In the past few weeks, I've debated deleting Facebook from my phone. I had moved it all the way to the very last page of my apps so I didn't see it. It sat there all by its lonesome, with no other apps to keep it company. I've found that if I don't see it, I'm less likely to look at it. I made all these silly rules for myself about when I could and couldn't look at Facebook: no Facebook first thing in the morning or before bed. In fact, I tried to keep Facebook out of the bed entirely. No Facebook until after I had accomplished one thing for the day...run an errand, make breakfast, put in a load of laundry, do the dishes...something, anything productive. Facebook only while pooping, because, honestly, there's truly nothing not much else to do whilst sitting on the pot. No Facebook (or phone in general) when in the company of others. Despite all my best efforts, I was still losing the battle of keeping Facebook from taking up too much of my time and attention.
Social Media used to be a nice little escape for me. A way to immerse myself into the goings-on of my friends, family, and acquaintances. I could sit for hours looking at pictures, reading random musings, and perusing blog posts. Entertaining though it was, it was definitely not very productive for me. I don't expect everything in my life to be productive, and like most people, I'm capable of wasting large amounts of time doing seemingly nothing. I would scroll scroll scroll through my Facebook feed for hours, and before I knew it, my to-do lists (yes, I have multiple to-do lists) were sitting there with not a thing crossed off of them. In order to avoid doing something mundane (but necessary), I would sit on Facebook and waste as much as time possible, meaning that the mundane chore was left for another day, assuming the mundane chore was done at all (ahem, cleaning the toilet...blech).
The other day I was at the vet waiting for some prescriptions for my elderly little dog, and in my boredom I got out my phone and swiped over to the Facebook app. My finger hovered over it for a second, and then I put it away and just sat there with my thoughts. I payed attention to what was going on around me. The rescue cats mewling in their cages, a dog yelping in the back, the tittering of the counter girls, the Christmas music softly coming from the speakers above me. I smiled in understanding at a woman struggling to control her dogs, well knowing the feeling of trying to corral multiple animals who have found themselves duped by a car ride into a visit to their most hated place in the world. I watched the Christmas lights on the windows change from rainbow colors to bright white...I didn't even know they had Christmas lights that could do that! I would have missed all of it had I allowed my finger to drop onto that little blue app. And yes, it sounds boring and mundane and inconsequential and not at all contributory to the greater aspects of life, but at that very moment, the vet office was my reality and I wanted to be a part of it.
I think the disconnect with my reality has been the biggest obstacle for me lately with social media. I'll sit in a room with actual human beings and will be more immersed in the lives of my virtual ones. It's almost as if those living, breathing people right in front of me aren't even there. And this isn't anything new...since the advent of the smartphone this has been happening more and more. It's more commonplace to see an entire group of people sitting in silence, their faces aglow from their phones, than it is to see them engaging in conversation. I love talking to people. I'll talk to just about anyone, but I'm aware of the fact that I talk less when I have a phone at my disposal. I can look at pictures taken in Iceland, Dubai, and South Africa, and think about how cool it would be to go to the those places, when sitting right in front of me is a person with his or her own story about places they've been and things they've seen and done. But I don't ask because it's easier to just look on my phone. It's funny how social media is making us less social with actual human beings. Social Medial is making us socially awkward. For instance, the phrase, "it's not official until it's Facebook official!" As if Facebook has any real say in the legitimacy of anything that's posted on its platform. The only reason it has any legitimacy whatsoever is because we've allowed it, encouraged it, practically demanded it. I remember when Simon and I were first dating, a conversation was had about when we should change our Facebook statuses from "single" to "in a relationship." And what did it matter? That little Facebook label didn't change anything in our relationship. Yet we still placed some sort of value on it.
I also had noticed a shift in the feel of Facebook about a year ago, mostly when the election really started getting going and people were faced with the two candidates that were picked to fight for the title of President of the United States of America. Funny...the term "united" seemed to have lost virtually all meaning this election season. My liberal friends were on fire against Trump, my conservative friends were lauding his existence and his boorish behavior. I engaged in a few discussions regarding the election, mostly just for my own entertainment, as my take on the political process could be described as jaded, at best. I voted. My candidate didn't win. I moved on. Every election has a winner and a loser and for some reason people really seemed to forget that this year. Those on the losing side were appalled, shocked, crying for weeks after the election about the injustice of it all. Am I just rolling over and accepting the fact that our president-elect acts like an entitled, spoiled, immature teenager (according to the media, anyway)? No. Am I nervous about the cabinet of people with whom he's choosing to surround himself? Yes. Am I worried about what America will look like after 4 years of Trump? Definitely. After all that, I'm not filling up my Facebook page with expletives and half-researched or completely false articles about him either. Did I do everything I could to vote locally for candidates who I feel support my interests and who likely will have a bigger impact on my day-to-day life than Trump ever will? Absolutely. I did the best I could with what I had to work with, and at the end of the day, that's really all I can say about it. That's all I want to say about it, as engaging in conversation about it frequently has us spiraling down the rabbit hole of despair and negativity.
Every time a celebrity died this year, people were rending their hair and bemoaning the year 2016, about how terrible it is that this year has resulted in so many celebrity deaths. It seemed like everyday I was reading a post that started out: "So-and-so just died. WTF? Fuck 2016." I'm sorry, were these people supposed to live forever? I mean, some of these people who died made it into their 90's...is it really that much of an injustice that an elderly person who had lived a full life had taken his or her last breath? How about we change our attitudes and celebrate the fact that they lived incredibly inspiring lives. So inspiring, in fact, that their loss has spurned people to run to social media and blame death, which is completely natural, on an arbitrary year in our somewhat arbitrary existence. Embrace the fact that we loved what these people contributed so much that their loss feels incredibly palpable. There's been so many celebrity deaths this year that I haven't bothered to count. Here's some food for thought...do most people on Facebook know even one name of a Syrian refugee who drowned in the Mediterranean while trying to escape mass extermination? What about any names of the people of South Sudan, a country that has been so war ravaged for years that they probably don't know what a peaceful existence looks like? Can anyone name how many people died of malaria in Africa this year due to a lack of mosquito nets and adequate health care? Who will mourn for them? Who will post "Fuck 2016" on their behalf? Their deaths go unnoticed, unchecked, undocumented, and in some cases, celebrated by those who live in comfort and think that people bring bad circumstances upon themselves, and that if they only tried a little harder, they might turn their ship around and make a better life for themselves. Lofty ideas, those, coming from people lucky enough to have been born in America and have wanted for nothing their entire lives. These victims of our global wars would probably give everything they own and then some to be able to sit in the comfort of their own homes and complain about how Prince died and thus made 2016 the worst year ever.
I think 2016 was a record year for me for unfriendings and unfollowings on Facebook. The negativity was overwhelming, and I just don't want to see it anymore. I'm over the snarky memes, the sarcasm, and the vague references to external and internal struggles. Spit it out or keep it to yourself...if you don't like your current situation, complaining about it on Facebook isn't a productive way to remedy your life. I don't go on Facebook for doom and gloom...I go on it for Tasty videos and trip photos and pictures of the wee ones back home who I only get to see once or twice a year.
I'm not pointing fingers...I've been guilty of negative posting too. I reposted a few articles that were probably poorly researched or in poor taste. I was emotionally escalated by things people were posting and there were times that I responded, not always kindly. I could lost for hours in the comment feed of an article, shaking my head at the sheer ignorance, hatred, and anger of my fellow human beings. I'm trying to change all that.
Just the other day, I deleted the Facebook app off of my phone. I kept coming up with excuses to avoid it, but I finally did it. Thoughts of paranoia ran through my head: how will I keep in touch with people? how will I know what's going on around Flagstaff? what will I use to entertain myself during an extended sitting session on the toilet? And then I remembered all those people I know who don't have Facebook, and how they somehow seem to make it just fine without it. I actually have the luxury of remembering a time when there was no such thing as Facebook, and somehow I was able to have a normal life then. So I deleted it. I still have a Facebook account on record, I just need to access it now from my laptop, which means that I typically will have some other purpose in mind besides Facebook when I sit down to use it. It's ironic really, that in the past couple weeks, I've received more compliments on my Facebook postings than ever before. Compliments in person, not on Facebook itself. So it gave me pause as my finger hovered over that little wiggling X above the Facebook app before I sealed its fate. I want to you all to know...it's me, not you.
I want to be engaged in the life around me. That doesn't mean that those of you who are far and away have lost any sort of importance in my day-to-day life...I still want to see what you're doing, where you're going, what you're eating, what your kids are up to. I just can't allow myself to do it as much as I was before. I'll still be around...my Instagram account (@fetsywetsy) automatically posts to Facebook, and truth be told, when I look back at my Facebook feed, that's the majority of my posts. So really, not a whole lot from my end is going to change.
I'm hopeful that this little change will help me work toward whatever it is I feel I could be accomplishing. This is my first blog since June, so I'm off to a good start. I've got a few more ideas for blogs, so hopefully I'll get those posted in the next few days. Simon and I are off on an adventure in January, and while I probably won't have my laptop along for blogging (but maybe I will), I'll be posting on Instagram from time to time. But mostly, I think I'll just be enjoying my time in the moment, with my phone tucked away, the sunshine in my face and the sea breeze ruffling my hair.
Life is short. Be present for it.
Friday, December 23, 2016
Thursday, June 2, 2016
Sentimental Leanings and Such
On Saturday Simon and I are having a garage sale with our friend Meghan and Emily. I should say that Meghan, Emily, and I are having a garage sale, and that Simon is helping. I don't know that Simon is capable of paring down his belongings much more than he already has, which means that most of the stuff from our household on the garage sale happens to be mine.
A few years ago, prior to moving to Flagstaff, Simon and I had a massive garage sale with our friends Ben and Elizabeth, who were also moving. It was probably one of the biggest garage sales that I've ever seen...basically it was two entire households paring down into whatever could fit into two small apartments, respectively. It was physically and emotionally tough. Going through the things we'd kept over the years always is. There's so much attachment to things; so many memories come rushing back just at the sight, the smell, the feel of something that's been tucked away in a box for years. For Ben and Elizabeth, a lot of their belongings were things that they used and looked at everyday, but no longer had room for. I sometimes think about how hard that sale was for them...I wonder if they cried or were tearful when no one was around to see. They seemed so strong and resilient at the time, as they always do, for they are some of the strongest people I know. I've never really asked them about it, as I was afraid that maybe it would be upsetting for them to talk about.
This time around the garage sale is a little different, in that now I'm selling some of my favorite things. These are the things that weren't even considered for the first garage sale. My Christmas decorations, some of my Willow Tree people, my kitchen chickens, my Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer bedsheets. It sounds so silly to be attached to material things, but there it is just the same. I spent the day going through my things, putting prices on them that, to me, seemed far too low, but were appropriate for a garage sale. Sentimental value means nothing to people looking for a deal. I ended the day in tears, as poor Simon, who doesn't have material attachment, drove me home in silence. Which is good. Sometimes being quiet when you're upset or in the presence of someone who is upset is best. He knew I was in a bad place when he offered to take me to Freddy's for frozen custard and I declined. I never pass up frozen custard, but I'm also not a stress eater...I'm more of a stress-starver, and even the thought of one of my favorite treats becomes nauseating.
I know deep down that it's stupid to be so attached to items that were most likely made by some poor, mistreated factory worker in China. But I held on to all these things for a reason...they made me happy, and they have memories attached to them. I remember where I was and who I was with when I got most of those items. Some of them were gifts, some of them were impulse buys, some of them were to fill a space on the wall or the shelf. But all of them are things that I like.
I'm at place in my life where material things just don't really have a place anymore. I live in a tiny apartment that's already bursting at the seams with things that are mostly necessary for everyday life. I look around my kitchen and there is not one knick knack. There's barely room enough for cooking instruments, let alone an entire decade's worth of chicken paraphernalia. The living room, the bedroom, the bathroom...more of the same. There's just not room for all my favorite things here.
For the most part, I don't miss my things or even think about them when they are tucked away. They've spent a significant amount of their time over the past decade stashed away in boxes collecting dust and mouse poop and who knows what else in our storage unit. Out of sight, out of mind. But seeing all my things today...my chickens, my snowmen, my candle holders...all my fun and pretty things that I've collected throughout the years...it's just tearing me apart. I know that in a few weeks, heck, even a few days, their absence won't be so palpable and I won't even miss them, but right now it's leaving me very raw.
Even those garish red and yellow curtains that I bought at IKEA all those years ago...they're nothing special...they're not even very appealing, but my grandma hemmed them for me over 10 years ago. I held them in my hands today and I ran my fingers over the stitches and it just made me miss her so, so much. I could just picture her feeding the fabric into her sewing machine, something so simple for her but a skill that I never quite mastered. Hemming those curtains was something that she did for me because she was good at it, and because she loved me, and because as she had gotten older, she liked having things to do that made her feel useful. Grandma was always very concerned about being useful and once commented that when she was no longer useful, that we should just throw her into a ditch along the highway. I found that request to be a little extreme, as even when her fingers became too arthritic to sew, her hands were still wonderful to hold. To me, there would never be a point in my life that she wasn't useful. Never. I want to keep those curtains just because they are a physical reminder of her...of something she did, of something she enjoyed. She died 6 years ago and sometimes she feels so far away, but today, seeing those curtains made her feel close again, while simultaneously making her absence so painfully palpable.
