TFAK Project:
Christmas came and went before I had time to write about any more of my good deeds. I did, however, perform (and continue to perform) many selfless acts over this holiday season. I just find very few of them worthy of an entire post. Instead, I’ll summarize.
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If I don’t get my kind-acting behind in gear, Christmas is going to be here and my blog gimmick will expire I won’t have had time to do all my good deeds.
I had an opportunity for a third one, but I cannot—in good conscience—count it. But it did make me realize something about myself, so I’m going to share it anyway.
Sometimes, my helpful acts are performed more for my own benefit than that of the recipient.
Let me rephrase.
Sometimes, I help people just to get rid of them.
I know it’s wrong. I know that’s not a Christian attitude. But it is what it is.
I had a sociology professor at GSU who asserted people help others for the sole purpose of removing a negative stimulus from his or her own environment.
At the time I thought he was sadly cynical, but this latest encounter made me realize perhaps he’s right.
I had taken Mama shopping for Christmas miscellanies (good deed #2) and had pulled up to the front curb of Kmart so she didn’t have to walk to the car. We were loading the trunk when a man walked up to me.
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Previously on WIMI:
I’ve decided to perform 25 acts of kindness between now and Christmas.
Turns out it’s not that easy. I don’t go to Hobby Lobby every day and I don’t venture out in public much unless I’m going to work. And at the hospital where I work, I’m civil and kind to everyone because not only am I’m a professional and a grown up, but I also embrace our service excellence philosophy. And most of the people where I work behave the same way.
We’re always being courteous one to the other re: opening doors, holding the elevator, greeting each other in the hallway, etc.
So, as I said, it’s difficult—for me—to find a good deed that needs doing. Or, rather, a good deed that’s worth writing about.
So, rather than list all the trash I’ve picked up off the hospital floor, or the times I let people merge into traffic, I’m going to tell you about a good deed I haven’t done.
Yet.
As you may recall, my mother suffered an aneurism back in the spring. We traveled a long road of recovery and now she’s able to live by herself again. She can walk with a cane, drive, cook for herself, and keep her house tidy. But she gets tired more easily, and she’s not as confident out in the world as she used to be. She can go to church, the doctor’s office, the pharmacy, the grocery store, and WalMart, but that’s the extent of her venturing.
Thanksgiving morning, she was lamenting that she would not have presents under her Christmas tree this year for members of our family because she just wasn’t able to get out in the crowds and shop.
Despite hearing several times from each of us that she was our gift this year, she was not biting. She just continued to say heart-wrenching things like:
Evah since y’all were born, I’ve had presents under the tree fah you.
I can’t stand the thought of an emptah tree.
Mama is a consummate seamstress, so I suggested she sew something for each of us.
Like WHAT?
My mother can be quite difficult when it suits her purpose.
I don’t know…table napkins, tablecloth, tote bags…
TOTE BAGS?!?!
She said this with the same level of disgust as if I’d suggested she place a red-and-green wrapped dog turd under the tree.
My sister suggested Mama do her shopping at WalMart during a weekday morning when it was less likely to be crowded.
WALMART?!?!?! What on earth can I get y’all at WALMART*?
Jenny: Bath stuff! I’m obsessed with my bath. Salts, foam, bubbles, powder, lotion, any of that.
Me: Scarves, gloves…a tote bag.
She gave me the same look I give MayAnne when I’m about to declare war on her rear end. Apparently, Mama has a deep-seated hatred of tote bags.
When my brothers arrived for dinner, and commented on how pretty her tree looked, it started again.
I guess while y’all ah gettin’ ready fah Christmas, I’ll just sit heah and squall.
My mother can be quite dramatic when it suits her purpose.
She launched into a story about her own parents.
One ye-ah, Mama and Daddy agreed not to get each othah Christmas presents and just do fah Jerri and me. Come Christmas morning, we opened our gifts and afterward Mama fled into the bedroom in teahs! Daddy said he’d NEVAH do that again.
Jenny offered a rebuttal.
