I learned a new word yesterday. Asswaged... Really, it's a word. It has to do with metal working, means to reduce or something like that. When you're trying to stick one piece of metal to another that is what happens, it's asswaged. I wish I knew more about metallurgy. I took a class in metal working one hot summer when I lived in a little town in Western Colorado. I was, let's see, must have been about 27. yup, that's right, hard to believe. Anyway the teacher was so ho ought! His arms were sculpture. I wound up making a funny looking dragonfly. I still have it, it's all rusted now. The drawing of that bug was so much better then the metalness of it could ever be. But I loved the violence of beating that piece of metal into what I wanted it to be...Well alright, I loved watching the metallurgist work the piece of metal into what I wanted.Can I just interject here and say that memories are quite vivid after two lemonade drinks with good vodka on a hot evening.....
Back to asswaged...Iearned this word from a fellow nurse at work. During a lull, computer games are sometimes played on the unit. The BookWorm Is a favorite. So, this guy knew alot of words I didn't. And, I'm not bragging, but I know alot of words,( do I know how to spell them?...Not necessarily). I was pleased to find out that a fellow nurse was so well rounded. I hate to say it, but in Utah, a nurse has almost, a certain stereotype, because nursing is an approved type of work for the little woman. Along with teaching and being a housewife. That sounds so snotty when it's outside my head. I don't mean it that way....(Do I?). Anyway, nursing has seen a new day. There are BOYZ on the unit. I believe there was a NASA study that highlighted that a group with both men and women in it showed the most effective group dynamics. http://www.hq.nasa.gov/office/hqlibrary/ppm/ppm17.htm
I truly believe that to be true,truly. ( Sorry I can't find the proper spelling for this word.) I wonder if they ever included a group with gay men or women in it..?
The Hubba Is due back tomorrow, evening. I'm glad, I miss him. First few days he is gone, when on some trip or another, I find the aloneness BLISS. But being alone reminds me of how much I love to be with him. Is that paradoxical?
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Time Is Brief
6.26.07
Today is my Mom’s Birthday. She would have been 61 today. Three summers ago she died from colon cancer. She was diagnosed on April 15 and she was gone by July 10. Three short months and she aged about 100 years. My mom had never looked her years, but in the last month of her life age caught up to her two-fold. My heart didn’t even have time to break while she was sick. Things just went too fast to process.
The summer before my Mom had married a lovely man who loved her and treated her so well. They were so much alike even though there was a 12-year difference in their ages. Finally it seemed as if everything in her life had fallen in to place. But, no, no it hadn’t. Beginning in April after her surgery, I made frequent trips from the city I lived in to the little mountain town that she had made her home with her man. I remember when I arrived at her house after a five-hour drive. She answered the door and I almost didn’t recognize her. She had cut off all her hair in anticipation of the chemotherapy alopecia. The shades were drawn, and she was wearing dark old clothes, with sleeves even though it was hot outside. She cried and she said that she was a sick old woman with cancer. As the disease progressed I would so often hear her say things like that. That she would never be beautiful again, who would love her now? In spite of this, I don’t know if she ever really realized how sick she was. The day before she died she talked to me about what she wanted to do with the window blinds in her bedroom. In the end I think that is a good thing.
Because I am a Nurse, I have seen plenty of suffering. How is anyone supposed to know what the best plan of action is for someone who is dying? I’ve seen people hold on with every ounce of strength they have. Their family members enduring unreasonable amounts of pain and torture because family can’t let of the one they love. Now, on the other side of that bitter coin, I sometimes feel as if I would give my right arm to have one more day with my Mom. Instead, I worked with a wonderful hospice nurse to make sure that she no pain, and that she was comfortable to the very end. Here is where my quandary begins. Did I shorten her life? Could things have been different for her? What would it have been like if she had lived another month, or two? What if I had agreed to a feeding tube, or to another, more aggressive surgery, that would have left her with a colostomy, but would have left her alive? How long can someone tolerate unrelenting nausea? Is it worth it to put up with it if it gives you another month, another week? I don’t know, I just don’t know.
Sometimes I wish I had been way more aggressive with life prolonging care. Other days, after particularly brutal shifts at work I’m glad that she went as she did. Without pain, surrounded by her people and her animars. Oh but I miss her, every day I do.