So here I sit at my computer...a snotty, sad, ugly-crying mess...trying to work out all these emotions and feelings that are running through me at this very moment. I know that it's silly to keep things that are just taking up space in a storage unit...things that haven't seen the light of day in years. They should be enjoyed by someone, even if that someone doesn't happen to be me. My things made me happy and now it's time for them to make someone else happy. I just wish I could send their stories with them...the chicken-shaped salt and pepper shakers that I got in North Carolina when I was out shopping with my friend Suzy; the snowman I got from my ex-boyfriend's Grandma (who I adored) because she knew that I liked snowmen the best out of all the winter characters; the pug Beanie Baby that I got from my parents because, well, I love pugs; the Party-Lite votive holders that I've kept for all these years because I thought they were pretty, and because they still hold the faint scent of the peach-scented candles that I always liked the best...those Party-Lite candles remind me of all the in-home parties I went to with my mom, her sisters, and her friends...all us girls sitting around eating snacks and not worrying about homework, or laundry, or bills...the flickering firelight of the candles dancing off our laughing faces.
There is so much power in memories, and sometimes that power is overwhelming. Memories carry with them a sense of pride, happiness, and loss. I think that's a good thing, but it can also be a very painful thing. As we age some of our older memories fade while we make new ones. It's funny how some of those memories are but a distant thought in the back of our minds, and then all sudden come rushing back at the sight or touch of something nearly forgotten. Does it mean that we should keep these physical manifestations of our memories? Even if that means decades worth of storage rentals and dusty boxes moved across the country and back again? I guess right now I don't know. I should probably figure that out before Saturday, eh?
I hope your memories mostly make you happy...even the sad ones.
A few years ago, prior to moving to Flagstaff, Simon and I had a massive garage sale with our friends Ben and Elizabeth, who were also moving. It was probably one of the biggest garage sales that I've ever seen...basically it was two entire households paring down into whatever could fit into two small apartments, respectively. It was physically and emotionally tough. Going through the things we'd kept over the years always is. There's so much attachment to things; so many memories come rushing back just at the sight, the smell, the feel of something that's been tucked away in a box for years. For Ben and Elizabeth, a lot of their belongings were things that they used and looked at everyday, but no longer had room for. I sometimes think about how hard that sale was for them...I wonder if they cried or were tearful when no one was around to see. They seemed so strong and resilient at the time, as they always do, for they are some of the strongest people I know. I've never really asked them about it, as I was afraid that maybe it would be upsetting for them to talk about.
This time around the garage sale is a little different, in that now I'm selling some of my favorite things. These are the things that weren't even considered for the first garage sale. My Christmas decorations, some of my Willow Tree people, my kitchen chickens, my Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer bedsheets. It sounds so silly to be attached to material things, but there it is just the same. I spent the day going through my things, putting prices on them that, to me, seemed far too low, but were appropriate for a garage sale. Sentimental value means nothing to people looking for a deal. I ended the day in tears, as poor Simon, who doesn't have material attachment, drove me home in silence. Which is good. Sometimes being quiet when you're upset or in the presence of someone who is upset is best. He knew I was in a bad place when he offered to take me to Freddy's for frozen custard and I declined. I never pass up frozen custard, but I'm also not a stress eater...I'm more of a stress-starver, and even the thought of one of my favorite treats becomes nauseating.
I know deep down that it's stupid to be so attached to items that were most likely made by some poor, mistreated factory worker in China. But I held on to all these things for a reason...they made me happy, and they have memories attached to them. I remember where I was and who I was with when I got most of those items. Some of them were gifts, some of them were impulse buys, some of them were to fill a space on the wall or the shelf. But all of them are things that I like.
I'm at place in my life where material things just don't really have a place anymore. I live in a tiny apartment that's already bursting at the seams with things that are mostly necessary for everyday life. I look around my kitchen and there is not one knick knack. There's barely room enough for cooking instruments, let alone an entire decade's worth of chicken paraphernalia. The living room, the bedroom, the bathroom...more of the same. There's just not room for all my favorite things here.
For the most part, I don't miss my things or even think about them when they are tucked away. They've spent a significant amount of their time over the past decade stashed away in boxes collecting dust and mouse poop and who knows what else in our storage unit. Out of sight, out of mind. But seeing all my things today...my chickens, my snowmen, my candle holders...all my fun and pretty things that I've collected throughout the years...it's just tearing me apart. I know that in a few weeks, heck, even a few days, their absence won't be so palpable and I won't even miss them, but right now it's leaving me very raw.
Even those garish red and yellow curtains that I bought at IKEA all those years ago...they're nothing special...they're not even very appealing, but my grandma hemmed them for me over 10 years ago. I held them in my hands today and I ran my fingers over the stitches and it just made me miss her so, so much. I could just picture her feeding the fabric into her sewing machine, something so simple for her but a skill that I never quite mastered. Hemming those curtains was something that she did for me because she was good at it, and because she loved me, and because as she had gotten older, she liked having things to do that made her feel useful. Grandma was always very concerned about being useful and once commented that when she was no longer useful, that we should just throw her into a ditch along the highway. I found that request to be a little extreme, as even when her fingers became too arthritic to sew, her hands were still wonderful to hold. To me, there would never be a point in my life that she wasn't useful. Never. I want to keep those curtains just because they are a physical reminder of her...of something she did, of something she enjoyed. She died 6 years ago and sometimes she feels so far away, but today, seeing those curtains made her feel close again, while simultaneously making her absence so painfully palpable.
So here I sit at my computer...a snotty, sad, ugly-crying mess...trying to work out all these emotions and feelings that are running through me at this very moment. I know that it's silly to keep things that are just taking up space in a storage unit...things that haven't seen the light of day in years. They should be enjoyed by someone, even if that someone doesn't happen to be me. My things made me happy and now it's time for them to make someone else happy. I just wish I could send their stories with them...the chicken-shaped salt and pepper shakers that I got in North Carolina when I was out shopping with my friend Suzy; the snowman I got from my ex-boyfriend's Grandma (who I adored) because she knew that I liked snowmen the best out of all the winter characters; the pug Beanie Baby that I got from my parents because, well, I love pugs; the Party-Lite votive holders that I've kept for all these years because I thought they were pretty, and because they still hold the faint scent of the peach-scented candles that I always liked the best...those Party-Lite candles remind me of all the in-home parties I went to with my mom, her sisters, and her friends...all us girls sitting around eating snacks and not worrying about homework, or laundry, or bills...the flickering firelight of the candles dancing off our laughing faces.
There is so much power in memories, and sometimes that power is overwhelming. Memories carry with them a sense of pride, happiness, and loss. I think that's a good thing, but it can also be a very painful thing. As we age some of our older memories fade while we make new ones. It's funny how some of those memories are but a distant thought in the back of our minds, and then all sudden come rushing back at the sight or touch of something nearly forgotten. Does it mean that we should keep these physical manifestations of our memories? Even if that means decades worth of storage rentals and dusty boxes moved across the country and back again? I guess right now I don't know. I should probably figure that out before Saturday, eh?
I hope your memories mostly make you happy...even the sad ones.
Sunday, May 29, 2016
It's Going to Be an Uphill Climb
It seems like forever ago that I was 9 year-old kid sitting in an orthopedic office listening to the doctor tell me that I would most likely need a hip replacement by the time I was 40 years old. My grandpa had had at least one, if not both of his hips replaced at that point, so I kind of had a general idea of what a hip replacement was. I wasn't scared, I wasn't worried...I think being that young and having a family member who had had the same thing done, and who had recovered really well, left me without a sense of dread or fear. My parents, not even in their 40's themselves when this statement was made, were probably worried. I guess I don't really know.
My hip deformity had been discovered at my 6-month check up when I was just a wee little thing. The nurse noticed while playing with me that one of my legs wasn't moving quite right. So they investigated. Turns out I had a very shallow, almost non-existent hip socket on one side. Nothing to go too crazy over...I was just put in a little leather harness that basically kept me in a sitting position for a few weeks...maybe a few months...I have no idea...that time of my life is beyond my memory. What I do know is that once out of the harness, I was just like any other kid...tearing around, getting into stuff, teething, talking, growing...you know, all the stuff that normal babies do. In truth, my hip deformity has never really slowed me down. It's been such a non-issue for most of my life that when I asked my parents which hip had the deformity, they can't remember. Neither can I, even though I can clearly see in my mind the Xray of my spindly little legs lit up in the doctor's office all those years ago. I'm leaning towards it being my left hip. Then again, it could be my right. I've got a 50-50 chance of guessing correctly.
So I'll be 37 this year. 3 years to that daunting 40-year mark, and 3 years until that predicted hip replacement. For the most part, I still have little to no issues with my hips. Every now and again the left will "lock up," as I like to call it, but a simple stretch and turning my foot inwards usually takes care of that. I don't know that saying it's "locked up" is a correct description of what's actually going on in there, but given a lack of an in-home MRI, it's the best I can do. Day to day, my hips are fine. I do notice them aching and sore after a long run, but a lot of people have sore hips after a long run, especially if they train as little and as sporadically as I do. I don't know what degree of soreness is normal, and what might be attributed to my hip deformity. After a run, my hips ache equally.
I sometimes wonder if running is going to expedite the process of my impending hip replacement, or if it's going to happen regardless of what I do in my active life. The doctor made it sound like I was going to need surgery no matter what, but then again, there was no possible way that he could have known that the 9 year-old girl sitting in front of him would be running up mountains in her 30's. I know that running is hard on a person's joints, any person's joints...doesn't matter if they're fat, thin, fit, muscular...whatever. I think the overall key to running is to listen to your body...it'll tell you if something is amiss, if you need to take a break, if maybe a certain activity just isn't working for you. So that's what I've been doing...listening to these hips, these knees, and these lungs as increase my running along the trails in my pretty little mountain town.
The other day I summitted our local Mount Elden here in Flagstaff for the third time in 2 weeks. The first time I biked (see previous blog), the second time I ran/walked with Simon, and the third time I hiked the entire 12 miles with my friend, Meghan. Today I ran between 7 and 8 miles on the local trails here in town. I don't know what's happening to me in regards to this whole running business, but I really really like it. I'm impressed thus far with how well my body has been tolerating not only the distances, but the elevation gains as well.
In my last post I wrote about how I was spurned into riding my bike up Mount Elden by the owner of Pizzicletta. Well, since riding up the mountain on a bike proved to be an almost epic failure, Simon and I decided to run it last Sunday. It was the same dirt road that we had pushed our bikes up a few days prior, only this time we had only our feet as our limiting factors. It was amazing how much easier it was without the bikes (duh...hahaha!). We weren't able to run the full six miles without walking a bit, and that was expected. I didn't beat myself up about it, although I was a little disappointed that I didn't run more of it. Simon (my cheerleader), had to remind me that prior to taking on this 12-mile run with it's 2000+ vertical climb, I had only run about 3 miles without stopping. So...the fact that I was running at all, and that I was running this particular course, was pretty impressive. So I decided to be impressed with myself. In hiking the entire thing with my friend Meghan, I realized that I worked just as hard as I had running/walking it (although I was slightly less out of breath, which I appreciated), and it only took us about 15 minutes longer than the previous time on foot. So...either Meghan and I are super fast hikers (we're pretty bomb), or Simon and I just took that much time to run it. Or...maybe on that steep of a course, given equal abilities, it's just not all that possible for me to run much faster than a brisk hike.
I am not a fast runner. I am not a competitive runner. I am not a runner who cares about my time, and I don't allow the time of anyone else running along with me to get me down. Although, truth be told, I am impressed by some of the times of the winners of the big races. Those are performances that I could never hope to obtain, and with good reason. Those people run like it's their job. For a lot of them, it is their job. Day in and day out...running. I don't have the body, the stamina, the motivation, or most importantly, the genetics to run the way the professionals do. And that's okay. I'm happy with just getting out and doing something that I wouldn't otherwise do. So it takes me a little longer because I'm unwilling to push myself to the point of failure.
In taking on the challenge of meeting the Pizzicletta folks at the top of the mountain, I just started earlier than the rest of them. I gave myself not only time enough to get to the top by 8:30 in the morning, but to also have time for a stretch break near the top. I don't like to be pressed for time...it gives me anxiety and makes me feel like a failure. If I have to leave my house at 6:30 in the morning to meet them at the top 2 hours later, so be it. So what if most of them do it in an hour or less...they are athletically different than me, and good for them. They are comfortable pushing the limits of their athletic abilities, I am not. But...we all run/hike/bike the same path and get to the top at the same time, where we take a group photo, congratulate each other on a job well done, and head back on down the mountain to begin our days. We are together, but not the same. It's amazing, and it's been such a good motivation for me to increase my running goals.
In just over a couple weeks, Simon and I will be running the half-marathon portion of the Grandma's Marathon in Duluth, MN. I'm stoked, and given the running that I've been doing in the past two weeks and my running goals for the coming weeks (hello, altitude training!), this could be my best half-marathon yet. Or not. It might not be my best, but I'm going to run it and I'm going to finish and hopefully I won't be last and hopefully I won't poop myself...it's good to have goals, am I right? After Grandma's I have the remainder of the Run Flagstaff Summer Series road races, which take place in and around Flagstaff...I'll be able to make it to 4 of the 6 total races. Then at the end of August I have a 10K at the North Rim of the Grand Canyon...the race itself is at over 8,000 feet of elevation, so that one will most likely be a struggle for me, but I'm excited for it. And then...the big one...I'm hoping to register for the Imogene Pass Run this year. 17 miles up and over the Imogene Pass between Ouray and Telluride, Colorado. Without a doubt, this would be the most challenging foot race to date for me, and quite possibly, the most challenging foot race that I'll ever attempt. But I'm going to do it. Assuming I get in, as registration usually sells out in under an hour. My alarm is already set for 4:45am this coming Wednesday...and then a celebratory run afterwards...hahaha! I've already got a crew of people willing to run it with me, which is awesome. It'll be tough, it'll be long, but it'll be amazing. After Imogene there will be a Beat the Blerch race in Vegas in October (still haven't decided on a distance...either the 10K or the half), and the Key West Half Marathon in January of 2017, which I'm also looking forward to...it'll be so pretty.