Well, O’Henry, every idea we suggest to help you gets shot down. What do you want us to do?
I don’t knooooooooooow.
But I know. I know my Mama’s brain like I know my own. Basically, because it’s the same brain. If I had a dollar for every time Warren has called me Anne as a result of my thinking (and I put them with the dollars from every time I’ve called him Charlie as a result of his actions) I could retire.
I know the only thing that’s going to satisfy her is to take her shopping.
Never mind that all of this could be avoided if she would LEARN TO USE THE !$@#^@)$%Y$#@^!% INTERNET. That’s a whole other post.
And never mind that I have relatives who LIVE IN THE SAME TOWN who would take her if she would ASK. But she would never do that. Asking would undermine the use of her Irish guilt super powers.
So, in an effort to nip this ridiculousness in the bud before she started reciting Annie and Willie’s Prayer, I formulated a plan.
I got on the phone and swapped my work schedule around a bit. So, this Sunday, after having worked a full 12 hours, I will drive to Columbus, get up Monday morning and take Mama Christmas shopping.
And Christmas day, when I open whatever trinket she picked out for me, I will know I made my Mama happy.
And that is worth all the tote bags in the world.
*Dog Turd
So, I’m leaving Hobby Lobby after having purchased every red-and-white striped and/or peppermint themed Christmas decoration ever made. I wheel my milk-crate-blue cart full of purchases to my car, empty its contents into my trunk, and begin a conversation with myself re: the long walk back to the store entrance to return said cart.
I’ll just leave it out here. That’s what they get for not having cart corrals. And, while we’re at it, 1979 called, and they want their cash registers back.
You will NOT leave that cart out here so it can dent up someone’s car. Lazy. Walk your fat butt back up there and put it where it belongs.
Okay, okay.
Hmm. That lady across the row from me only has one item left to unload. I think I’ll ask her if I can take her cart, too.
Hi. Can I take your cart back for you?
Wha-? No. I mean, you don’t have to do that.
I know I don’t have to. I want to.
Well, I…just a…
Come on, it’s Christmas.
That’s…well..it’s…very nice of you. Thank you.
I slid her cart together with mine and rolled them over the bumpy asphalt to the store entrance, all the while thinking even though it felt pretty good to do this nice thing, the lady was so taken aback by it that it made me sad. Have we really reached the point where a selfless act is such a rarity as to cause shock in the recipient? Are we truly that…pathetic at being considerate?
The hippie, hippie hug-a-trees worry about our physical environment. The yappy, yappy* pundits worry about the political climate.
Yet no one seems to be concerned with preserving basic civility.
So, in an effort to reduce my own jerk footprint, I’ve decided to perform 25 acts of kindness between now and Christmas.
And who knows? Maybe I’ll start some viral kindness thingy and the world will improve fantastically and I’ll become famous as that chick with the blog only three people actually read who started the anti-jerkface movement all because of a shopping cart at Hobby Lobby.
Or one less car gets chipped paint.
Either way, it’s win win.
*yappy
If there is anybody still out there after all this time, let me take a moment to thank you for your faithful loyalty. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I’d like to play catch-up.
The last three months have been…well…kind of sh***y. Many things have happened in my family that might send a normal person to an institution. I, however, was crazy as an outhouse rat to begin with, so I am able to persevere. I mean, you can’t go somewhere you already are.
Most of the time I have ill feelings toward my crazy, but these last few months have shown me what a blessing it is to be able to detach from reality at will.
Let’s start with my mother. In late March, she fell and hit the back of her head, which resulted in a brain bleed. She was in ICU for 12 days, two more days in a regular hospital room, three weeks in one rehab facility, and two more weeks in another.
During Mama’s hospitalization, my brother-in-law had his third heart attack. Fortunately, my sister has a good friend who is an interventional cardiologist. He was able to save my brother-in-law’s life by removing a blood clot the size of a fifty-cent piece from the blocked artery.
