2 days ago
Sunday, June 26, 2005
If you could only read Polish…
You would enjoy reading maching tracksuits this week. Kinga, a Pole, moved a few days ago to the States along with her American husband, Gary. Both are posting their impression of being in the States (Gary had been living in Poland for a number of years now). Kinga writes in Polish, Gary in English. Kinga’s observations about her surroundings make me smile. It is like me, looking in afresh on life here, commenting with my own set of childhood (i.e. Polish) experiences!
During my last trip to Poland I made a point of meeting these two bloggers. Two of their Polish friends joined us and we sat drinking beer at an outdoor table, at the foot of the sweeping Tatra mountains.
I thought then: Gary has had to make adjustments during his years of living in Poland, but Kinga will have to make far greater adjustments when they move to the States. The conversation was full of Polish-style banter, but it also turned intimate very quickly, with a great deal of reflection on everything from literature to relationships. Both the men and women tripped over themselves to throw in their two zlotys, in the rapid fire way that Poles typically communicate.
Dusk turned to night and in the space of those hours it became so clear to me that there indeed is this great cultural divide: it is in the manner in which people relate to each other -- the expressions they use, the themes they pick out, the common understanding of what is ordinary and what seems curiously alien.
Even if you don’t read Polish, you can track Gary’s English text (they alternate posts): he writes as an American who is returning here after many years of being away and also as one who is aware of how Kinga is experiencing this country. Having read both sides of the blog, I can assure you that he represents Kinga’s thoughts about their new surroundings quite well!
During my last trip to Poland I made a point of meeting these two bloggers. Two of their Polish friends joined us and we sat drinking beer at an outdoor table, at the foot of the sweeping Tatra mountains.
I thought then: Gary has had to make adjustments during his years of living in Poland, but Kinga will have to make far greater adjustments when they move to the States. The conversation was full of Polish-style banter, but it also turned intimate very quickly, with a great deal of reflection on everything from literature to relationships. Both the men and women tripped over themselves to throw in their two zlotys, in the rapid fire way that Poles typically communicate.
Dusk turned to night and in the space of those hours it became so clear to me that there indeed is this great cultural divide: it is in the manner in which people relate to each other -- the expressions they use, the themes they pick out, the common understanding of what is ordinary and what seems curiously alien.
Even if you don’t read Polish, you can track Gary’s English text (they alternate posts): he writes as an American who is returning here after many years of being away and also as one who is aware of how Kinga is experiencing this country. Having read both sides of the blog, I can assure you that he represents Kinga’s thoughts about their new surroundings quite well!
Saturday, June 25, 2005
Letters I wish I had it in me to write, part 2
Dear Trek bike person,
You made me laugh and laugh this afternoon! The final straw was when you told me you couldn’t take a look at my bike because it was (inadvertently) positioned under a birds’ nest and therefore likely to get blasted with baby bird diarrhea any minute. And when you told me that Mr. B and I should not call it quits – it showed how cool you yourself were. I’ll be ready someday, I know I will. Just not today.
Dear home of many decades,
In the end, no one thing has proved to be so stable and reliable in my life as you have. Each dark winter day I would come back and you’d be there – not preoccupied, not distant, not cold. There, every single day, reliably, waiting.
And so it is perhaps incomprehensible to some, to you, why it is that I have to leave you. I love you more than any thing in the world. Sometimes, for reasons that are complicated and convoluted, one has to focus on a future that is stark but sane. You cannot be part of my future. It in not my fault. Perhaps it is not anyone’s fault. It just is. Remember: no one will have loved you as much as I did, no one.
Dear computer,
If you die on me now I will be a beaten person. So pretend you are not old and ragged. My car is old and ragged. Much of my day feels old and ragged. But you, you are a mere babe. So act your age! I’m in no position to seek a replacement.
You made me laugh and laugh this afternoon! The final straw was when you told me you couldn’t take a look at my bike because it was (inadvertently) positioned under a birds’ nest and therefore likely to get blasted with baby bird diarrhea any minute. And when you told me that Mr. B and I should not call it quits – it showed how cool you yourself were. I’ll be ready someday, I know I will. Just not today.
Dear home of many decades,
In the end, no one thing has proved to be so stable and reliable in my life as you have. Each dark winter day I would come back and you’d be there – not preoccupied, not distant, not cold. There, every single day, reliably, waiting.