When things started to go bad, Mom’s husband Matt called me and told me that he was worried. I flew out to a little town on the western slope of Colorado that had previously been my happy home while I was going to school. Matt met me at the airport and we drove in uncomfortable silence in his beat up pick up truck, the 150 miles to my Mom. When I arrived, Mom was glad to see me, but kept saying that she was fine; I didn’t need to take the trouble. Through that long night she kept having periods of apnea, but kept on breathing. At one point during the night she woke up and was very lucid. She said that she had finished her long sleep, and that she was awake now. Matt came out of the bedroom and we made some crushed ice (her favorite thing), and just sat around chatting, at 2 am in the morning. Mom went to sleep again, but the next morning woke up for her crushed ice. The hot summer day moseyed on. I went for a run with Matt’s sister Louisa. I told Mom where we were going, she told me to be careful. We got home about 1400 (two pm). About 1600 (four pm), Matt went out to the store to get more provisions, i.e.: tequila and lime for margaritas. Right before he left, Matt told Mom where he was going, and that he would be right back… He left, and my Mom took a big breath, and then one more, and then she didn’t, anymore.
Today is my Mom’s Birthday. She would have been 61 today. Three summers ago she died from colon cancer. She was diagnosed on April 15 and she was gone by July 10. Three short months and she aged about 100 years. My mom had never looked her years, but in the last month of her life age caught up to her two-fold. My heart didn’t even have time to break while she was sick. Things just went too fast to process.
The summer before my Mom had married a lovely man who loved her and treated her so well. They were so much alike even though there was a 12-year difference in their ages. Finally it seemed as if everything in her life had fallen in to place. But, no, no it hadn’t. Beginning in April after her surgery, I made frequent trips from the city I lived in to the little mountain town that she had made her home with her man. I remember when I arrived at her house after a five-hour drive. She answered the door and I almost didn’t recognize her. She had cut off all her hair in anticipation of the chemotherapy alopecia. The shades were drawn, and she was wearing dark old clothes, with sleeves even though it was hot outside. She cried and she said that she was a sick old woman with cancer. As the disease progressed I would so often hear her say things like that. That she would never be beautiful again, who would love her now? In spite of this, I don’t know if she ever really realized how sick she was. The day before she died she talked to me about what she wanted to do with the window blinds in her bedroom. In the end I think that is a good thing.
Because I am a Nurse, I have seen plenty of suffering. How is anyone supposed to know what the best plan of action is for someone who is dying? I’ve seen people hold on with every ounce of strength they have. Their family members enduring unreasonable amounts of pain and torture because family can’t let of the one they love. Now, on the other side of that bitter coin, I sometimes feel as if I would give my right arm to have one more day with my Mom. Instead, I worked with a wonderful hospice nurse to make sure that she no pain, and that she was comfortable to the very end. Here is where my quandary begins. Did I shorten her life? Could things have been different for her? What would it have been like if she had lived another month, or two? What if I had agreed to a feeding tube, or to another, more aggressive surgery, that would have left her with a colostomy, but would have left her alive? How long can someone tolerate unrelenting nausea? Is it worth it to put up with it if it gives you another month, another week? I don’t know, I just don’t know.
Sometimes I wish I had been way more aggressive with life prolonging care. Other days, after particularly brutal shifts at work I’m glad that she went as she did. Without pain, surrounded by her people and her animars. Oh but I miss her, every day I do.
When things started to go bad, Mom’s husband Matt called me and told me that he was worried. I flew out to a little town on the western slope of Colorado that had previously been my happy home while I was going to school. Matt met me at the airport and we drove in uncomfortable silence in his beat up pick up truck, the 150 miles to my Mom. When I arrived, Mom was glad to see me, but kept saying that she was fine; I didn’t need to take the trouble. Through that long night she kept having periods of apnea, but kept on breathing. At one point during the night she woke up and was very lucid. She said that she had finished her long sleep, and that she was awake now. Matt came out of the bedroom and we made some crushed ice (her favorite thing), and just sat around chatting, at 2 am in the morning. Mom went to sleep again, but the next morning woke up for her crushed ice. The hot summer day moseyed on. I went for a run with Matt’s sister Louisa. I told Mom where we were going, she told me to be careful. We got home about 1400 (two pm). About 1600 (four pm), Matt went out to the store to get more provisions, i.e.: tequila and lime for margaritas. Right before he left, Matt told Mom where he was going, and that he would be right back… He left, and my Mom took a big breath, and then one more, and then she didn’t, anymore.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Gotta Be Good-Lookin'
6.25.07
If Tom Petty burst onto the music scene today, he just wouldn't make it. Neither would Donald Fagan of Steely Dan, or Christine McVie. These artists, incredible as they are musically, are not so good looking. In Donald Fagan’s case, WoW…. I was flipping channels on the tube and I came across a seventies music infomercial which highlighted Steely Dan, Fleetwood Mac, and Tom Petty. Also included, David Bowie, Rod Stewart and Linda Rhonstadt. Maybe it was just, ‘The look of the time’, But these people looked ugly, scary ugly. I was alive in the late seventies, I don’t remember people looking so ugly back then.
The other thing, Can you name one musician in this modern day that is not picture perfect? Who is out there that is ugly? What if we are missing out on all kinds of great music because everyone has to be beautiful?