My siblings and I were, of course, deeply affected by Mama’s illness, and my sister had the added stress of caring for a man who was, quite possibly, the most non-compliant patient in the history of cardiac medicine.
Then several of my sister’s chickens—chickens she has wanted to own her entire adult life and was just this year able to procure—were eaten by wild (or domestic…I’m looking at you,Walter.) dogs.
Her cat subsequently left the safety of the family farm, journeyed to the highway, and was hit by a car and left for dead by the side of the road. After several hours in surgery, the vet was able to save the cat.
On the Monday Mama moved into the second rehab facility, his ailing ticker not sufficient to keep pace with his boisterous spirit, my sister’s husband died.
That Friday, my sister’s convalescent cat (who was being cared for by the sisters-in-law while she was in Columbus with Mama) somehow escaped the house and was, of all things, bitten by a rattlesnake.
No, I’m not kidding. You can’t make this stuff up.
So, I’ve spent the better portion of the last five months in hospitals—don’t forget that’s also where I work—other healthcare facilities, my mother’s home, and the funeral home. My own home? Not so much. And while I’ve had plenty to write about, and thought after thought tumbling around in this questionably functional brain, I’ve not had time to share any of it.
That morning started out like any other. I got up, got the child ready for school, had my coffee, beat the computer at two games of Scrabble, did so-so at Boggle, ate a bowl of Lucky Charms, and went to check my Facebook.
I needy a snappy status, so I decided to use the first thing that popped into my widdle head. It is a well-established fact I am a brazen lunatic, so it wasn’t surprising this was my thought:
I’m going to paint an 11.
Then I wondered if there were videos on YouTube of this particular Sesame Street segment. Turns out there are.
One video turned into two, and pretty soon, I’d relived my entire televised childhood in two-minute clips.
I found some great stuff. Some of you may not remember any of it, considering you weren’t born yet, and, well, I hate it for you. Being a kid in the 70s was pretty dang cool, and my miniature bicentennial souvenir flag and I will not entertain arguments to the contrary.
Back then we didn’t have moronic reality shows, Ritalin® was called belts, and no one shopped for TV furniture because the TV was furniture.
SESAME STREET
Of course nearly everyone has his or her own memory of Sesame Street. Even the fetuses I work with who have, by the way, never heard of Alan Alda (I mean, honestly, get your nose out of The Real World: Sheboygan and watch a M*A*S*H rerun for Pete’s sake.) know who Big Bird is. But it would be remiss not to point out some of the differences between SS then and SS now. And I won’t go so far as to say SS sucks now, because it does not, will not, cannot. In fact, I really hope eons from now (unless the Rapture comes) kids are still sitting around with their little chins sticky from Froot Loop milk, watching Big Bird annoy Gordon. I will, however, assert SS in the 70s was better for three reasons:
a) Elmo wasn’t on it
b) Elmo wasn’t on it
c) Elmo wasn’t on it
I mean, honestly. Is it really necessary for him to take up half the show singing the word weather to the tune of Jingle Bells?
In my day (*adjusts teeth*) Kermit was a regular. His bit was a news segment about the goings on in a particular fairy tale.
Is that not the most terrifying personified egg you’ve ever seen? I love that thing. I wonder if I could make one? They have those giant lawn eggs (don’t get me started) at Hobby Lobby and I could get some fabric and a Sharpie and…
Wait. Where was I?
Oh, yeah.
Sesame Street is well known for its diversity, and the 70s were not different in this respect. Though I’m reasonably certain people might find this little guy offensive nowadays, back then he was pretty hip, in a blacksploitation kind of way.
Also, prior to 1985, Mr. Snuffleupagus was invisible to everyone but Big Bird. Hijinks ensued.
THE ELECTRIC COMPANY
This show is also still on, and these days it is absolute…
But OUR Electric Company was awesome, with cast regulars like Morgan Freeman, Rita Moreno, and Bill Cosby.