And so it is perhaps incomprehensible to some, to you, why it is that I have to leave you. I love you more than any thing in the world. Sometimes, for reasons that are complicated and convoluted, one has to focus on a future that is stark but sane. You cannot be part of my future. It in not my fault. Perhaps it is not anyone’s fault. It just is. Remember: no one will have loved you as much as I did, no one.
Dear computer,
If you die on me now I will be a beaten person. So pretend you are not old and ragged. My car is old and ragged. Much of my day feels old and ragged. But you, you are a mere babe. So act your age! I’m in no position to seek a replacement.
I'm wondering...
At what point do you tell your aging parent this: no more. You cannot continue to frown upon the life I live and the decisions I make. I will not listen anymore?
At what point do you look up and notice how good and kind friends are when you need them to be just decent (you are all that way! every one of you, temporarily or permanently out of state, emailers, dinner and/or walking companions, latte enablers – all!)?
At what point do you get a new, sexy bike helmet (I tell myself that, knowing damn well that no bike helmet is really sexy) even though you could maybe (though not certainly) get by with pounding out the dents and still strapping the old one under your chin?
At what point do you admit to your neighbors that, for reasons having to do with the soft warm air coming in from the outside and the harsh long week you’ve just had, you are drifting off to sleep, even though they are still there, in your house, engaged in a fantastically lively conversation?
At what point do you tell Oscar that his blog has been magnificent of late (while sitting and commiserating about how awful a latte is as compared to the real thing, on the other side of the ocean)?
At what point do you quit getting a charge out of spooking the neighborhood kids by showing them the extent of your hip bruise from the bike accident (they all get a thrill out of how extensive it is and I feel I am doing them a favor by shocking them into always wearing a helmet and being cautious out there on the roads)?
At what point do you hear the storm, open the patio door, stick your feet out into the rain and think: I can get through all this, really truly?
[the above? my past 24 hours in a nutshell.]
At what point do you look up and notice how good and kind friends are when you need them to be just decent (you are all that way! every one of you, temporarily or permanently out of state, emailers, dinner and/or walking companions, latte enablers – all!)?
At what point do you get a new, sexy bike helmet (I tell myself that, knowing damn well that no bike helmet is really sexy) even though you could maybe (though not certainly) get by with pounding out the dents and still strapping the old one under your chin?
At what point do you admit to your neighbors that, for reasons having to do with the soft warm air coming in from the outside and the harsh long week you’ve just had, you are drifting off to sleep, even though they are still there, in your house, engaged in a fantastically lively conversation?
At what point do you tell Oscar that his blog has been magnificent of late (while sitting and commiserating about how awful a latte is as compared to the real thing, on the other side of the ocean)?
At what point do you quit getting a charge out of spooking the neighborhood kids by showing them the extent of your hip bruise from the bike accident (they all get a thrill out of how extensive it is and I feel I am doing them a favor by shocking them into always wearing a helmet and being cautious out there on the roads)?
At what point do you hear the storm, open the patio door, stick your feet out into the rain and think: I can get through all this, really truly?
[the above? my past 24 hours in a nutshell.]
Stick with me and I guarantee at least one brush with death per day
A late afternoon at the Madison’s Memorial Union. So hot! Must be near 100. Friends decide to take out their pontoon boat. They motor over to the Hoofer’s Dock, nice, leisurely. Sandwiches, beer, snacks. The kind of hour where you get heavily engaged in the weighty issue of whether you’d prefer to be with a boring person or a smelly one. Amazingly, most choose boring.
Mmmmm, it isn’t hot anymore. Must be the cool lake breezes. No, not that. Must be the clouds. Wonder where they came from… Was so clear a minute ago.
Let’s roll over to the Governor’s Mansion. He is too pro environment. He is not! Is too! Is not! Why can’t we have Katherine Falk as governor?
Wouldn’t it be cool to swim to shore. [Here, Ocean author jumps overboard.]
Great water… A bit weedy. No bottom. Wonder why it says DANGER on those bobbin’ little numbers? No matter.. Feels wonderful, the temperature is just right. Captain of the boat is swimming as well.. All’s good here in the warm wetness of Lake Mendota. Kind of choppy in the water now. Hey captain? See that line of rain? It’s on the other side of the lake, not too far from us.
Back on board: Hey Captain? See those flashes of lightening? They’re hitting the lake. Hmmmm, not so pretty. [Ocean author wonders if she can take picture of lightening hitting lake for the blog. Ocean author fails to take picture of lightening hitting water.] Look at that! Red lights are flashing on the shore. Meaning: all boats must come in. No kidding! So, you’re scared? Nah… what are you going to do…
Hoofer types are on the dock waving pontoon boat away. Don’t dock here! Storm winds will blow the dock right into your boat! Go anchor at the cement one. Captain fearlessly ventures out into the storm to anchor at the cement one. Captain wonders if maybe leaving boat to the storm would be a good idea. Boat is insured. Captain is sick of boat and would not mind collecting the insurance money.