So there it is...I think I'll be running more this year than all my previous years. Which is funny, seeing as after the last half-marathon I did I made the comment that I need to stop running half marathons...hahaha! As of right now, there are no marathons in my future. People always tell me that I'm going to cave and sign up for a marathon, but I don't see that happening. The half-marathon distance, which is 13.1 miles, is perfect for me. I don't have to be as vigilant with the training, and I know for a fact that a full marathon would wreak havoc on my body in ways that the half-marathon never could. Given all the cool places that they have half-marathons throughout the world, I think I'll have enough races to keep me busy for the next few years. I just found out recently the US National Parks have their own set of half-marathons, which would be the perfect way for me to knock out some of the Parks in my quest to see them all. What better way to see our nation's prettiest places than to run through them? :)
As always, I'm looking for people to run with. Know that I do not run fast, and that I take little walk breaks to allow my lungs to recover a bit. Overall, and despite the walking, I'm told that I'm able to maintain about a 6 mile/hour pace (I don't keep track, remember?), which I'm more than happy with, but might be too slow for more serious, competitive types. If we cannot have a conversation while running, we are running entirely too fast...hahaha! So there's that.
I wish you all a fantastic Memorial Day weekend...remember all our friends, family, coworkers, classmates, and strangers on the street who have served in our military and have done what most us couldn't or wouldn't do. They deserve our utmost respect, on Memorial Day and everyday! Be safe out there!
My hip deformity had been discovered at my 6-month check up when I was just a wee little thing. The nurse noticed while playing with me that one of my legs wasn't moving quite right. So they investigated. Turns out I had a very shallow, almost non-existent hip socket on one side. Nothing to go too crazy over...I was just put in a little leather harness that basically kept me in a sitting position for a few weeks...maybe a few months...I have no idea...that time of my life is beyond my memory. What I do know is that once out of the harness, I was just like any other kid...tearing around, getting into stuff, teething, talking, growing...you know, all the stuff that normal babies do. In truth, my hip deformity has never really slowed me down. It's been such a non-issue for most of my life that when I asked my parents which hip had the deformity, they can't remember. Neither can I, even though I can clearly see in my mind the Xray of my spindly little legs lit up in the doctor's office all those years ago. I'm leaning towards it being my left hip. Then again, it could be my right. I've got a 50-50 chance of guessing correctly.
So I'll be 37 this year. 3 years to that daunting 40-year mark, and 3 years until that predicted hip replacement. For the most part, I still have little to no issues with my hips. Every now and again the left will "lock up," as I like to call it, but a simple stretch and turning my foot inwards usually takes care of that. I don't know that saying it's "locked up" is a correct description of what's actually going on in there, but given a lack of an in-home MRI, it's the best I can do. Day to day, my hips are fine. I do notice them aching and sore after a long run, but a lot of people have sore hips after a long run, especially if they train as little and as sporadically as I do. I don't know what degree of soreness is normal, and what might be attributed to my hip deformity. After a run, my hips ache equally.
I sometimes wonder if running is going to expedite the process of my impending hip replacement, or if it's going to happen regardless of what I do in my active life. The doctor made it sound like I was going to need surgery no matter what, but then again, there was no possible way that he could have known that the 9 year-old girl sitting in front of him would be running up mountains in her 30's. I know that running is hard on a person's joints, any person's joints...doesn't matter if they're fat, thin, fit, muscular...whatever. I think the overall key to running is to listen to your body...it'll tell you if something is amiss, if you need to take a break, if maybe a certain activity just isn't working for you. So that's what I've been doing...listening to these hips, these knees, and these lungs as increase my running along the trails in my pretty little mountain town.
The other day I summitted our local Mount Elden here in Flagstaff for the third time in 2 weeks. The first time I biked (see previous blog), the second time I ran/walked with Simon, and the third time I hiked the entire 12 miles with my friend, Meghan. Today I ran between 7 and 8 miles on the local trails here in town. I don't know what's happening to me in regards to this whole running business, but I really really like it. I'm impressed thus far with how well my body has been tolerating not only the distances, but the elevation gains as well.
In my last post I wrote about how I was spurned into riding my bike up Mount Elden by the owner of Pizzicletta. Well, since riding up the mountain on a bike proved to be an almost epic failure, Simon and I decided to run it last Sunday. It was the same dirt road that we had pushed our bikes up a few days prior, only this time we had only our feet as our limiting factors. It was amazing how much easier it was without the bikes (duh...hahaha!). We weren't able to run the full six miles without walking a bit, and that was expected. I didn't beat myself up about it, although I was a little disappointed that I didn't run more of it. Simon (my cheerleader), had to remind me that prior to taking on this 12-mile run with it's 2000+ vertical climb, I had only run about 3 miles without stopping. So...the fact that I was running at all, and that I was running this particular course, was pretty impressive. So I decided to be impressed with myself. In hiking the entire thing with my friend Meghan, I realized that I worked just as hard as I had running/walking it (although I was slightly less out of breath, which I appreciated), and it only took us about 15 minutes longer than the previous time on foot. So...either Meghan and I are super fast hikers (we're pretty bomb), or Simon and I just took that much time to run it. Or...maybe on that steep of a course, given equal abilities, it's just not all that possible for me to run much faster than a brisk hike.
I am not a fast runner. I am not a competitive runner. I am not a runner who cares about my time, and I don't allow the time of anyone else running along with me to get me down. Although, truth be told, I am impressed by some of the times of the winners of the big races. Those are performances that I could never hope to obtain, and with good reason. Those people run like it's their job. For a lot of them, it is their job. Day in and day out...running. I don't have the body, the stamina, the motivation, or most importantly, the genetics to run the way the professionals do. And that's okay. I'm happy with just getting out and doing something that I wouldn't otherwise do. So it takes me a little longer because I'm unwilling to push myself to the point of failure.
In taking on the challenge of meeting the Pizzicletta folks at the top of the mountain, I just started earlier than the rest of them. I gave myself not only time enough to get to the top by 8:30 in the morning, but to also have time for a stretch break near the top. I don't like to be pressed for time...it gives me anxiety and makes me feel like a failure. If I have to leave my house at 6:30 in the morning to meet them at the top 2 hours later, so be it. So what if most of them do it in an hour or less...they are athletically different than me, and good for them. They are comfortable pushing the limits of their athletic abilities, I am not. But...we all run/hike/bike the same path and get to the top at the same time, where we take a group photo, congratulate each other on a job well done, and head back on down the mountain to begin our days. We are together, but not the same. It's amazing, and it's been such a good motivation for me to increase my running goals.
In just over a couple weeks, Simon and I will be running the half-marathon portion of the Grandma's Marathon in Duluth, MN. I'm stoked, and given the running that I've been doing in the past two weeks and my running goals for the coming weeks (hello, altitude training!), this could be my best half-marathon yet. Or not. It might not be my best, but I'm going to run it and I'm going to finish and hopefully I won't be last and hopefully I won't poop myself...it's good to have goals, am I right? After Grandma's I have the remainder of the Run Flagstaff Summer Series road races, which take place in and around Flagstaff...I'll be able to make it to 4 of the 6 total races. Then at the end of August I have a 10K at the North Rim of the Grand Canyon...the race itself is at over 8,000 feet of elevation, so that one will most likely be a struggle for me, but I'm excited for it. And then...the big one...I'm hoping to register for the Imogene Pass Run this year. 17 miles up and over the Imogene Pass between Ouray and Telluride, Colorado. Without a doubt, this would be the most challenging foot race to date for me, and quite possibly, the most challenging foot race that I'll ever attempt. But I'm going to do it. Assuming I get in, as registration usually sells out in under an hour. My alarm is already set for 4:45am this coming Wednesday...and then a celebratory run afterwards...hahaha! I've already got a crew of people willing to run it with me, which is awesome. It'll be tough, it'll be long, but it'll be amazing. After Imogene there will be a Beat the Blerch race in Vegas in October (still haven't decided on a distance...either the 10K or the half), and the Key West Half Marathon in January of 2017, which I'm also looking forward to...it'll be so pretty.
So there it is...I think I'll be running more this year than all my previous years. Which is funny, seeing as after the last half-marathon I did I made the comment that I need to stop running half marathons...hahaha! As of right now, there are no marathons in my future. People always tell me that I'm going to cave and sign up for a marathon, but I don't see that happening. The half-marathon distance, which is 13.1 miles, is perfect for me. I don't have to be as vigilant with the training, and I know for a fact that a full marathon would wreak havoc on my body in ways that the half-marathon never could. Given all the cool places that they have half-marathons throughout the world, I think I'll have enough races to keep me busy for the next few years. I just found out recently the US National Parks have their own set of half-marathons, which would be the perfect way for me to knock out some of the Parks in my quest to see them all. What better way to see our nation's prettiest places than to run through them? :)
As always, I'm looking for people to run with. Know that I do not run fast, and that I take little walk breaks to allow my lungs to recover a bit. Overall, and despite the walking, I'm told that I'm able to maintain about a 6 mile/hour pace (I don't keep track, remember?), which I'm more than happy with, but might be too slow for more serious, competitive types. If we cannot have a conversation while running, we are running entirely too fast...hahaha! So there's that.
I wish you all a fantastic Memorial Day weekend...remember all our friends, family, coworkers, classmates, and strangers on the street who have served in our military and have done what most us couldn't or wouldn't do. They deserve our utmost respect, on Memorial Day and everyday! Be safe out there!
Thursday, May 19, 2016
Pride and Crankjoy
About a week or so ago I saw a post on my Instagram feed from one of the local pizzeria owners here in Flagstaff. His name is Caleb, and he owns Pizzicletta, which in my opinion, is probably the best pizza place here in Flagstaff. It's woodfired pizza in a custom built oven, and it is so incredibly good. The ingredients are fresh and locally sourced when possible, and I believe the meats are cured in-house. And the gelato...oh my goodness, the gelato. The best I've ever had. I can't even describe in words how good this place is. Pizzicletta is on our short list of places to take guests when they come into town...provided their idea of pizza is more adventurous than the meat lover's at Pizza Hut. Working right along next to everyone in the kitchen is Caleb. He's been there every time I've been there. For all the good things I can say about the restaurant, I could probably double that about Caleb. Granted, I barely know the guy, but I've interacted with him a few times here in Flagstaff, and I think you would have a time finding a more engaging, genuinely nice person. He makes you feel welcome in his restaurant, and come to find out, in the great outdoors as well.
In celebration of the Giro D'Italia, which is a 21 day bike race in Italy, Caleb has been running up Elden Lookout road in Flagstaff every morning since the bike race started. Today is day 12. He has publicly invited anyone who wants to join, and has a crew of four people who have thus far joined him every morning to hike, bike, or run up the mountain. The best part? A free pizza just for making the trip.
Elden is no joke. The summit is 2,000 above Flagstaff, which sits at a thin-aired 7,000 feet above sea level. Living at this elevation is difficult enough at times; exercising at this elevation will make even the fittest flat-landers feel like they've never exercised at all. I've been living here for almost 4 years now and I still get out of breath with light-moderate exercise. I keep wondering if I'll ever acclimate. Due to the elevation and the moderate climate, Flagstaff is a big draw for professional athletes, particularly runners. It's not all that unusual while out on the trails or at the local coffee shop to rub elbows with Olympic hopefuls and runners sponsored by athletic companies. It's actually really cool. Although seeing them on the trails barely breaking a sweat and having an entire conversation without missing a breath makes runners like me look like we're running underwater. It's inspiring for sure, and also very humbling.
So yesterday I told Simon that I want to try to bike up Elden to meet up with Caleb and his crew. They get up early in the morning and meet at the top at 8:30am. It's about 5-6 miles uphill from the parking lot at the base of mountain. Simon was a little skeptical, given that he's ridden up Elden Lookout Road on his motorcycle and had an idea of how steep it was. Having never been up the road myself, I had no idea what I was getting into, but I thought to myself...it's only 5 miles...I can bike anywhere for 5 miles. Ha! Was I in for a surprise.
To set the stage, I ride a single-speed mountain bike. In the world of mountain biking, this is not the most advisable set-up, nor is it all that common. Given that I don't ride the burliest trails in the world, I found little use for all the gears that come on a traditional mountain bike. I switched to a single speed a few years ago after realizing when I was out on the trails on my bike, I rarely, if ever, switched gears. Having had a fixed-gear road bike for several years, I decided that I wanted to get a single-speed mountain bike as well. So I found a beautiful single-speed Gary Fisher (now absorbed by Trek) with 29-inch wheels on Craigslist a couple years ago, and I'm so in love with it. The bike fits me perfectly, it rides like a dream and it's geared pretty decently to my activity level. At least I thought it was before trying to summit Elden. I should probably also mention that I haven't ridden my bike since last fall, and the fact that I chose this particular ride as my first of the season was probably overly ambitious.