A regular segment on the show featured the superhero, Letterman. Letterman would foil the villainous Spell Binder (of obvious Middle Eastern descent, which as sure as I’m sitting here typing on my hippie Mac offends someone, somewhere.) by changing a letter in a word to make a different, less imposing word.
Another featured a private detective who “decoded” nonsensical messages. The best part? His name was Fargo North, Decoder. I mean, how clever is that? Now it’s just a bunch of kids running around rapping and dancing to hip hop. *shakes cane*
versus
No contest.
It also had SPIDERMAN, hello?!?!?
3-2-1 CONTACT!
Perhaps a little less well known, 3-2-1 Contact! focused on simple chemistry, biology, and physical science, covering such concepts as surface area, ignition, and volume. Sometimes, on Friday, we got to watch it at school.
The best part of 3-2-1 Contact! however, was the recurrent segment The Bloodhound Gang, where a trio of kids solved mysteries by applying their scientific knowledge. If you’ve got the crime, they’ve got the time.
The chick has since popped up in commercials and cameos (Law & Order, duh.) Law & Order is the new Love Boat. Guest stars of questionable celebrity status, milling about on the Lido deck a.k.a Manhattan. And there’s almost always a bartender.
THE CLYDE FROG SHOW
Way before Southpark‘s Eric Cartman had a stuffed doll named after this poorly rendered frog puppet, Clyde had his own show which focused on self-esteem and feelings and not jumping on the bed and junk.
Too bad I didn’t see that show before I ended up with three stitches in my right eyebrow and got blood on Clara’s bedspread.
Sadly, I could not find a video clip, but here’s a still of Clyde:
Yeah, I know, total Kermit rip-off. There are only so many ways to depict frogs via puppetry, I guess.
DAVY AND GOLIATH
Yay, Lutherans! Who else could create such a fantastic conglomeration of morals and ethics and stop-motion animation? And the stupid owner/smart pet dynamic never goes out of style. (See also: Timmy & Lassie, Sandy & Flipper, Wallace & Gromit.) D&G wasn’t shown on PBS, but early Sunday mornings on a regular channel.
D&G ho-ed themselves out for Mountain Dew in 2001. But since the proceeds were used to make a D&G holiday special, I suppose I can let it slide. Just this once.
And finally…*drumroll*…
ZOOM!
Zoom (That’s Zoom, Z double-O M, Box 355 Boston, Mass 0-2-1-3-4) was a show cast entirely with kids, written by kids. Each episode was filled with clips of the cast participating in various activities, designed to encourage children to take an active interest in science, nature, exercise, whatever. In Season 4, I enjoyed my first celebrity girl-crush (see also: Mariska Hargitay) when Tishy Flaherty joined the cast. I was convinced we looked like each other. I was all Tishy this and Tishy that, and HAD to be in front of the TV at 5:00 p.m.
Rugby shirts for everyone!!!!
And afterward, I would hope against hope another Zoom! would air, but at 6, this show for senior citizens came on called Over Easy. It was a constant source of irritation to me. My bedtime wasn’t until 9, so I felt the shows I enjoyed most should continue until then. Stupid Hugh Downs.
Sometimes I miss the 70s. What shows do you remember?
*This post was brought to you by the letter “L” and the number 75.
I haven’t written about music in…what?…fifteen minutes or so, so I feel it’s time for another post dedicated solely to this melodic art form. I’ve made several posts about my favorite songs—the ones I can’t live without, that will always be on my iPod, that I rarely go a day without listening to, etc.
But you know what I haven’t written? A post about songs I don’t like. And why is that, do you suppose? In all likelihood, it is because there are soooooo many I don’t care for, the task would be arduous. (And take up entirely too much webspace.)
However, I am going to pare down my discussion to the ones I absolutely disdain (e.g. make my eyes roll back in my head when they come on. No, I’m not kidding, that really happens.) That eliminates a few, but not many. And, so, in an effort to keep this from becoming some 85 page manifesto on what’s wrong with music today, I’m going to focus my discussion on songs that are considered classics by other people (e.g. their ears don’t bleed after the first three notes.)