Storm’s coming! Bring up the chairs toward shelter. Ohh, from this perch it’s exciting! Bring it on! Hail, gusty winds – they’ll wipe the earth clean and dust off the cobwebs! Storm declines the invitation and decides to head north. Storms are that way – they taunt you and tease you out there where you’re vulnerable on the open waters and snub you when you make it safely to shore.
Mmmmm, it isn’t hot anymore. Must be the cool lake breezes. No, not that. Must be the clouds. Wonder where they came from… Was so clear a minute ago.
Let’s roll over to the Governor’s Mansion. He is too pro environment. He is not! Is too! Is not! Why can’t we have Katherine Falk as governor?
Wouldn’t it be cool to swim to shore. [Here, Ocean author jumps overboard.]
Great water… A bit weedy. No bottom. Wonder why it says DANGER on those bobbin’ little numbers? No matter.. Feels wonderful, the temperature is just right. Captain of the boat is swimming as well.. All’s good here in the warm wetness of Lake Mendota. Kind of choppy in the water now. Hey captain? See that line of rain? It’s on the other side of the lake, not too far from us.
Back on board: Hey Captain? See those flashes of lightening? They’re hitting the lake. Hmmmm, not so pretty. [Ocean author wonders if she can take picture of lightening hitting lake for the blog. Ocean author fails to take picture of lightening hitting water.] Look at that! Red lights are flashing on the shore. Meaning: all boats must come in. No kidding! So, you’re scared? Nah… what are you going to do…
Hoofer types are on the dock waving pontoon boat away. Don’t dock here! Storm winds will blow the dock right into your boat! Go anchor at the cement one. Captain fearlessly ventures out into the storm to anchor at the cement one. Captain wonders if maybe leaving boat to the storm would be a good idea. Boat is insured. Captain is sick of boat and would not mind collecting the insurance money.
Storm’s coming! Bring up the chairs toward shelter. Ohh, from this perch it’s exciting! Bring it on! Hail, gusty winds – they’ll wipe the earth clean and dust off the cobwebs! Storm declines the invitation and decides to head north. Storms are that way – they taunt you and tease you out there where you’re vulnerable on the open waters and snub you when you make it safely to shore.
Friday, June 24, 2005
Latte and Latvia
I heard today from one of my oldest American friends and from one of my newest.
My oldest, Kathy, suggested an outdoor latte early in the morning. Why is that significant? If you have been in a bike accident, you’re hesitant about taking on big biking projects. It’s one thing to swing with Mr. B over to the local café, it’s another to take him across town, over Hill and dale, to a more distant place, requiring some fancy peddling, with one hip/leg still looking like it’s storing a year’s supply of fruits and vegetables beneath the skin. Of the purple kind.
Morning bliss is making it there without incident and sipping this outside:
My oldest, Kathy, suggested an outdoor latte early in the morning. Why is that significant? If you have been in a bike accident, you’re hesitant about taking on big biking projects. It’s one thing to swing with Mr. B over to the local café, it’s another to take him across town, over Hill and dale, to a more distant place, requiring some fancy peddling, with one hip/leg still looking like it’s storing a year’s supply of fruits and vegetables beneath the skin. Of the purple kind.
Morning bliss is making it there without incident and sipping this outside:
My newer friend is Q. I first met him on a train in Poland (described here). Q was concerned when he heard I am canceling a trip to Europe, currently on the books for July. Q would be concerned. He and his wife love Europe so much that they ditched their place in SF and moved there. He writes me: “if you want a new adventure, let’s meet in Latvia!”
He is a big fan of Latvia. I have never been to Latvia. I swear, if I knew I could get a latte in Latvia, I would go in a second. But right now I am hesitating. I have So Much On My Mind at the moment that it seems extreme. And expensive.
And my latte addiction cannot be appeased with other beverages these days. I need something wonderful and strong to keep me steady. Latte, I think you are second on my list of comfort objects to cling onto! But someday I’ll do it. I’ll pack my Dell and take Ocean to Latvia.
He is a big fan of Latvia. I have never been to Latvia. I swear, if I knew I could get a latte in Latvia, I would go in a second. But right now I am hesitating. I have So Much On My Mind at the moment that it seems extreme. And expensive.