Elden Lookout was a struggle. I made it about halfway up the mountain before realizing that there is a very good reason that people ride bikes with gears, and that reason was staring me straight in the face in the form of a gravel road with a grade angle that was challenging even for a person on foot. Trust me, I spent plenty of time on foot this morning pushing my bike up those switchbacks...it's steep.
I had two goals in mind for this morning...to make it to the top, and to beat Caleb, who I referred to as "The Pizza Guy." Caleb runs up Elden, and he started a full half-hour behind Simon and I. On our way up, we were passed by 2 mountain bikers, but otherwise didn't see another soul. As we were getting near to the top, I thought for sure we would beat the pizza guy up there. And then I heard voices behind me. And suddenly there he was, keeping pace with a biker and having a full-on conversation like he was leisurely walking on flat ground. I was walking my bike at the time, laboriously mouth-breathing, and he passed me like I was standing still. He gave me a quick shout of encouragement and disappeared around a curve in the road, still chatting away to his biking companion. And that's how it is here...the athletes are just on a whole 'nother level. As we were nearing the top, Caleb was coming back down the hill. He explained that he was running back to look for someone else who was on their way up. So not only did he run all the way up, he was running back a ways to find the missing person and then was going to run back to the top to join us there for a photo. It was mind-boggling. I told Simon that we had to get to the top before he got back there for the second time...hahaha! We did accomplish this, but not by much.
We were greeted at the top by the two mountain bikers who had passed us, and a gal who had hiked up the other side of the mountain on the Elden Lookout Trail. The other bikers thought we were insane for trying to ride up the road on single speeds, and truth be told, I think they were a little surprised that we had made it at all. They complimented me on my gear ratio (which I know nothing about), even going so far as to call it 'burly.' Which is kind of funny, given that when they had each passed me, I was walking the bike...hahaha! No matter...I did it, they did it, we did it. Getting to the top is the goal, and no one really cared how we got there, just that we came out and shared that moment with them. We spend a very short time at the top talking and looking around. It was such a clear morning that the guys were convinced that we could see the north rim of Grand Canyon from there. Maybe we could...my geography is relatively poor when it comes to this area, but I definitely was able to see a canyon of some sort. Way, far away.
Throughout all this...the slog to the top, the cramping quads, the burning lungs...I kept going. Mostly due in part to Simon, who is my ever present cheerleader. He kept me going by telling me that there were level spots ahead (there weren't), and by telling me that I was in Beast Mode. I told him I felt like I was in chipmunk mode, and he explained that technically, a chipmunk is still a beast. I commented back that if that's the case, then our lazy pug back home who was undoubtedly taking his 3rd nap of the morning was also a beast...hahaha! I wanted to quit at the halfway point, convinced that there was no way that I was going to be able to get back on the bike at any point from there on up, and the thought of pushing my bike up a mountain for 3+ miles was incredibly unappealing. He encouraged me to keep going, and we rode our bikes on the flatter parts (flat, meaning that it was a gradual incline rather than a steep grade). We walked when I petered out, then rode again for short distances. And somehow, we made it. Granted, we were a little later than the designated time of 8:30, but we still made it, and even though I had to walk some of the way, I had accomplished something. How many other people can say that they summited a mountain this morning before 9am? Well, the 4 people who got there before we did, of course...hahaha!
So now that I've ridden bike up Elden Lookout Road, I've convinced myself that on Sunday I'm going to run up it. And by run, I mean run a little bit, walk a little bit....until I get to the top. It's four-ish miles from where the gravel starts, and again, will be straight uphill. We're going to give ourselves just shy of 2 hours to run it to the top...it'll probably be at least an hour back down. It's weird to be so ambitious about these outdoor activities lately. It feels good, and rather than be too upset about what my body can't do, I have to remind myself to be impressed by what it can do. I was talking to Simon earlier about how I don't want my fitness to be defined by how much time I spend in the gym, how much weight I can lift, how many classes a week I take. I want my fitness to be defined by what I can do, where I can do it, and how well I can tolerate it. So that's my goal. To get outside and do something...and most of all, to have fun doing it! See you on the trails!
In celebration of the Giro D'Italia, which is a 21 day bike race in Italy, Caleb has been running up Elden Lookout road in Flagstaff every morning since the bike race started. Today is day 12. He has publicly invited anyone who wants to join, and has a crew of four people who have thus far joined him every morning to hike, bike, or run up the mountain. The best part? A free pizza just for making the trip.
Elden is no joke. The summit is 2,000 above Flagstaff, which sits at a thin-aired 7,000 feet above sea level. Living at this elevation is difficult enough at times; exercising at this elevation will make even the fittest flat-landers feel like they've never exercised at all. I've been living here for almost 4 years now and I still get out of breath with light-moderate exercise. I keep wondering if I'll ever acclimate. Due to the elevation and the moderate climate, Flagstaff is a big draw for professional athletes, particularly runners. It's not all that unusual while out on the trails or at the local coffee shop to rub elbows with Olympic hopefuls and runners sponsored by athletic companies. It's actually really cool. Although seeing them on the trails barely breaking a sweat and having an entire conversation without missing a breath makes runners like me look like we're running underwater. It's inspiring for sure, and also very humbling.
So yesterday I told Simon that I want to try to bike up Elden to meet up with Caleb and his crew. They get up early in the morning and meet at the top at 8:30am. It's about 5-6 miles uphill from the parking lot at the base of mountain. Simon was a little skeptical, given that he's ridden up Elden Lookout Road on his motorcycle and had an idea of how steep it was. Having never been up the road myself, I had no idea what I was getting into, but I thought to myself...it's only 5 miles...I can bike anywhere for 5 miles. Ha! Was I in for a surprise.
To set the stage, I ride a single-speed mountain bike. In the world of mountain biking, this is not the most advisable set-up, nor is it all that common. Given that I don't ride the burliest trails in the world, I found little use for all the gears that come on a traditional mountain bike. I switched to a single speed a few years ago after realizing when I was out on the trails on my bike, I rarely, if ever, switched gears. Having had a fixed-gear road bike for several years, I decided that I wanted to get a single-speed mountain bike as well. So I found a beautiful single-speed Gary Fisher (now absorbed by Trek) with 29-inch wheels on Craigslist a couple years ago, and I'm so in love with it. The bike fits me perfectly, it rides like a dream and it's geared pretty decently to my activity level. At least I thought it was before trying to summit Elden. I should probably also mention that I haven't ridden my bike since last fall, and the fact that I chose this particular ride as my first of the season was probably overly ambitious.
Elden Lookout was a struggle. I made it about halfway up the mountain before realizing that there is a very good reason that people ride bikes with gears, and that reason was staring me straight in the face in the form of a gravel road with a grade angle that was challenging even for a person on foot. Trust me, I spent plenty of time on foot this morning pushing my bike up those switchbacks...it's steep.
I had two goals in mind for this morning...to make it to the top, and to beat Caleb, who I referred to as "The Pizza Guy." Caleb runs up Elden, and he started a full half-hour behind Simon and I. On our way up, we were passed by 2 mountain bikers, but otherwise didn't see another soul. As we were getting near to the top, I thought for sure we would beat the pizza guy up there. And then I heard voices behind me. And suddenly there he was, keeping pace with a biker and having a full-on conversation like he was leisurely walking on flat ground. I was walking my bike at the time, laboriously mouth-breathing, and he passed me like I was standing still. He gave me a quick shout of encouragement and disappeared around a curve in the road, still chatting away to his biking companion. And that's how it is here...the athletes are just on a whole 'nother level. As we were nearing the top, Caleb was coming back down the hill. He explained that he was running back to look for someone else who was on their way up. So not only did he run all the way up, he was running back a ways to find the missing person and then was going to run back to the top to join us there for a photo. It was mind-boggling. I told Simon that we had to get to the top before he got back there for the second time...hahaha! We did accomplish this, but not by much.
We were greeted at the top by the two mountain bikers who had passed us, and a gal who had hiked up the other side of the mountain on the Elden Lookout Trail. The other bikers thought we were insane for trying to ride up the road on single speeds, and truth be told, I think they were a little surprised that we had made it at all. They complimented me on my gear ratio (which I know nothing about), even going so far as to call it 'burly.' Which is kind of funny, given that when they had each passed me, I was walking the bike...hahaha! No matter...I did it, they did it, we did it. Getting to the top is the goal, and no one really cared how we got there, just that we came out and shared that moment with them. We spend a very short time at the top talking and looking around. It was such a clear morning that the guys were convinced that we could see the north rim of Grand Canyon from there. Maybe we could...my geography is relatively poor when it comes to this area, but I definitely was able to see a canyon of some sort. Way, far away.
Throughout all this...the slog to the top, the cramping quads, the burning lungs...I kept going. Mostly due in part to Simon, who is my ever present cheerleader. He kept me going by telling me that there were level spots ahead (there weren't), and by telling me that I was in Beast Mode. I told him I felt like I was in chipmunk mode, and he explained that technically, a chipmunk is still a beast. I commented back that if that's the case, then our lazy pug back home who was undoubtedly taking his 3rd nap of the morning was also a beast...hahaha! I wanted to quit at the halfway point, convinced that there was no way that I was going to be able to get back on the bike at any point from there on up, and the thought of pushing my bike up a mountain for 3+ miles was incredibly unappealing. He encouraged me to keep going, and we rode our bikes on the flatter parts (flat, meaning that it was a gradual incline rather than a steep grade). We walked when I petered out, then rode again for short distances. And somehow, we made it. Granted, we were a little later than the designated time of 8:30, but we still made it, and even though I had to walk some of the way, I had accomplished something. How many other people can say that they summited a mountain this morning before 9am? Well, the 4 people who got there before we did, of course...hahaha!
So now that I've ridden bike up Elden Lookout Road, I've convinced myself that on Sunday I'm going to run up it. And by run, I mean run a little bit, walk a little bit....until I get to the top. It's four-ish miles from where the gravel starts, and again, will be straight uphill. We're going to give ourselves just shy of 2 hours to run it to the top...it'll probably be at least an hour back down. It's weird to be so ambitious about these outdoor activities lately. It feels good, and rather than be too upset about what my body can't do, I have to remind myself to be impressed by what it can do. I was talking to Simon earlier about how I don't want my fitness to be defined by how much time I spend in the gym, how much weight I can lift, how many classes a week I take. I want my fitness to be defined by what I can do, where I can do it, and how well I can tolerate it. So that's my goal. To get outside and do something...and most of all, to have fun doing it! See you on the trails!
Saturday, May 7, 2016
The Period Blog: Epilogue
Just when you thought the period posts were finished, here I come with another one. Since there's nothing following an epilogue other than a sequel, I guess we're at the end of the road. I just wanted to check in with some updates, as several of you gals and even a few of you guys were somewhat curious about all this period stuff and what some of us women go through on a monthly basis. Is it time for menopause yet? Sheesh...
Okay, so I last left you after having deciding that I was going to get a uterine ablation, which, to recap, is the procedure in which the uterine lining is permanently damaged causing scar tissue to form, thereby making it nearly impossible for a fertilized egg to attach, and resulting in decreased or non-existent periods. I found a doctor here in town who came highly recommended not just by women who had had procedures done by him, but by nurses who worked in the operating room alongside him. There is no better recommendation of a doctor, in my opinion, than by the nurses who work for him or her.
I had it in my head prior to meeting this doctor that I was set on ablation. What I appreciated the very most about him, is that he took the time to sit with me and to talk to me about all the options out there. Birth control medications, IUD, Ablation, Hysterectomy...all those options were on the table and we sat and discussed all of them in depth. Oddly enough, it turns out, all four of those options carry significant risks, and the odds of the risks really don't change from method to method, but the risks are very different depending on which method you choose. I hadn't thought much about that prior to making my appointment, and I was really glad that he took the time to go over all of that with me. So we made an appointment for me to get an ultrasound, as anatomical variances will outright eliminate certain options. More specifically, the IUD or the ablation.
So I got the ultrasound. Not going to go too in depth about that whole procedure, but I'll just tell you, the wand they use looks like a big white dildo. Turns out, I have a heart shaped uterus, known as a bicornuate uterus to those of you in the medical field. Cute right? A uterus shaped like a heart? Not so much. Basically what that means is, I have almost (but not quite) two uteruses...uterii...whatever the heck you call more than one uterus. So the uterus is normal at the bottom, and rather than opening up into one larger reservoir, it branches off into two separate reservoirs. I still only have 2 ovaries though. In humans, this is considered a malformation. However, if I were a rodent or a pig, this would be completely normal. Unfortunately, I am neither a rodent nor a pig...although sometimes I feel as though I take on their behaviors depending on my current mood (lying in my own filth, hoarding...things of that nature). So what does this mean for me? A few things, actually. It's very likely a significant cause of my very heavy, somewhat irregular, devastatingly crampy periods...so I'm not just being a whiny wimp. ;)
Having a bicornuate uterus is actually quite rare, occurring in 0.1-0.5% of women. A bicornuate uterus could very well be the reason I've never had a pregnancy scare, as women with this type of malformation tend to have a lot of trouble getting pregnant, depending on the severity of the malformation, of course. Women with bicornuate uteruses (uterii) also tend to also have a higher incidence of recurrent pregnancy loss, spontaneous abortion within the first 3 months, birth defects, preterm labor, and breech births...all of which are undesirable in regards to pregnancy...breech birth being the least undesirable in that list, as most of the time, breech babies are just healthy babies who happen to be oriented in the wrong direction for vaginal birth. Most if not all pregnancies in women with a bicornuate uterus are considered high-risk. There are procedures that can be done to correct a bicornuate uterus to make it a more hospitable environment for a developing fetus, and from what I've read, those procedures have been very successful. But that's not of interest to me. At all.
