on a shift? Between delivering meds and taking vitals, assisting with bedpans and linen changes, and changing a patient’s position to prevent bedsores, how cushy do you think a nurse’s shift is? When is the last time you heard of a 30 minute surgery? Do you suppose the surgeon gets to sit down while his patient is open on the table? Probably not.
Try just standing in one place for a couple of hours. If you’re not used to it, it’s not easy.
I’m not saying that our medical professionals are not well-compensated for their work. I don’t claim that any of them were misled into believing that their’s would be a cushy career, but, in addition to being pretty damn impressed with the knowledge and dedication of the team members I worked with, I did come away with a greater appreciation of the physical toll their line of work can take on a body…
…and at least for a few days, I felt their pain.
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