And my latte addiction cannot be appeased with other beverages these days. I need something wonderful and strong to keep me steady. Latte, I think you are second on my list of comfort objects to cling onto! But someday I’ll do it. I’ll pack my Dell and take Ocean to Latvia.
An ode to people who take on big projects
Empty shells Made better With the gutting Of inside space.
Turning it into Something new Not without faults Gritty and daring.
Random words spinning in my head as I look at what some creative types are doing with two old warehouses in an industrial park in downtown Madison.
Ann and I poked around yesterday afternoon after the construction crews had left. Just a photo or two of how things are looking (check out her own photos here for close-ups of graffiti on the outside walls):
Turning it into Something new Not without faults Gritty and daring.
Random words spinning in my head as I look at what some creative types are doing with two old warehouses in an industrial park in downtown Madison.
Ann and I poked around yesterday afternoon after the construction crews had left. Just a photo or two of how things are looking (check out her own photos here for close-ups of graffiti on the outside walls):
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Strawberry season
There is this obnoxious trait that some people have of wanting to take free stuff if it is offered to them and they have a need for it.
For example – you are in a hospital ER room, it’s time to go, all kisses and goodbyes, thanks, you’ve been wonderful, so you’re finally inching out and you remember: wouldn’t it be nice to take with you one of the ice packs to use at home? It’s “free” if you take it from the hospital.
I guess I am one of those obnoxious people, because I did turn around and hobble back last night (during my trip to the ER room) and asked (meekly) – do you suppose you could spare….
The nurse hardly looked up. You don’t have ice at home? (you know, putting those jagged bricks from your ice dispenser against a sore leg is just not as much fun as using an ice pack) No… -- unbelievable answer, but I wasn’t in the mood to explain.
Do you have any frozen fruits or vegetables? -- she counters. Caught me dead on. I could not lie. I have bags and bags of frozen strawberries from last year. Frozen blueberries? Raspberries? All gone: they’re wonderful to slowly munch on when you want to restrain your midnight greed. But strawberries are too big to just pop in your mouth, so there they are, in my freezer and the new season is upon us and so I may as well put them to ice-pack use, digging into the ziplock bag every once in a while for a nibble.
But I got my chance at a freebie: on my way out (for real now), I passed one of those anti-bacterial gel dispensers (that’s what they’re all using in the ER room – none of this hand washing stuff; I know – 99.9% germs are killed with the gel, it says so right there on the dispenser, but it just doesn’t seem in my old fashioned mind as fresh to go from wiping someone’s butt, to putting a little gel on the palms, to picking up your hand to take your pulse). From said dispenser I loaded on the antibacterial gel. For free. You might say I walked out of the hospital clean. Germ free. That’s nothing to sneeze at, btw.
For example – you are in a hospital ER room, it’s time to go, all kisses and goodbyes, thanks, you’ve been wonderful, so you’re finally inching out and you remember: wouldn’t it be nice to take with you one of the ice packs to use at home? It’s “free” if you take it from the hospital.
I guess I am one of those obnoxious people, because I did turn around and hobble back last night (during my trip to the ER room) and asked (meekly) – do you suppose you could spare….
The nurse hardly looked up. You don’t have ice at home? (you know, putting those jagged bricks from your ice dispenser against a sore leg is just not as much fun as using an ice pack) No… -- unbelievable answer, but I wasn’t in the mood to explain.
Do you have any frozen fruits or vegetables? -- she counters. Caught me dead on. I could not lie. I have bags and bags of frozen strawberries from last year. Frozen blueberries? Raspberries? All gone: they’re wonderful to slowly munch on when you want to restrain your midnight greed. But strawberries are too big to just pop in your mouth, so there they are, in my freezer and the new season is upon us and so I may as well put them to ice-pack use, digging into the ziplock bag every once in a while for a nibble.
But I got my chance at a freebie: on my way out (for real now), I passed one of those anti-bacterial gel dispensers (that’s what they’re all using in the ER room – none of this hand washing stuff; I know – 99.9% germs are killed with the gel, it says so right there on the dispenser, but it just doesn’t seem in my old fashioned mind as fresh to go from wiping someone’s butt, to putting a little gel on the palms, to picking up your hand to take your pulse). From said dispenser I loaded on the antibacterial gel. For free. You might say I walked out of the hospital clean. Germ free. That’s nothing to sneeze at, btw.
Simulblogging the ER. No, not the TV show, we’re talking about reality reality.