It could almost be assumed that I was never intended to have children in the first place. There's a weird sort of peace that comes along with this diagnosis. If having children was something that I had really wanted, it would have most likely been a very long, very difficult, very stressful process for me to conceive and to deliver a full-term healthy baby. Honestly, knowing this about my body makes me feel better about the choice I've made to not have children. All this time I've felt that I was throwing my lack of desire to conceive into the faces of those women who simply couldn't...turns out I'm most likely one of those women who can't easily conceive, and all that feeling bad was most likely for nothing. Not that there was any reason to feel bad in the first place, but it was hard for me to watch my friends and family struggle with getting pregnant while I sat there all viable and with no desire to have children at all. Turns out I'm not as viable as I thought. Sigh of relief, actually.
So what does that mean for my birth control and period options? Well, the bicornuate uterus causes a lot of problems in that area as well. An IUD is basically out, as it won't sit properly in my uterus and would most likely be pushed out. The uterus in general is pretty sensitive, and doesn't take well to having things in there that don't belong, particularly if that thing is ill-fitting. My doctor said that we could give it a shot just for curiosity's sake, but he's not confident that it would be successful. If he's not confident, I'm not confident, and given that I'm the one paying for this service, I'm not about to embark on something just for curiosity's sake. Hysterectomy is out, and truth be told, wasn't ever really in, as that's kind of a last-ditch effort when all other methods have failed. Birth control medication is out...not having anything to do with the shape of the uterus and everything to do with the fact that I didn't tolerate the hormones when I was on them in my 20's; there seems no reason to think I'll tolerate them any better now. The ablation procedure is still on the table, although my anatomy would pose difficulties with that as well. During the ablation procedure, a little device is inserted into the uterus that heats up and basically scalds (cauterizes) the lining of the uterus. Typically, the device does all the work...in a normal shaped uterus. My doctor explained to me that this device likely wouldn't be successful for me, and that he would have to go in manually and scrape away the lining of my uterus with one tool, and cauterize with another. Sounds a bit like peeling and then burning a carrot. It also sounds complicated and rather miserable, and carries with it a little higher risks than the aforementioned ablation device. Also, given that I'm under the age of 40, there's a 20% chance that my uterus will just heal itself, and my only option after that would be the hysterectomy. He was completely confident and has done this particular ablation procedure before on women with malformations just like mine, so I trust his judgement and his abilities. But...I'm hesitating.
I hesitate because I'm a nurse and I know that a procedure, any procedure, carries with it some significant risks. I would have to be put under general anesthesia for this procedure, meaning that I would be completely knocked out, breathing tube in, the whole 9 yards. I know that surgery in healthy people has less risks associated with it than less healthy people, but the risks are still there. Over the years I've kind of adopted the idea that if you don't need surgery to save your life, then maybe it's best not to do it at all. It's silly, I know, but there's a part of me that's terrified of having significant negative outcomes in the interest of an elective procedure. Are my periods really that bad to outweigh the risks of an elective surgical procedure?
So here I sit. Doing nothing about my periods other than what I was doing before. It wasn't a total loss though...I found some great natural period products and I learned a lot about my own body. It's weird to feel so good about knowing that the process of having a child would be difficult for me. I don't know why that makes me feel better, but it's almost as if now I have a physical reason to back up my choice to not have children. As if choosing to not have children was never a good enough excuse to those who don't understand or can't empathize. So now I can say, "My uterus is weird! That's why I'm not having children!" That's as good a reason as any, right?
So there it is...the final chapter (for real!) on this whole period thing. Can't wait for the menopause blogs, right?? Thanks so much to all who have supported me along the way and have asked questions and given advice. It was all very welcome and very helpful. :)
Okay, so I last left you after having deciding that I was going to get a uterine ablation, which, to recap, is the procedure in which the uterine lining is permanently damaged causing scar tissue to form, thereby making it nearly impossible for a fertilized egg to attach, and resulting in decreased or non-existent periods. I found a doctor here in town who came highly recommended not just by women who had had procedures done by him, but by nurses who worked in the operating room alongside him. There is no better recommendation of a doctor, in my opinion, than by the nurses who work for him or her.
I had it in my head prior to meeting this doctor that I was set on ablation. What I appreciated the very most about him, is that he took the time to sit with me and to talk to me about all the options out there. Birth control medications, IUD, Ablation, Hysterectomy...all those options were on the table and we sat and discussed all of them in depth. Oddly enough, it turns out, all four of those options carry significant risks, and the odds of the risks really don't change from method to method, but the risks are very different depending on which method you choose. I hadn't thought much about that prior to making my appointment, and I was really glad that he took the time to go over all of that with me. So we made an appointment for me to get an ultrasound, as anatomical variances will outright eliminate certain options. More specifically, the IUD or the ablation.
So I got the ultrasound. Not going to go too in depth about that whole procedure, but I'll just tell you, the wand they use looks like a big white dildo. Turns out, I have a heart shaped uterus, known as a bicornuate uterus to those of you in the medical field. Cute right? A uterus shaped like a heart? Not so much. Basically what that means is, I have almost (but not quite) two uteruses...uterii...whatever the heck you call more than one uterus. So the uterus is normal at the bottom, and rather than opening up into one larger reservoir, it branches off into two separate reservoirs. I still only have 2 ovaries though. In humans, this is considered a malformation. However, if I were a rodent or a pig, this would be completely normal. Unfortunately, I am neither a rodent nor a pig...although sometimes I feel as though I take on their behaviors depending on my current mood (lying in my own filth, hoarding...things of that nature). So what does this mean for me? A few things, actually. It's very likely a significant cause of my very heavy, somewhat irregular, devastatingly crampy periods...so I'm not just being a whiny wimp. ;)
Having a bicornuate uterus is actually quite rare, occurring in 0.1-0.5% of women. A bicornuate uterus could very well be the reason I've never had a pregnancy scare, as women with this type of malformation tend to have a lot of trouble getting pregnant, depending on the severity of the malformation, of course. Women with bicornuate uteruses (uterii) also tend to also have a higher incidence of recurrent pregnancy loss, spontaneous abortion within the first 3 months, birth defects, preterm labor, and breech births...all of which are undesirable in regards to pregnancy...breech birth being the least undesirable in that list, as most of the time, breech babies are just healthy babies who happen to be oriented in the wrong direction for vaginal birth. Most if not all pregnancies in women with a bicornuate uterus are considered high-risk. There are procedures that can be done to correct a bicornuate uterus to make it a more hospitable environment for a developing fetus, and from what I've read, those procedures have been very successful. But that's not of interest to me. At all.
It could almost be assumed that I was never intended to have children in the first place. There's a weird sort of peace that comes along with this diagnosis. If having children was something that I had really wanted, it would have most likely been a very long, very difficult, very stressful process for me to conceive and to deliver a full-term healthy baby. Honestly, knowing this about my body makes me feel better about the choice I've made to not have children. All this time I've felt that I was throwing my lack of desire to conceive into the faces of those women who simply couldn't...turns out I'm most likely one of those women who can't easily conceive, and all that feeling bad was most likely for nothing. Not that there was any reason to feel bad in the first place, but it was hard for me to watch my friends and family struggle with getting pregnant while I sat there all viable and with no desire to have children at all. Turns out I'm not as viable as I thought. Sigh of relief, actually.
So what does that mean for my birth control and period options? Well, the bicornuate uterus causes a lot of problems in that area as well. An IUD is basically out, as it won't sit properly in my uterus and would most likely be pushed out. The uterus in general is pretty sensitive, and doesn't take well to having things in there that don't belong, particularly if that thing is ill-fitting. My doctor said that we could give it a shot just for curiosity's sake, but he's not confident that it would be successful. If he's not confident, I'm not confident, and given that I'm the one paying for this service, I'm not about to embark on something just for curiosity's sake. Hysterectomy is out, and truth be told, wasn't ever really in, as that's kind of a last-ditch effort when all other methods have failed. Birth control medication is out...not having anything to do with the shape of the uterus and everything to do with the fact that I didn't tolerate the hormones when I was on them in my 20's; there seems no reason to think I'll tolerate them any better now. The ablation procedure is still on the table, although my anatomy would pose difficulties with that as well. During the ablation procedure, a little device is inserted into the uterus that heats up and basically scalds (cauterizes) the lining of the uterus. Typically, the device does all the work...in a normal shaped uterus. My doctor explained to me that this device likely wouldn't be successful for me, and that he would have to go in manually and scrape away the lining of my uterus with one tool, and cauterize with another. Sounds a bit like peeling and then burning a carrot. It also sounds complicated and rather miserable, and carries with it a little higher risks than the aforementioned ablation device. Also, given that I'm under the age of 40, there's a 20% chance that my uterus will just heal itself, and my only option after that would be the hysterectomy. He was completely confident and has done this particular ablation procedure before on women with malformations just like mine, so I trust his judgement and his abilities. But...I'm hesitating.
I hesitate because I'm a nurse and I know that a procedure, any procedure, carries with it some significant risks. I would have to be put under general anesthesia for this procedure, meaning that I would be completely knocked out, breathing tube in, the whole 9 yards. I know that surgery in healthy people has less risks associated with it than less healthy people, but the risks are still there. Over the years I've kind of adopted the idea that if you don't need surgery to save your life, then maybe it's best not to do it at all. It's silly, I know, but there's a part of me that's terrified of having significant negative outcomes in the interest of an elective procedure. Are my periods really that bad to outweigh the risks of an elective surgical procedure?
So here I sit. Doing nothing about my periods other than what I was doing before. It wasn't a total loss though...I found some great natural period products and I learned a lot about my own body. It's weird to feel so good about knowing that the process of having a child would be difficult for me. I don't know why that makes me feel better, but it's almost as if now I have a physical reason to back up my choice to not have children. As if choosing to not have children was never a good enough excuse to those who don't understand or can't empathize. So now I can say, "My uterus is weird! That's why I'm not having children!" That's as good a reason as any, right?
So there it is...the final chapter (for real!) on this whole period thing. Can't wait for the menopause blogs, right?? Thanks so much to all who have supported me along the way and have asked questions and given advice. It was all very welcome and very helpful. :)
Friday, May 6, 2016
The Idiot's Guide to Driving in Flagstaff
*It should be noted that all of these behaviors have been witnessed by me personally, typically more than one on any given day.*
1. I've found that it's most helpful to begin any driving excursion in Flagstaff by firming inserting one's head into one's butt. There seems to be no other explanation for the majority of driving behaviors that go on in this little mountain town.
2. Have your phone in one hand at all times, even when you're not using it. Make sure to check it as often as possible to be sure that you haven't missed a text, a facebook update, or a tweet in the last 3 seconds.
3. While texting and driving, make sure to use both hands.
4. Poorly steer with your knees while texting, and tell your passengers in the car that you're "really good at texting and driving."
5. Make left turns out of the right lane, and right turns out of the left lane.
6. When possible, be sure to stop directly in the lane of traffic to be sure that you are still, in fact, going in the right direction.
7. If you are not going in the right direction or have missed your turn, stop immediately and block traffic with a poorly executed K-turn. Trust me, your vehicle will be incapable of a standard U-turn on a four-lane road. It should be noted that if you pass your turn or are going the wrong way, there will be NO place further down the road to pull over and safely get yourself oriented in the direction you need to go. You must stop and execute the K-turn immediately.
8. In parking lots, there's no need to slow down or yield to someone backing out of a parking space. In fact, it's preferable to drive behind them as quickly and as closely as possible. They'll most likely see you...if they're not texting, shoving a giant burrito down their gullet, or have not already inserted their own heads into their rectums.
9. It's perfectly acceptable to drive up the shared middle turn lane, regardless of how far up your turn happens to be. Make sure you go past at least 3 driveways, if not more.
10. When driving on a 2-lane road with a shared middle turn lane, it's encouraged that you get into the shared turn lane to pass any slow motorists that might be in your way. Give them the finger or honk at them for their audacity to go to the speed limit.
11. Make sure to drive as fast as possible while going up or down any and all hills in town, regardless of whether or not they are in a residential area or contain a pedestrian crosswalk.
12. Always make the widest left or right turn possible. It is preferable if you could also give the pedestrians on the sidewalk a good scare while executing your turn.
13. Make sure to drive 5-10 miles under the speed limit at all times, unless you are going up or down a hill (see #11).
14. Count to six before taking off at a green light...or just finish texting your boyfriend.
15. Hit your brakes frequently for no apparent reason whatsoever.
16. If your traffic light is green and the next one in your direction of travel happens to be red and traffic has backed up, by all means pull forward and make sure to block the intersection.
17. If you can't decide which lane you need to be in, just straddle the dotted white line and drive in both of them. It is important to note that you should drive slowly while doing this, and that you should swerve from side to side randomly to keep other motorists from going around you.
18. The use of the blinker is strongly discouraged, and should not be done for any reason.
19. No need to be aware of motorcycles, bicycles, or scooters...those two-wheeled idiots should be on the sidewalk or the bike path.
20. With the first winter storm, there is no need to slow down or change your driving habits whatsoever, especially if you have four-wheel drive. Continue texting, eating, swerving, and generally driving like an asshole. Our fellow first-responders and hospital staff will thank you for the business.
21. When pulling over for an ambulance or fire truck, make sure to immediately leap back out into the lane, blocking those who had pulled over in front of you from getting back on the road.