As you are most likely painfully aware, for the songs I love, I can go on all day about why I love them—the turn of a lyric, the lilt of a melody, blah, blah, blah. For the songs I hate, however, I may not have a reason other than they make my eyes roll back in my head. Which, if you ask me, is reason enough because that particular situation can be pretty inconvenient. Say you’re driving down I-85 and you hear Gloria Estefan. Well, that’s just a wreck waiting to happen. Or, imagine you’re at Kohl’s looking at a really cute scarf but telling yourself you may not buy another scarf and Nickelback comes on. Some well-meaning Samaritan thinks you’re having a seizure and calls the EMTs and then it’s just a hot mess while you try explaining you’re not epileptic, you just really hate Chad Kroeger.
Let’s begin shall we?
Do You Feel Like We Do Peter Frampton
Excuse me, Mr. Frampton, but you may take the particular length of garden hose you are using to make your guitar appear to speak and wrap it firmly around your carotid artery. Waaaahawahh wahhhahah wahaaahah.
Slow Ride Foghat
I think we all know this song has nothing whatsoever to do with riding in a car. I especially hate the bit at the end where the music begins to mimic a certain forward-backward motion I will not elaborate upon.
All Right Now Free
Familiarity breeds contempt. And Atlanta’s 97.1 “The River” appears to have just this one record in its vault. I’m not kidding. Every time I turn on the regular radio (e.g. not XM, not Net streamed, not iPod) this song is on. Or if it’s not, then it comes on next. Right after Free Bird. Which brings us to…
Free Bird Lynyrd Skynyrd
9:09 minutes of torture by guitar. 14:23 if you have the live album.
Turn the Page Bob Seger
Ugh. I hate songs about being on the road. (See also: Wanted Dead or Alive, The Load Out) Ooo, look at you with your millions of dollars in record sales. Ooo your life is so hard because you have to sleep on a bus now and then. Boo and hoo.
I Need a Lover That Won’t Drive Me Crazy John Cougar Mellencamp Cougar Johnson Jones
You know what I need? I need an artist who knows when his song intro is too freaking long.
Stairway to Heaven Led Zeppelin
What? Like you didn’t know this was coming. A lengthy ballad, written in the key of assdrag minor.
Another Brick in the Wall Pink Floyd
Apparently, you do need an education, double negative guy.
Take it to the Limit The Eagles
Not even my beloved Eagles are not above scorn. Glen? Don? Listen up. Trust me, you took it to the limit. And beyond. You passed up about 300 good places to end this song. And while we’re on the subject, Witchy Woman is crap.
Light My Fire The Doors
Follows (or perhaps sets forth) the classic formula of what to do when you run out of lyrics. Just play the instruments until you think of some more words. Maybe we should have spent a little less time lording over lizards and a little more time writing lyrics, eh Jim?
Taxi’s in the Cat’s Cradle Dish Harry Chapin
Pretty much anything he sings makes me wish I were deaf.
Tom Sawyer Rush*
I. H.A.T.E. R.U.S.H. They’re like a migraine set to music. I try really hard sometimes to think of some good music from Canada, but this is what I come up with:
Anne Murray
Paul Anka
Celine Dion
Bryan Adams
NICKEL FREAKING BACK
See? It’s not my fault. I will concede BTO and Steppenwolf. But that still makes the score Canada 2; USA five majillion.
Fat Bottomed Girls Queen
I think the fact that this song is now on a shampoo commercial speaks volumes (no pun intended.) Also, find it REALLY hard to suspend my disbelief enough to think Freddie Mercury had interest in the bottom of a girl, fat or otherwise.
Paradise by the Dashboard Light Meat Loaf
Apologies to my pals Rachel and Julie B., but this one really makes me cringe. I’m not a huge fan of Meat Loaf anyway. (Except with really creamy mashed potatoes.**) I don’t like I’d Do Anything for Love, either. That other one is tolerable. I guess one out of three ain’t bad. (Heh.)