Notes from the night that followed the bike crash:
By ten at night my upper leg had ballooned to such a large size that it felt like I had gone on an 365 day Michael’s Frozan Custard binge. Moreover, I could not walk.
Call to clinic. Nurse plugs in data into her triage computer program and comes up with result that is probably the result in 99% of cases: go to the ER room immediately. I mean, maybe if you call and say that you are at a nursing home and that the staff person was mean to you and would not help you go to the bathroom (the issue confronting the patient in the space next to mine at the ER headquarters of UW hospitals), maybe then they would have said: deal with it. For the rest: there’s the ER.
I was also told that I am absolutely forbidden to drive and that an ambulance would be forthcoming if I hadn’t a friend to take me in. HOW PATHETIC! That’s just an insurance set up! How many people will say – oh, okay, I have no one, no one at all to ask for a ride, so sure, go ahead, send the ambulance.
I called a friend. Friend came, friend drove. Thank you, friend. You saved me the humiliation of appearing pathetic.
Lots of police cars at the entrance to the ER room. I tell friend that if you go in at night, you’re gonna be rubbing shoulders with the overdose victims and gang shootings. Earlier, it’s poor people without health insurance who desperately need to see a doctor. Friend says it has been suggested that ER visits go up immediately at the end of prime time TV.
Inside the waiting room, everyone looks sick. I am thinking: I am going to get your germs so quickly, so please face the other way when you vomit – that kind of sick. Germ avoidance strategy: I use my own pen to sign wavers and death statements. Yes, if you kill me rather than cure me, you can take my remains and burn them quickly before someone discovers your mistake.
I am told: wait here in the wheel chair until your room is ready. Room is ready? Sounds like a Paris hotel that you arrive at early in the morning. Bonjour, not ready yet, excusez moi, quelle damage!
Background music is positively funereal. I had a friend die on me some years back and she requested classical music nonstop in her last hours of life and ever since, when I hear classical music in a hospital, I think of her. I think: had she known the effect it would have on me, she may have substituted it for hip hop. Hip hop in hospitals would not make me think of death and dying.
There are little insects flying around as I wait. Ugh! Germ carrying, all of you! Get OFF of me! You are contaminating me – I saw you buzz over near the vomiting woman there in the corner, go back, go back!
Three times, by three different staff members I am asked the question: is there anyone you do NOT wish to give access to your information from here? I don’t get it. YES! The world! The Dean of the Law School. Does he really need to know about my innards? Do students? In fact, 99.99% of the people out there should not have access to my medical records. Whatever are you thinking?? (Of course, then I go ahead and post everything on the blog. So private!)
Finally, I am wheeled to a segment of an ER room. I am a woman of many health dramas and so I know these places well. Too well. I know the ropes. I know what to say to get service and what to say to get out asap. I am ER savvy! [Mumbling something about being a law prof and teaching torts and malpractice helps; damn it, they always ask, so what, I am supposed to not mention it?]
I look up, stretched there on the ER table, with my leg now twice the size of a football stadium, and I see this cartoon pasted on the joint of the swivel overhead lamp. It’s a picture of a fist with a thumb up, and the words underneath, in bold, with an exclamation mark: yes! For some reason this totally disarms me. I feel the stress of the day, the night, the week and I want to cry. But that’s antithetical to the upbeat mood of that little sticker sign and so I reign it in.
In the “cubicle” next to me is the guy with the nursing home problem. It is indeed a problem and I do not want to detract from it even as he proceeds to describe the bowel movement he is having at the time he is telling the story. But it seems – from my meager qualifications to assess these matters – that it is not an ER problem. It is a call-governor-doyle-and-have-him-commence-a-criminal-investigation-against-the-nursing-home-facility type of a problem.
But then, his woman comes in and they have these rhapsodic exchanges while the staff is out. He is an old fart (literally) with an amputated leg and she is patient and he is so appreciative. I don’t even mind the putrid smells coming from their neck of the woods (remember: we are in the middle of his bowel movement). These guys are so touchingly respectful of each other. I wanted to get up and visit for a while, but the nurse was wiping his butt forever and ever and after that, the moment passed.
Sigh. It was one of those days when you are reminded of how lucky you are for a shrilling number of reasons. I got home minutes ago and transcribed my notes. I am thinking of going out for a bike ride first thing tomorrow, if I can wrap my giant leg around the seat. Hey, the doctors, with their multifarious almost-degrees (this is a teaching hospital after all) told me to move as much as possible, especially in the next few days, to undo the blood clot. I’m with you. Life is all about movement.