22. Four-way STOP? What's that?
23. In general, drive like you and only you are the only person on the road at any given time, and you'll have mastered the art of driving in Flagstaff.
1. I've found that it's most helpful to begin any driving excursion in Flagstaff by firming inserting one's head into one's butt. There seems to be no other explanation for the majority of driving behaviors that go on in this little mountain town.
2. Have your phone in one hand at all times, even when you're not using it. Make sure to check it as often as possible to be sure that you haven't missed a text, a facebook update, or a tweet in the last 3 seconds.
3. While texting and driving, make sure to use both hands.
4. Poorly steer with your knees while texting, and tell your passengers in the car that you're "really good at texting and driving."
5. Make left turns out of the right lane, and right turns out of the left lane.
6. When possible, be sure to stop directly in the lane of traffic to be sure that you are still, in fact, going in the right direction.
7. If you are not going in the right direction or have missed your turn, stop immediately and block traffic with a poorly executed K-turn. Trust me, your vehicle will be incapable of a standard U-turn on a four-lane road. It should be noted that if you pass your turn or are going the wrong way, there will be NO place further down the road to pull over and safely get yourself oriented in the direction you need to go. You must stop and execute the K-turn immediately.
8. In parking lots, there's no need to slow down or yield to someone backing out of a parking space. In fact, it's preferable to drive behind them as quickly and as closely as possible. They'll most likely see you...if they're not texting, shoving a giant burrito down their gullet, or have not already inserted their own heads into their rectums.
9. It's perfectly acceptable to drive up the shared middle turn lane, regardless of how far up your turn happens to be. Make sure you go past at least 3 driveways, if not more.
10. When driving on a 2-lane road with a shared middle turn lane, it's encouraged that you get into the shared turn lane to pass any slow motorists that might be in your way. Give them the finger or honk at them for their audacity to go to the speed limit.
11. Make sure to drive as fast as possible while going up or down any and all hills in town, regardless of whether or not they are in a residential area or contain a pedestrian crosswalk.
12. Always make the widest left or right turn possible. It is preferable if you could also give the pedestrians on the sidewalk a good scare while executing your turn.
13. Make sure to drive 5-10 miles under the speed limit at all times, unless you are going up or down a hill (see #11).
14. Count to six before taking off at a green light...or just finish texting your boyfriend.
15. Hit your brakes frequently for no apparent reason whatsoever.
16. If your traffic light is green and the next one in your direction of travel happens to be red and traffic has backed up, by all means pull forward and make sure to block the intersection.
17. If you can't decide which lane you need to be in, just straddle the dotted white line and drive in both of them. It is important to note that you should drive slowly while doing this, and that you should swerve from side to side randomly to keep other motorists from going around you.
18. The use of the blinker is strongly discouraged, and should not be done for any reason.
19. No need to be aware of motorcycles, bicycles, or scooters...those two-wheeled idiots should be on the sidewalk or the bike path.
20. With the first winter storm, there is no need to slow down or change your driving habits whatsoever, especially if you have four-wheel drive. Continue texting, eating, swerving, and generally driving like an asshole. Our fellow first-responders and hospital staff will thank you for the business.
21. When pulling over for an ambulance or fire truck, make sure to immediately leap back out into the lane, blocking those who had pulled over in front of you from getting back on the road.
22. Four-way STOP? What's that?
23. In general, drive like you and only you are the only person on the road at any given time, and you'll have mastered the art of driving in Flagstaff.
Tuesday, May 3, 2016
Is Every Patient Deserving of Compassion?
*Patient details have been changed to protect patient privacy*
So I've had this nagging thought bouncing around inside my head for some time now. Are all patients in the hospital equally deserving of compassion? It's a weird question, given that nurses are pretty universally known for their caring and for their compassion. Some outside of the hospital might be surprised to hear that as nurses, we actually don't have an unlimited supply of compassion, and that we struggle to perform our job while dealing with personal biases.
I'll give you an example. Some time ago, I was working with a new nurse, and she was informed that she was going to be getting a patient from the Emergency Department who had been involved in a car accident. The patient's injuries were significant, but not life threatening. It was amazing to me to watch this nurse prepare herself for the arrival of the patient. She literally came alive, firing questions at me, getting the room ready, bustling around and making sure that her other patients were all settled and comfortable as she knew that her new patient was going to monopolize her time for a bit. Trauma patients are frequently that way...they're time consuming due to their high degree of pain, injuries, and mental stress in dealing with whatever event landed them in the hospital. It was neat to see this new nurse getting in the zone in anticipation of receiving this challenging patient. It gave me pause to wonder when I had last gotten keyed up about the arrival of a patient. There was probably a time when I did get excited over the prospect of a challenging patient, but it's been quite a while. Am I jaded? Or am I just more comfortable with whatever gets slung my way? Maybe it's a little of both. Don't get me wrong, I spring into action when the need arises, but I don't find myself getting excited about it like I used to. I tell myself that it's because someone has to remain calm when things start happening on the unit...might as well be me.
Upon reading through this particular patient's chart, I felt my disdain for this person rising up in my throat like bile. This particular patient had been driving drunk and was involved in a one-car rollover. Luckily for this patient, no one else was involved. If there's one thing I have zero-tolerance for, it's drunk driving. I've known too many people in my personal and professional lives who have been affected in one way or another by a drunk driver. I try to understand, I try to be compassionate, I try to separate the person from the act that got them into my care, and most of the time, I can't. I can't forget that this person knowingly and purposefully got behind the wheel of their car while under the influence of alcohol. I can't forget that an innocent family was affected by a person's careless choice. I can't forget that in drunk driving accidents, the drunk driver frequently survives while the others involved are injured or killed. I can't separate it, no matter how hard I try. Believe me, I've tried. I know that no one aspires to become an alcoholic. No one sets out with the intention of killing someone else with their car while under the influence. I know that alcoholism is a disease and should be treated as such, but there is a level of intention with direct consequences towards others with alcoholism that you don't see with diseases like cancer or heart disease. An innocent bystander will infrequently be mortally affected by someone else's heart attack. For Pete's sake, if you're going to drink, do it at home. Call a cab. Call a friend. I feel like as a society, we have had the ramifications of drunk driving shoved down our throats for as long as I can remember...how can people still be doing it and act surprised when there is a negative outcome? So while my new nurse coworker was buzzing around attentively caring for and reassuring the patient, I assisted blank-faced and detached, too caught up in my personal bias to be as compassionate as she. Truth be told, I was more of a helpful presence to my coworker than I was to the patient.
When a patient arrives into my care having made these choices, I find that I'm cold and indifferent to them, but I still provide care that myself, my coworkers, and even the patient themselves will be satisfied with. I still take their vitals and make sure they are comfortable and safe and stable. I dress their wounds and I wash the blood off their face and hands. I make sure their broken limbs and battered bodies are receiving the attention they need to promote healing. And I do all of this without uttering barely a single word to them unless they address me specifically with a question, a complaint, or a request. If they want to talk, I listen, but rarely will I be the first one to speak about things outside of the care I'm providing. I fear that to engage in conversation with a drunk driver would be detrimental to my care, as I'm not sure I could hold back all the disdain and disgust I feel for people who make the decision to drink and drive. So I treat them in silence, because that's the kindest thing I can do for them. Is it compassionate? Probably not, but it's kind, and I guess that's similar enough, at least personally for me. I'm sure they must feel my emotions, assuming that they are aware enough to notice. They see it in my body language, my lack of eye contact, my clipped sentences and silent shuffling about.
I had the opportunity a while back to take care of drunk driver who had killed someone. This person veered into oncoming traffic and hit another car head-on, killing at least one occupant in the other car. Frequently when we receive accident victims, regardless of cause, we know little to nothing about who else was involved or how many were injured or killed. In this particular case, the patient had been interviewed by the police regarding the incident and mention of that had been made in the chart. The patient had been in the Intensive Care Unit for a few days prior to coming to my unit and being assigned to my care. This patient was a mess. Broken. Not only physically, but mentally and emotionally. The patient arrived on the unit in tears. When asked to rate his pain on a scale of 1-10, the patient instead responded with, "You mean how stupid do I feel on a scale of 1-10? 10. Fucking 10." He then withdrew into himself and didn't speak to me, or anyone else for that matter, for the next several hours. It was at that point that I felt my resolve crack. I had initially approached this patient with caution in regard to my personal bias as I knew that he had driven drunk and killed someone. I hadn't expected his remorse. It sounds weird to say that most drunk drivers that I've dealt with in the past have shown little to no remorse in their actions. The reasoning is sometimes multi-factorial...sometimes they are still drunk and can't comprehend what's being done to them outside of wanting their neck brace removed; sometimes their memory has been impaired from the accident and they don't remember anything; sometimes...I don't know, sometimes they just don't seem to care, which I think is where most of my disdain comes from. Even if you don't kill someone when drunk driving, the odds are so high that you might. To be flippant or indifferent about it makes my blood boil. In regards to the patient above, he knew he had killed someone, and it was tearing him up inside. Had it been possible for him to trade places with the person he had killed, I had no doubt in my mind that he would have. Without a second thought...at least at that moment in time. I don't know if he remembered the accident or not, as I didn't find it appropriate to ask and really didn't feel it would contribute positively to my care of him. I still think about him with a heavy heart. I wonder how he's doing. I know deep down that he was a good person with a supportive family, a good job, and for the most part, a good life. I couldn't help but think that he was a good person who'd had demons that were already causing him to drink, and now that he had killed someone while under the influence...what did that do to his psyche? I'll probably never know. Given the propensity for survivor's guilt in situations like this, perhaps I don't want to know.
Aside from the mental and emotional strain that caring for these patients presents, most of the physical abuse I've sustained in the hospital has been at the hands of alcoholics. Abuse isn't something that they told us about in nursing school, but it's amazing how often we are subjected to physical, verbal, psychological, and emotional abuse. It's a felony in most states (probably all states at this point) to assault a healthcare worker, but patients who assault healthcare workers are very infrequently ever prosecuted. I've never prosecuted a single patient that's hit, punched, pushed, bent my fingers back, grabbed, pinched, spit on, or attempted to bite me. Alcoholics, whether still drunk, going through withdrawls, or suffering permanent brain damage from drinking, are very unpredictable, and frequently become violent. A lot of the time, they don't even realize that they're doing it, and once sober or fully detoxed, have no recollection of their abusive behavior at all. How does a healthcare provider go about prosecuting someone who has no cognitive memory of their behavior? Perhaps had I been more injured, I would have pressed charges...but should the degree of injury and the mental state of the patient at the time of the incident really be factors? Shouldn't all assault be viewed equally regardless of the outcome? There has only been one incident when a patient got me good right square in the chest with a closed fist. I didn't press charges against her, mostly because I knew her time here on earth was severely limited due to her severe alcoholism and the irreversible organ failure that went along with it, and I felt that to be punishment enough for what she had done to me. It's safe to say that she was definitely not in her right mind at the time of the incident, and rather than understand that we were trying to help her, she responded with physical violence. All compassion I had for her went right out the window. I wasn't prepared for how angry I became when she punched me, and I was glad that I had another coworker in the room with me at the time of the incident to deflect the attention of the patient from me...and mine from her. Not that I would have responded in kind with physical violence, but I was extremely angry and it was all I could do to keep myself from punching her right back. Expletives were forced through my clenched teeth. I've never punched anyone in my life, but I've never been put in a position where I've wanted to so badly either. I called out the next night from work so I could mentally process what had happened. I learned not long afterwards that she had passed away during that same hospitalization, and the relief I felt was palpable...no longer would she hurt anyone else who was trying to help her. I didn't feel guilty about that, which was new for me. Typically I felt something when I learned a difficult patient had passed, but because she had hurt me, I felt nothing. I'm still not sure how I feel about that...the feeling of nothing...am I losing my humanity? Or am I just calling a spade a spade...a person like that was doomed to die from her addiction, and maybe she's better off...maybe we're all better off. Some people just can't be helped. Obviously, the situation has stuck with me...not to the point that it keeps me up at night and I assume that every alcoholic is going to punch me or deserves to die as a result of his or her addiction, but I give them a much wider berth mentally, physically, and emotionally, now than I used to.
I feel as though I've emphasized substance abuse thus far in this blog, and while those patients with addictions make up the majority of those patients whom I struggle with compassion, they aren't the only ones. There are patients in the hospital who are completely alert and oriented who are mean to hospital staff. Not just mean, but callous, uncaring, abusive, and disdainful. They are so disdained at the state of their own health and the lifestyle that landed them in the hospital that they take their anger out on nurses, doctors, and other healthcare workers. I've witnessed patients who were completely alert and oriented attack my coworkers verbally, physically, and emotionally. Patients are upset, they are angry, and are extremely disappointed that we can't fix 50 years of bad habits. I had a patient and his family verbally abuse me because they felt that his bed wasn't comfortable enough. As if I personally was responsible for the construction of the mattress. They surrounded me on all sides and were all yelling and aggressively posturing, which made me feel threatened and uncomfortable. I felt myself escalating, and had to remind myself that all of this anger, all of this aggression, had less to do with the bed and more to do with their unrealistic grasp of the patient's illness and debility. He threatened to leave the hospital on account of the bed. I gave him the paper to sign to indicate him willfully leaving the hospital against medical advice and showed him the door. Upon realizing that it mattered not one iota to me whether he stayed or went, he changed his tune and decided to stay. But the tone for the night had been set. I was determined not to waste what little compassion I had on this angry little man and his family members. I said as little to him as I had to while providing care appropriate for his diagnosis. At the same time, I spent a fair amount of time conversing and chatting with his roommate, who, if I recall correctly, was far more ill but far more pleasant. Compassion for days for those willing to receive it and in turn, give it back. The roommate, I might add, actually apologized to me for the mattress-hater's behavior. The patient himself never apologized, but made a few comments that revealed that he was embarrassed by his behavior and that of his family. At the end of the day, he was still too prideful to admit that he had treated me badly and had behaved inappropriately.