Dream Weaver Gary Wright
Astral plane? Are you kidding me?
The Weight The Band
As I was going to Naz-a-reth
I met a man who’d give me no rest
Then Annie and Carmen and the devil made three
And Chester left his dog, Jack, with me
Jack, Ann, Chester, and angel of death
Now how many were going to Naz-a-reth?
Shooting Star Bad Company
The only thing worse than musician-on-the-road songs is musician-made-it-big then-lost-it-all songs. Jukebox Hero, you are skating on some very thin ice here as well.
The Stroke Billy Squire
Again, I think it’s fairly obvious what this song is about. Yes, I find it a tad offensive on that front, but what really bugs me about it is the cheerleaders yelling, “STROKE!” Also, because a) I don’t (always) live in the gutter and b) I’m in healthcare, I tend to think of the song in different terms.
Now everybody have you heard
If you drag and droop, then a stroke’s the word
Got blurry vision; words come out all wrong
And your smile is crooked…won’t be long…
You put your right hand out—can’t hold it straight
Talk to me about your bad headache…
Can you tell me baby, when did your symptoms start?
We’ve only got three hours to bust that clot…
This is by no means an exhaustive list, and I will certainly think of several more before I even get this thing spell-checked, but I’ll stop for now. If I trampled on one of your favorites, then I’m sorry.***
*Shut up, Buddy. Save your Neil Peart is the greatest human being alive tirade for someone else.
**Shaped into a replica of Devil’s Tower
*** Actually, I’m not. And not only am I not sorry, I’m also now questioning why I’m even friends with you.
Sometimes things happen to you that change your perspective. Sometimes, I feel this is God’s way of taking us down a notch. In the best book ever written (not counting the B-I-B-L-E) Atticus Finch says You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.
It’s been about a week now, and I think I can talk about my experience, although I am still kind of PTSD about it all. Last week, I was VERY ill. You may not have realized, as I’m not one to put every disgusting detail of my existence in my Facebook status. And I still won’t go into it, except to say that it involved not one, but two, receptacles. Draw from that what you will.
This particular type of illness can be problematic for anyone, as you run the risk of dehydration, electrolyte imbalance, etc. However, when you have a crap pancreas, these risks are compounded. Stupid insulin is stupidly connected to every other stupid thing in the body, so if one stupid thing gets out of whack, you can go south pretty quickly. And so, I made the executive, pancreatic decision to go ahead and go to the ER. (I did not go to the ER at either place I work. I have this thing about people up in my bidness. Plus, both of those places are FAR and I only had about a twenty-minute window to get somewhere ifyouknowwhatI’msayin.)
I’m telling you that so I can tell you this. Everyone who works in a hospital should have to be in a hospital as a patient for at least one night. It will completely change your outlook. Sure, having a relative in the hospital may bring some enlightenment, but until you are the one lying in bed, all twisted up in sweat-soaked sheets, cursing the relentless tick, tick, tick of the big black clock on the wall, you will not understand.
In short, it sucks. Besides the obvious sucking to be sick, it sucks on many other levels. (And no, I’m not talking about the hospital gown. Oh, ha ha everyone can see your butt ha ha. That old chestnut ranks right up there with Don’t drop the soap in prison and Cats! is a crappy musical. We get it. Let it go.)
First off, the concept of time as we know it in the outside world is completely absent. Ten minutes may seem like two hours. Two hours may go by like ten minutes (especially if you just fell asleep and the evil, bearded vampire phlebotomist comes into your room at 3am to drive nails into your wrist.) The noisy-ass clock in every room is irrelevant. There is existence, but it cannot be measured in minutes or hours.
Second, you have very little control over anything. You may ask for things, but you are at the mercy of your caregiver(s) as to whether or not—and when, in the vast gaping maw of timelessness—you will get them.
Small things you may take for granted become huge. My kingdom for a Chapstick!
My other kingdom for a TV remote that works without my having to hold my arm at a 75-degree angle!