By ten at night my upper leg had ballooned to such a large size that it felt like I had gone on an 365 day Michael’s Frozan Custard binge. Moreover, I could not walk.
Call to clinic. Nurse plugs in data into her triage computer program and comes up with result that is probably the result in 99% of cases: go to the ER room immediately. I mean, maybe if you call and say that you are at a nursing home and that the staff person was mean to you and would not help you go to the bathroom (the issue confronting the patient in the space next to mine at the ER headquarters of UW hospitals), maybe then they would have said: deal with it. For the rest: there’s the ER.
I was also told that I am absolutely forbidden to drive and that an ambulance would be forthcoming if I hadn’t a friend to take me in. HOW PATHETIC! That’s just an insurance set up! How many people will say – oh, okay, I have no one, no one at all to ask for a ride, so sure, go ahead, send the ambulance.
I called a friend. Friend came, friend drove. Thank you, friend. You saved me the humiliation of appearing pathetic.
Lots of police cars at the entrance to the ER room. I tell friend that if you go in at night, you’re gonna be rubbing shoulders with the overdose victims and gang shootings. Earlier, it’s poor people without health insurance who desperately need to see a doctor. Friend says it has been suggested that ER visits go up immediately at the end of prime time TV.
Inside the waiting room, everyone looks sick. I am thinking: I am going to get your germs so quickly, so please face the other way when you vomit – that kind of sick. Germ avoidance strategy: I use my own pen to sign wavers and death statements. Yes, if you kill me rather than cure me, you can take my remains and burn them quickly before someone discovers your mistake.
I am told: wait here in the wheel chair until your room is ready. Room is ready? Sounds like a Paris hotel that you arrive at early in the morning. Bonjour, not ready yet, excusez moi, quelle damage!
Background music is positively funereal. I had a friend die on me some years back and she requested classical music nonstop in her last hours of life and ever since, when I hear classical music in a hospital, I think of her. I think: had she known the effect it would have on me, she may have substituted it for hip hop. Hip hop in hospitals would not make me think of death and dying.
There are little insects flying around as I wait. Ugh! Germ carrying, all of you! Get OFF of me! You are contaminating me – I saw you buzz over near the vomiting woman there in the corner, go back, go back!
Three times, by three different staff members I am asked the question: is there anyone you do NOT wish to give access to your information from here? I don’t get it. YES! The world! The Dean of the Law School. Does he really need to know about my innards? Do students? In fact, 99.99% of the people out there should not have access to my medical records. Whatever are you thinking?? (Of course, then I go ahead and post everything on the blog. So private!)
Finally, I am wheeled to a segment of an ER room. I am a woman of many health dramas and so I know these places well. Too well. I know the ropes. I know what to say to get service and what to say to get out asap. I am ER savvy! [Mumbling something about being a law prof and teaching torts and malpractice helps; damn it, they always ask, so what, I am supposed to not mention it?]
I look up, stretched there on the ER table, with my leg now twice the size of a football stadium, and I see this cartoon pasted on the joint of the swivel overhead lamp. It’s a picture of a fist with a thumb up, and the words underneath, in bold, with an exclamation mark: yes! For some reason this totally disarms me. I feel the stress of the day, the night, the week and I want to cry. But that’s antithetical to the upbeat mood of that little sticker sign and so I reign it in.
In the “cubicle” next to me is the guy with the nursing home problem. It is indeed a problem and I do not want to detract from it even as he proceeds to describe the bowel movement he is having at the time he is telling the story. But it seems – from my meager qualifications to assess these matters – that it is not an ER problem. It is a call-governor-doyle-and-have-him-commence-a-criminal-investigation-against-the-nursing-home-facility type of a problem.
But then, his woman comes in and they have these rhapsodic exchanges while the staff is out. He is an old fart (literally) with an amputated leg and she is patient and he is so appreciative. I don’t even mind the putrid smells coming from their neck of the woods (remember: we are in the middle of his bowel movement). These guys are so touchingly respectful of each other. I wanted to get up and visit for a while, but the nurse was wiping his butt forever and ever and after that, the moment passed.
Sigh. It was one of those days when you are reminded of how lucky you are for a shrilling number of reasons. I got home minutes ago and transcribed my notes. I am thinking of going out for a bike ride first thing tomorrow, if I can wrap my giant leg around the seat. Hey, the doctors, with their multifarious almost-degrees (this is a teaching hospital after all) told me to move as much as possible, especially in the next few days, to undo the blood clot. I’m with you. Life is all about movement.
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