If Tom Petty burst onto the music scene today, he just wouldn't make it. Neither would Donald Fagan of Steely Dan, or Christine McVie. These artists, incredible as they are musically, are not so good looking. In Donald Fagan’s case, WoW…. I was flipping channels on the tube and I came across a seventies music infomercial which highlighted Steely Dan, Fleetwood Mac, and Tom Petty. Also included, David Bowie, Rod Stewart and Linda Rhonstadt. Maybe it was just, ‘The look of the time’, But these people looked ugly, scary ugly. I was alive in the late seventies, I don’t remember people looking so ugly back then.
The other thing, Can you name one musician in this modern day that is not picture perfect? Who is out there that is ugly? What if we are missing out on all kinds of great music because everyone has to be beautiful?
Friday, June 22, 2007
Aging Well
06.22.07
My legs are a mess. I have various bruises and scrapes from different events that took place over the past week. Down the spine of my left shin is an interesting formation of scrapes created from my razor as it skittered down my leg. The right leg is festooned with a colourful bruise, well earned from the kick of an old lady. This little dear was a 77 year old who had become dehydrated from confusion, and, well, old age… Any way, I made her angry and she let me know it! Back to the left knee is an eggplant coloured bruise, about the size and shape of oh, say, a small tomato, at the knee. This one obtained from trying to artfully, and gracefully, climb over a little roof, on a climb that the Hubba and I went on this weekend. I had one good hand hold, no feet at all. Beta from the Hubba, before he ascended included the sage advice of, “ leaning back, so your feet will stick..”. Ok, So I lean back, on my one pumped arm and reach blindly, hopefully, with hope, trying to find …AnyThing.. to grab on to. Wait, what’s this, hold on, Sweet Hesus!, A little Grippy thing! Just the size for small weak fingers to grab on to. Great! Now I lift my left knee, Thunk, f*ck…Lift again, Thunk,f*ck, f*ck, f*ck… I feel the Hubba taking in the rope nice and ( Yipe), snuggly. I change tactics and bring the right knee waayy up and pull, pull pull, and the I’m up and over.
I can record the years of my life by the bruising on legs. Ten years ago I was trail running a lot. I would bite the onion about once a month. I don’t think it was because I was clumsy, I would just get really tired and quit lifting my feet up as high as they needed to go….ouch. Now my bruising is much more diverse. My life is so much rounder and dimensional then it used to be. As I am entering that magical age where women become invisible, you know, the late thirties early forties, I relish the fact that I still have enough fun in my life that my knees are scabby and my shins are bruised.
My legs are a mess. I have various bruises and scrapes from different events that took place over the past week. Down the spine of my left shin is an interesting formation of scrapes created from my razor as it skittered down my leg. The right leg is festooned with a colourful bruise, well earned from the kick of an old lady. This little dear was a 77 year old who had become dehydrated from confusion, and, well, old age… Any way, I made her angry and she let me know it! Back to the left knee is an eggplant coloured bruise, about the size and shape of oh, say, a small tomato, at the knee. This one obtained from trying to artfully, and gracefully, climb over a little roof, on a climb that the Hubba and I went on this weekend. I had one good hand hold, no feet at all. Beta from the Hubba, before he ascended included the sage advice of, “ leaning back, so your feet will stick..”. Ok, So I lean back, on my one pumped arm and reach blindly, hopefully, with hope, trying to find …AnyThing.. to grab on to. Wait, what’s this, hold on, Sweet Hesus!, A little Grippy thing! Just the size for small weak fingers to grab on to. Great! Now I lift my left knee, Thunk, f*ck…Lift again, Thunk,f*ck, f*ck, f*ck… I feel the Hubba taking in the rope nice and ( Yipe), snuggly. I change tactics and bring the right knee waayy up and pull, pull pull, and the I’m up and over.
I can record the years of my life by the bruising on legs. Ten years ago I was trail running a lot. I would bite the onion about once a month. I don’t think it was because I was clumsy, I would just get really tired and quit lifting my feet up as high as they needed to go….ouch. Now my bruising is much more diverse. My life is so much rounder and dimensional then it used to be. As I am entering that magical age where women become invisible, you know, the late thirties early forties, I relish the fact that I still have enough fun in my life that my knees are scabby and my shins are bruised.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
First Blog
The Lunabelle is my dog. she is a farty Rhodesian ( Zimbabwean?) Ridgeback. My husband and I saved her from an uncertain future when we adopted her from a family that had just had twins. Now she lives a life of leisure with only the occasional Death March thrown in to build a little dog character. On one Death March last summer, poor Belle cultivated so much character she had to be loaded into an expedition sized pack and carried out. I was worried for months after that I would wake up one morning and find the PETA folkes picketing outside my house. They haven't shown up yet, but I'm still wary...
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