What might be a simple cord or wire in the outer world becomes a tangled, constricting nemesis. Tubing in one arm. A blood-pressure cuff on the other, set to inflate every hour. And by inflate, I mean completely cut off your circulation such that at any moment you expect you arm to turn black, fall off, and land on the floor with a resounding thud. Telemetry boxes with fifty-seven leads stuck all over your torso with superglue, and IV pumps that sound like the everlasting gobstopper machine. Turned to 11.
And there is no sleep. Not only is it impossible to sleep when you’re wired like a Yankee’s Christmas lawn, even if you could manage a modicum of comfort, you will NOT be left alone for periods exceeding three or four hours. To illustrate:
10:00 Arrival at ER
10:15 Admitted to ER
10:30 IV started; medication given
10:45 Carted off for CT of abdomen
10:55 Back to ER holding room
10:55-18:00 Poked, prodded, covered, uncovered, tagged, untagged, scanned, pricked, injected, assessed nine ways from Sunday, answered same five questions forty-three times
18:00 Moved to ICU bed due to shortage of RN staff on medical floor
18:30 Answered same five questions for the forty-fourth time
19:00-20:00 Blissful hour alone due to shift change
20:05 Moved to regular floor
20:30 Vitals taken
21:00 Meds
22:00 Grape popsicle (highlight of visit, btw)
23:30 Labs drawn. No, I’m not kidding. LABS. At 11:30 at night.
23:30 – 03:30 Fitful tossing
03:30 Evil bearded vampire phlebotomist visit for guess what? LABS.
03:35-04:45 More fitful tossing
04:45 Vitals
05:00 LABS!!! Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
05:05-07:00 Actual sleep
07:00 Meds
07:05-08:30 Another blissful period without interruption. God. Bless. Shift. Change.
08:40 Jello and Diet Coke for breakfast
09:00 Wallowing in bed until MD came to assess
10:10 Discharged
Despite my approximate 24 hours of discomfort, I received superb care (sans evil bearded vampire phlebotomist.) I cannot even begin to imagine how much it would suck to have poor care.
In my particular line of my work, it’s all too easy to adopt a separatist viewpoint. I tend to think of the pharmacy as an entity unto itself. A medication order is little more than words to type in, a label to print out, and a med to send up before it generates a phone call. In, out, done. Repeat.
I operate in terms of medication—rather than patients:
Has anyone seen an order for Mrs. Smith? A tech asks.
I don’t think so. Do you know what drug?
Zithromax.
Oh, yeah, I did that 30 minutes ago.
And it’s almost perfunctory to be glib when a patient’s family complains because a med was late to the floor or not given on time.
What do they think this is? The Ritz-Carlton?
It’s also so easy to become frustrated with nursing. Make no mistake, I hold nurses in the highest regard and consider them THE backbone of healthcare. Yet I’ve been known to crab when they hound me with phone calls.
They act like they have the only patient in the hospital. They have eight patients. I have 608.
However, my recent stint on the opposite side of the chart was the healthcare equivalent of Robin Williams making me stand on top of my desk. I now have a new found empathy for the patient.
Maybe I could take a cue from the nurses. Maybe treating each patient as though he or she is the center of the known universe is not such a bad idea. Maybe, just maybe, the one patient I’m working on in the moment is the only patient who matters. In that moment, the Percocet for Mr. Jones is the only order I have.
Maybe what I need to stop and realize is somewhere, on the other end of each hastily scrawled order, there is an actual human being—perhaps alone, quite possibly frightened, in pain or discomfort, feeling his or her absolute worst and longing for swift relief, however fleeting.
Throughout my pharmacy training and career, I’ve often been encouraged to picture each patient as a loved one. But I think perhaps healthcare provision as a whole might be better served if each member adopted a more selfish approach to his or her job.
That little old lady crying because her hip hurts isn’t your grandmother. The man across the hall with chest pain isn’t your dad. The new mom who can’t stop bleeding isn’t your sister…
They’re you.