Over the years I've had patients who have touched my heart in ways that still give me the warm fuzzies today. The number of patients who are decent human beings far out-number the ones who feel entitled to abuse me and treat me poorly. But I've come to the conclusion that it is possible to give adequate care without sacrificing my compassion on patients who have shown that they neither appreciate nor deserve it. It isn't in my job description to stroke egos and empathize with every single malady or behavior that a patient might present with. I view compassion as icing on the cake to care that will be appropriate no matter the patient's attitude or behavior. As I've gotten older and farther into my career, I've realized that I have a finite amount of compassion to give, and patients are not equally deserving nor are they entitled to it. I dole out compassion as I see fit, and I'm learning that that's okay.
Saturday, February 27, 2016
Relative Beauty
The other day, Simon and I were down in Phoenix buying a cargo van with the intention of turning it into a camper van (that's for another post...don't worry, it's coming...there's just not much to tell right now). I happened to catch a look at myself in the rearview mirror, and without even thinking about it, I said, "I feel ugly today...and not just today...pretty much everyday." Simon, having known me for as long as he has, knows that I'm not one to fish for compliments, and therefore didn't respond with compliments or arguments or tell me how silly I was. Instead, he told me how sad it made him feel to hear me say things like that about myself. So we chatted about it a bit. I said that I don't like my face. I don't like the way I look in photos, and that I hate having my picture taken, because as the years have gone on, I've developed more lines, more wrinkles, my hair is rapidly turning a (frequently complimented, oddly enough) shade of silver, and when I smile, one of my eyes get squinty, and that wasn't always the case. I told him that there are mornings when I can't bear to even look at myself in the mirror, with the remnants of sleep evident in the bags under my eyes and the wrinkles from the pillows still pressed into my face. To this, he responded with something along the lines of: you're getting older, it's normal, in 10 years you're going to look even older and you'll wish that you looked how you look right now. All of those things are true. And I know this. It's just that some days are harder than others to accept the fact that I'm not a fresh-faced 20-something anymore.
I've loved my 30's (good thing I've still got about 4 more years of them before I have to grapple with my 40's). My 30's have been so much better than my 20's, for various reasons. I'm much more centered than I was in my 20's...I feel like I know myself better, and I don't feel the need to apologize for what I like and what I don't like. Not that I'm callous or uncompromising, but I spend a lot less time worrying about what other people think than I did a decade ago. I do what makes me happy, and I don't feel bad about it. In all reality, making myself happy first makes me a much more pleasant person to be around...you can't make others happy if you're a miserable human being yourself. I learned that...in my 30's. :) I don't feel like there are these big momentous things I've yet to accomplish...I know that things will happen all in good time, and if they don't happen, well, the plan will just change and something else will come along. I don't spend a lot of time thinking about where I think I should be at 36. I'm just here...doing my thing...taking stock of where I was, where I am, and where I might like to be in the coming weeks and months...I get overwhelmed if I think out too much farther than that. I try not to stress too much about it...my life is relatively simple these days.
I work with people who are quite a bit younger than me, and I hear them lament about turning 25, because turning 25 means they've only got 5 more years until they turn 30. It's funny how devastating a number than be, and how that devastating number is different for everyone. I don't know if I have a devastating number. I guess if I had to pick one right now, it would probably be 50...not because it seems old to me, but because I don't know what I'll be like then...what things will be important to me, what things will scare me, what things will no longer matter, what friends I will have lost and gained...those things change so much over the years. I can't imagine 40 will be that much different than 36, but I know that 50 definitely will be, and that's why it's my current scary number. But I know that as I get closer to 50, that scary number will change.
I remember when my parents and their friends all started turning 40, how old they seemed to my junior-high self. Now that I'm closer to 40 than 30, I think about how young they must have felt as they entered their 4th decade of life...because I'm almost there and I still feel relatively young most of the time. It's funny how the parties were decked out in black balloons and tombstones and lamentations about the birthday girl or guy being "over the hill." 40 is nothing. 40 is barely halfway through what would be considered an average lifespan. When I think about it now, I think it's kind of awful to treat any age like you've got one foot in the grave. I know it's done in jest, but there are people who are sensitive about those kinds of things. In a perfect world, growing old is something that would be celebrated, not mourned.
Age is nothing but a number...it's so arbitrary that it can be reduced to nothing but a way of keeping track of how many times a person has gone around the sun. It's kind of fun to think about it that way...I've gone around the sun 36 times so far, and hopefully I'll get to go around a bunch more times before it's time for me to exit this existence. It's funny, my friends in Flagstaff range in age from a 20 year-old with a sweet, old soul, to a shit-talking 70 year-old with a heart of gold. All of these friends have been craftily curated by me based on their willingness to accept me, for me, and by me accepting them, for them. Lawrence might make me gag when he tells me that I'm the same age as his mom, and Thomas might give me crap about trying to make him fat with my cookies, but our interactions are so genuine and real that we can hang out for hours and at the end of the night, it feels like mere minutes have passed...we've traveled just a little father around that sun...together.
So there's that. I don't necessarily attribute my random feelings of being ugly with my age. It's more a disappointment that I don't look like I used to, and really, what a silly thing to be hung up on. It's safe to say that there are 36 year-olds who look younger than me and who look older than me. I don't know what 36 is supposed to look like, I just know what I look like, and there are days when I don't like the face looking back at me. That's just how it is. Most days, I don't think about it much. Truthfully, even on the days that I do think about it, I don't think about it for very long. After Simon and I had that conversation in the car on Tuesday about how I'm not actually ugly, I didn't think about it again for the rest of the day. We bought our van, we had a celebratory beer, we went to Trader Joe's and bought some of our favorite treats, and had an all-around really good day. And my appearance had not one thing to do with any of it.
I am, however, currently one of those people who have a pet as my Facebook profile picture. I always found it a little odd when people would have profile pictures of things other than themselves. The reasoning for the pet profile pic is multi-factorial. One, I took the picture of Cooper with a Christmas bow on his head back in December when I was wrapping presents...it was super cute (as is he), and it was appropriate at the time. Unlike me, he just gets cuter as he ages...he went from a cute little puppy to a cute little dog to a cute little old man. Photos of him are far cuter photos of me...although maybe a little less interesting, as he never goes anywhere very fun...most of his photos are taken from the comfort of the couch. Fact of the matter is, I've just been too lazy to change my profile picture. That and I don't have very many pictures of myself. I'm not into selfies...at all. I hate that the word 'selfie' is even in my vocabulary. Perhaps I'm just bitter that my arms aren't long enough to take a decent selfie. Even if my arms were long enough, there's still that squinty eye to contend with...hahaha! Honestly, I think most of us look best with a little distance between us and the camera...close up pictures of faces are just kind of awkward...unless you have really long arms (or a small head), then they're less so, I guess.
I didn't write this with the intention of my readers to come back with comments about how I look...good, bad, or otherwise. In truth, how others feel about my appearance doesn't really change the way I feel about my appearance. I know there are days when I look a little worse for the wear, and there are days that I look acceptable, and the few times a year when I actually do something with myself, I look pretty darn good. I think regardless of age, we all have ugly days...some (thankfully few) are just a little more ugly than others. I've kind of gotten to the point where I don't spend a whole lot of time fussing with my appearance, since I'm not the one who's going to be looking at me all day. But...due to that, there are days when I think maybe I should care a little more...maybe then I won't be so disgusted when I catch my eye in the mirror, a large window, or the silver paper towel holder in a public restroom.
I hope I get the opportunity to age gracefully, that I will be able to chalk these ugly days up to nothing but fleeting insecurity. I have a good life. I have great friends, I live in a great town, I have a little dog who thinks the world of me, I have a partner who is a much better companion than I ever could have hoped for, I have the means to live comfortably and to make plans for the future. My life is good, and that person in the mirror? The one with the wrinkles and the grey hair and the squinty eye and the armpit chub? That's just a facade for what's inside, because that's truly all that should matter in life.
I've loved my 30's (good thing I've still got about 4 more years of them before I have to grapple with my 40's). My 30's have been so much better than my 20's, for various reasons. I'm much more centered than I was in my 20's...I feel like I know myself better, and I don't feel the need to apologize for what I like and what I don't like. Not that I'm callous or uncompromising, but I spend a lot less time worrying about what other people think than I did a decade ago. I do what makes me happy, and I don't feel bad about it. In all reality, making myself happy first makes me a much more pleasant person to be around...you can't make others happy if you're a miserable human being yourself. I learned that...in my 30's. :) I don't feel like there are these big momentous things I've yet to accomplish...I know that things will happen all in good time, and if they don't happen, well, the plan will just change and something else will come along. I don't spend a lot of time thinking about where I think I should be at 36. I'm just here...doing my thing...taking stock of where I was, where I am, and where I might like to be in the coming weeks and months...I get overwhelmed if I think out too much farther than that. I try not to stress too much about it...my life is relatively simple these days.
I work with people who are quite a bit younger than me, and I hear them lament about turning 25, because turning 25 means they've only got 5 more years until they turn 30. It's funny how devastating a number than be, and how that devastating number is different for everyone. I don't know if I have a devastating number. I guess if I had to pick one right now, it would probably be 50...not because it seems old to me, but because I don't know what I'll be like then...what things will be important to me, what things will scare me, what things will no longer matter, what friends I will have lost and gained...those things change so much over the years. I can't imagine 40 will be that much different than 36, but I know that 50 definitely will be, and that's why it's my current scary number. But I know that as I get closer to 50, that scary number will change.
I remember when my parents and their friends all started turning 40, how old they seemed to my junior-high self. Now that I'm closer to 40 than 30, I think about how young they must have felt as they entered their 4th decade of life...because I'm almost there and I still feel relatively young most of the time. It's funny how the parties were decked out in black balloons and tombstones and lamentations about the birthday girl or guy being "over the hill." 40 is nothing. 40 is barely halfway through what would be considered an average lifespan. When I think about it now, I think it's kind of awful to treat any age like you've got one foot in the grave. I know it's done in jest, but there are people who are sensitive about those kinds of things. In a perfect world, growing old is something that would be celebrated, not mourned.
Age is nothing but a number...it's so arbitrary that it can be reduced to nothing but a way of keeping track of how many times a person has gone around the sun. It's kind of fun to think about it that way...I've gone around the sun 36 times so far, and hopefully I'll get to go around a bunch more times before it's time for me to exit this existence. It's funny, my friends in Flagstaff range in age from a 20 year-old with a sweet, old soul, to a shit-talking 70 year-old with a heart of gold. All of these friends have been craftily curated by me based on their willingness to accept me, for me, and by me accepting them, for them. Lawrence might make me gag when he tells me that I'm the same age as his mom, and Thomas might give me crap about trying to make him fat with my cookies, but our interactions are so genuine and real that we can hang out for hours and at the end of the night, it feels like mere minutes have passed...we've traveled just a little father around that sun...together.
So there's that. I don't necessarily attribute my random feelings of being ugly with my age. It's more a disappointment that I don't look like I used to, and really, what a silly thing to be hung up on. It's safe to say that there are 36 year-olds who look younger than me and who look older than me. I don't know what 36 is supposed to look like, I just know what I look like, and there are days when I don't like the face looking back at me. That's just how it is. Most days, I don't think about it much. Truthfully, even on the days that I do think about it, I don't think about it for very long. After Simon and I had that conversation in the car on Tuesday about how I'm not actually ugly, I didn't think about it again for the rest of the day. We bought our van, we had a celebratory beer, we went to Trader Joe's and bought some of our favorite treats, and had an all-around really good day. And my appearance had not one thing to do with any of it.
I am, however, currently one of those people who have a pet as my Facebook profile picture. I always found it a little odd when people would have profile pictures of things other than themselves. The reasoning for the pet profile pic is multi-factorial. One, I took the picture of Cooper with a Christmas bow on his head back in December when I was wrapping presents...it was super cute (as is he), and it was appropriate at the time. Unlike me, he just gets cuter as he ages...he went from a cute little puppy to a cute little dog to a cute little old man. Photos of him are far cuter photos of me...although maybe a little less interesting, as he never goes anywhere very fun...most of his photos are taken from the comfort of the couch. Fact of the matter is, I've just been too lazy to change my profile picture. That and I don't have very many pictures of myself. I'm not into selfies...at all. I hate that the word 'selfie' is even in my vocabulary. Perhaps I'm just bitter that my arms aren't long enough to take a decent selfie. Even if my arms were long enough, there's still that squinty eye to contend with...hahaha! Honestly, I think most of us look best with a little distance between us and the camera...close up pictures of faces are just kind of awkward...unless you have really long arms (or a small head), then they're less so, I guess.