Ok, so unless you live under a very large rock, you probably know that the iPhone has FINALLY come to Verizon. And, I’ve been saying for years now: When the iPhone comes to Verizon, I’ll get one.
My friend (?) Buddy believes this makes me a hippie lemming. And so, I’ve decided to address his concerns in an open memo and provide just a few reasons why I am neither a hippie nor a lemming.
To: R.H. McNeese, C.S.A.*
From: The Non-Lemming
RE: Haterade
To Whom It May Concern:
I am neither a lemming nor a hippie. To wit:
1. I Am and Have Been an Apple Customer Since I Was a Mere Lass
I would like to state up front and for the record that I have been an Apple customer since I could write the basic code on an Apple IIe to make my name run across the screen on a diagonal.
I also own or have owned…let’s see now…
I wrote my Master’s thesis on a Mac in 1994, thank you very much, and if they made an iPancreas (really, Steve, it’d be good for us both) I’d own that too.
So don’t even try to say I’m following the crowd. If anything, they’re following me.
2. I Do NOT Routinely Buy Coffee at Tarbuckets.
I’d sooner drink raw sewage from that bathroom in The Candyman, because, really, what’s the difference?
3. I Am NOT a Soccer Mom
I’m not even a ballet mom. Hell, I’m barely a mom, period. The child gets some a lot most of her care from her father—I’m not going to lie. He takes her to her appointments and dance class and birthday parties and all that other stuff because I have to:
a) stay home in case sometime, somewhere, there is a Law & Order episode to watch
b) go to work so I can afford the iPhone
4. I Wear Neither Turtlenecks Nor Mom Jeans
I wear bootcut jeans and I look gooooooooooood in them, so hush.
And turtlenecks are hot. And not in the good way. Hot, like sweat pouring off my forehead in sheets. Plus, I don’t like the feeling of something all up on me like that. Im on ur neck sqweezin ur trachea.
And while we’re on the subject, the only thing worse than a turtleneck is a mock turtleneck. If you’re going to go there, own it. Don’t fanny around with that fake crap.
5. I ***HATE*** AT&T
Were I a true lemming, I would have been drawn to the iPhone at its onset. But I despise AT&T. I left AT&T for a reason (e.g. they suck), and I’d sooner use tin cans and a piece of yarn, because, really, what’s the difference?
When people at work (They all have iPhones too, and are constantly waving them about in their cute hot pink laminate or black Batman rubber casings, playing Scrabble but calling it something else to avoid copyright infringement, throwing stones at cartoon birds, Googling the closest place to buy paper towels on sale….yadda3…) asked:
So, when are you going to get an iPhone, huh?
My reply would be, and has always been, from day one:
When iPhone comes to Verizon.
Which, at the time, seemed about as likely as Birnam Wood coming to Dunsinane but that finally happened, too, now didn’t?
I am, therefore, not a lemming. Or at worst, I’m a rogue lemming who insists on being able to get reception inside a cardboard box. And no man born of woman should believe otherwise.
6. I Like Dead Cow and I Cannot Lie
I eat meat. All kinds of meat. And beef is my favorite. Oh, and the more rare the better. Bloody even. Like Banquo’s head. Juice running all over the plate, getting all mixed in with the potatoes…Mmm mmm good.
COWS! I. EAT. COWS! I also wear cows. And rabbits, and foxes, and anything else furry or leatherish. PETA is a P.I.T.A. Meat is tasty and fur is pretty.
7. I Am, In General, Not a Crowd Follower
I hate popular things on principle. The more people talk about how great it is, the more I hate it and refuse to subscribe. (See Also: Oprah, Julia Roberts, The Office, vampire fiction, and Mafia Wars.)
But this is the iPhone we’re talking about here. True, it’s popular with even the most pedestrian members of the masses. I. DON’T. CARE. It’s the FREAKING IPHONE and I’ve been waiting on it for years.
I’m getting one, sans turtleneck, hybrid vehicle, and really crappy coffee, so get over it.
And the first text** I make?
Coming to you, McNeese.