I didn't write this with the intention of my readers to come back with comments about how I look...good, bad, or otherwise. In truth, how others feel about my appearance doesn't really change the way I feel about my appearance. I know there are days when I look a little worse for the wear, and there are days that I look acceptable, and the few times a year when I actually do something with myself, I look pretty darn good. I think regardless of age, we all have ugly days...some (thankfully few) are just a little more ugly than others. I've kind of gotten to the point where I don't spend a whole lot of time fussing with my appearance, since I'm not the one who's going to be looking at me all day. But...due to that, there are days when I think maybe I should care a little more...maybe then I won't be so disgusted when I catch my eye in the mirror, a large window, or the silver paper towel holder in a public restroom.
I hope I get the opportunity to age gracefully, that I will be able to chalk these ugly days up to nothing but fleeting insecurity. I have a good life. I have great friends, I live in a great town, I have a little dog who thinks the world of me, I have a partner who is a much better companion than I ever could have hoped for, I have the means to live comfortably and to make plans for the future. My life is good, and that person in the mirror? The one with the wrinkles and the grey hair and the squinty eye and the armpit chub? That's just a facade for what's inside, because that's truly all that should matter in life.
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Saying Goodbye to Bob
My uncle Bob passed away today. He was 73 years old, and was recently diagnosed with Stage 4 metastatic pancreatic cancer. I'm still processing his passing. In true Stefanie fashion, I process best with a keyboard, so I'm going to tell you a little bit about my uncle Bob. It's hard for me to think of him in the past tense, so excuse my grammar in the following post. It's still hard to believe he's gone.
Bob was born in 1942, around the time that my Grandpa Ellringer was shipped to the South Pacific to fight in World War 2. Bob was the first of 11 Ellringer siblings...not the smallest family of that era, but certainly not the biggest either. Bob and his siblings grew up in the tiny town of Eyota, Minnesota, where a smattering of his siblings, nieces, and nephews still live to this day. Bob joined the military after high school and made a career out of it. He was a Captain in the Air Force and traveled all over the world with the military, but ultimately spent most of his time stateside. He married my aunt Carol and they had two children, Clint and Tiffany. Clint followed in his father's footsteps and became a career military man, but he chose the Navy instead.
Up until a few years ago, I didn't know my uncle Bob all that well. As far back as I can remember, he lived in Texas, and so I only saw him about once a year, if that. There were a few years there in the late 90's when my family and I road-tripped south around the holidays to see my uncles and aunts who lived in Oklahoma and Texas. I remember the 5 of us in my family, plus Grandma, all piling into the minivan together and driving for what felt like days. Having criss-crossed the country multiple times in the last decade, I realize that it's a lot shorter trip than it felt like back then. Anyway, uncle Bob and his family lived in West Texas, which is about what you would expect when you think about West Texas. Dry, desert climate, the ground peppered with mesquite trees and prickly pear cactus, oil derricks in the middle of vast open fields lazily moving up and down, sunshine and short sleeves in December...in other words, not at all like Minnesota. It was like being transported to another world. I was just a kid then...probably 15 or 16 years old, and even at that young age I realized what an opportunity it was to be able to go to a different place in the country with my family...to have family to visit who lived somewhere other than Minnesota.
Bob was always a presence. If you've ever met him, you know what I'm talking about. He was an imposing man, largely built with thick hands, a big head, and small feet...like most of the Ellringers. They come from farming stock...one look at any of them, and you'll believe it. They have the look of people who put their whole bodies to work, and they work hard. Bob's most distinguishing characteristic was his thick head of hair, and his burly beard that went down to his chest. Above that beard were his round cheeks and his distinctively dark-brown Ellringer eyes. All the Ellringer kids have those dark brown eyes; not a single one of them inherited my grandma's piercing baby blues. We see her blues in some of us grandkids though. Most often Bob could be spotted wearing his favorite bib overalls, with or without a shirt underneath, depending on what time of the year it was. The Ellringer men seemingly run hot, so Bob's typical attire was sans shirt. Not a single one of us bats an eye at a little familial partial nudity. It's common for 10+ Ellringers to pile into one house and stay there for days on end together...you're bound to see someone naked at some point, there's just no avoiding it. Most of the Ellringers are exorbitantly loud, and out of all of them, I'd say that Bob was one of the most quiet...which isn't to say that he didn't make himself heard...he had a very commanding voice. When Bob barked out an order, we all turned at attention. He'd raise his voice every now and again if he felt like someone was cheating at poker (Tom), or if someone was "leading crooked" during Sheep, their favorite card game (Sy), or if someone started to get on his case about his Republican loyalty (Dave). Truth be told, all the Ellringers are loud, so to say that one of them is more quiet than the others probably just means that they operate at normal volume for everyone else. It's a wonder that we're not all deaf, given all the yelling we have to do just to be heard during family gatherings, especially during card games.
The Ellringers are big card players, and there are a few games that they like to play. It can almost be guaranteed that at any given Ellringer outing, poker will be played at some point. Everyone gets out their money pots, which vary in description from leather pouches to prescription pill bottles. They are as varying in size and shape as they are in the currency contained within. My container (a prescription pill bottle...fitting, for someone in the healthcare profession) is usually mostly empty, a testament to my poker playing ability. The Ellringers are typically conservative poker players, betting mostly nickels and dimes, and it's considered a big bet when someone throws in a quarter. When the quarters start flying, the players start dropping. You'd be surprised at some of the fights that have almost broken out over a pile of nickels, dimes, and quarters. I suppose it's not so much the currency, but the principle of the thing.
The traditional Ellringer game, and the one that I still can't quite seem to play correctly, is a game called Sheep, or Schafskopf, as it's known in Germany. It's a trump game, and it's also a partner game. One of the things that makes it complicated is that your partner changes with each hand, based on what cards you and your opponents happen to have. There are also a lot of goofy rules, and the order of the trump makes no sense to me. Many an Ellringer will scoff at this as they read it, as the order of trump makes perfect sense to people who have been playing this game for 50-60 years or so. Truth be told, I came across a card game book some years ago and I found the official rules for Schafskopf, and let's just say that the Ellringers have their own version...hahaha! Not that the official rules of Schafskopf made any more sense to me than the Ellringer rules anyway. Bob could almost always be counted on to be the one to get the cards started; usually his cue that he was ready to be done with the pleasantries and get down to card playing was the appearance of his money pouch in front of him. He'd get to work organizing his quarters, dimes, and nickels and wait for the rest of us to catch on. He rarely, if ever, missed a card game at a family gathering. I remember waking up in the wee hours of the morning, hearing their whiskey-fueled banter as they gave each other crap about their cards. They really do have fun together.
A few years back, Bob and his wife Carol started coming to Minnesota in the spring to stay with my parents. They typically would stay for almost the entire summer. Simon and I were still travel nursing at that time, and given that we spent most of our winters on assignments, we were frequently home in the summers. It was then that I really got to know my uncle Bob. I learned that he was a God-fearing gun-toting right-wing Republican Veteran with a fierce love of America and an overall appreciation for a good cup of coffee, a home-cooked meal, a rousing card game, a loyal dog, and time spent with family. He would get choked up when talking about his mom or his dad, who had passed on some years ago. He gave the biggest, tightest, rib-crushingest bear hugs. When you got right down to it, his gruff persona was just a facade for the tender-hearted man hiding beneath the surface. He also liked to go for walks, do puzzles, play horseshoes, and watch movies. He did not, however, enjoy Team America: World Police. It was fun for the rest of us to watch him watch it, particularly the puppet sex scene. I'm honestly surprised that he watched the whole thing...but that was kind of Bob's thing...once you start something, you finish it. He didn't talk much about his military service, and I found out later that that was probably due to the fact that he simply couldn't. Apparently uncle Bob was involved in some highly classified operations. My mom recalls him coming home one time with a briefcase shackled to his wrist, with orders not to discuss it with anyone. So he didn't. Perhaps he was a secret agent of some kind. It's kind of fun to think of my uncle Bob as a secret agent.
I'll never forget the first time my buddy Franko met Uncle Bob...it's truly one of my favorite stories. Franko and I were elbows deep in a Shafskopf lesson with Uncle John, Tom, my mom, Paul, and probably Dave. A good majority of the Ellringers were in Minnesota staying at Grandma's house for some reason or another, so it's safe to say that we were crammed in there like sardines, that the windows were fogged up from all the breathing, and that there were no less than 20 bags of potato chips at the ready. We love chips. I remember there were 6 of us playing the game, and playing six-handed Shafskopf versus the tradional four-handed Shafskopf is probably not the best or easiest way to learn, but dang-nabbit they were going to teach us. Franko was convinced that they were all cheating. So here's Franko, a robust, boisterous person himself, getting into it with the Ellringers for cheating, and all the sudden uncle Bob just appeared from the basement. He walked through the kitchen, said not a word to anyone, and proceeded to go into the living room and have a seat. Odds are pretty good that he wasn't wearing a shirt, but I don't remember...after a while, you just quit keeping track of who has a shirt on and who doesn't. All of us were non-plussed...it was just Bob, having woken from a nap. Franko threw down his cards, looks at me, and says, "You guys are all cheaters...and who the heck was that guy??" I suppose Bob would be a bit of a shock to someone who'd never seen him before, particularly after having woken from a nap with his hair all askew and having nothing to say to anyone in ways of greeting or parting as he made his way through the room.
I'll also always remember the tutorial Bob gave Simon and me on why bib overalls are truly the best pants a person could ever wear. He proceeded to compare bib overalls to a backpack with pants attached. He went through every pocket and explained all the possibilities of all that things you could put in them. Pens, rolls of quarters, toothpicks, mini screwdriver, chapstick, breath mints, wallet, cell phone, amongst other things. He stated that you can literally carry 20-30 pounds worth of stuff in your bibs. He then pointed out the buttons on the sides of the bibs, and explained that if you get hot, you just unbutton those buttons and you have built in ventilation. No matter that people can see your underpants when you have the buttons unbuttoned...we're all family here...mostly, anyway. Given that several of my uncles like to wear bib overalls, it's safe to say that I've probably seen more of my relatives' underpants than most people have of their relatives. Like I said, we're family, it's all good. It's funny...when I come across a random person wearing bibs, I can't help but smile. It reminds me of my family, and how much I adore their little oddities.
The news of Bob's cancer diagnosis was a shock to all of us. Apparently last fall he had developed a cough and just wasn't feeling all that well. He went to the doctor for a checkup, and they decided to do a chest x-ray. They had the device a little lower than usual, and noticed a few suspicious spots on his liver. One test lead to the next, which ultimately resulted in the diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. Initially he was given 6 months to a year to live, which was then quickly escalated to a cautiously generous 6 weeks. We were floored. Being in healthcare, I know that pancreatic cancer is a death-sentence, and typically a short, painful one. My heart dropped when I found out the news. It dropped for Bob, but it dropped even more for his family. The Ellringers are a clan...they rally together when someone is in trouble, and they whoop it up when it's time to have fun. They have a closeness that I admire, and despite their differences, they love each other fiercely. They are some of the most fun people I know, and some of my favorite memories are the huge family gatherings that we've had over the years. Probably the best one was the gigantic party we threw after Grandma passed away several years ago. She lived to the ripe old age of 92, and if she could have found a way to attend her own funeral party, she would have been right there with us eating pizza, playing cards, and shouting loudly to be heard. It's just what we do...what we've always done. It makes me sad to hear about families that aren't close, or families who don't even like each other. I can't imagine life without my giant family.
Bob is the first of my mom's siblings to pass away. Given that he was 73 years old, he had a good long run, filled with lots of family time and doing all the things he wanted to do. I never once heard him lament about missing out on something that he had wanted to do. If he wanted to do something, he did it. If it didn't seem worth doing, he didn't. With Bob there was very little grey area, and I can appreciate that about a person. He lived life on his terms, and for the most part, I think he was a really happy guy, even if he was mostly quiet about it (by Ellringer standards, anyway).
I'm so grateful that I had the opportunity to see him before he passed. I was disheartened to see the man in the bed, my uncle, sleepy and delirious at times. I was amazed by quickly his illness had aged him. By all means still an imposing man, but he looked more like a hospital patient than my robust, commanding uncle. By the time I arrived, Bob was no longer getting out of bed, and he was in a nursing home on hospice care. He needed to be fed, and didn't have much of an appetite. When he did eat, however, he pretty much always made sure to eat dessert first...smart man. He wasn't able to play cards. It absolutely breaks my heart to tell this next story, but my mom told me that before I got there, they were playing cards and Bob was having a good day. They asked him if he wanted to play with them, and he said that he would just listen. And so they played cards while he laid in bed with his eyes closed, listening to his brothers and sisters having fun. Even as sick as he was, it gave him comfort to hear his family playing his favorite games. Apparently at one point while they were playing, he told Paul to stop cheating. It was probably the last good thing they could have done for him.
Once I got there, I quickly went into "hospice nurse" mode, rubbing his feet, swabbing his mouth, and trying to make him comfortable. I checked his catheter and enlisted my brothers and Simon in moving him in the bed to get him into a more comfortable position. I became almost completely unglued when I noticed that he had my grandma's hands. I ran my fingers though his beautiful salt-and-pepper hair (so much like Grandpa's)...still just as thick as I always remembered. I was amazed by how soft and silky it was, and told him that someday I hope my greys will be as pretty as his. We did get some reaction out of him when we talked about his guns, when I put Cooper on the bed for him to pet ("Isn't he ugly, Bob?" "Yep"), and when I told him that I finally beat some of the uncles the night before at Sheep...he smiled at that one...I think Bob always thought I was the worst Sheep player, and a little part of him swore inside every time he found out I was his partner...hahaha! Carol also got quite the grumble of disdain out of him when she told him that she was going to shave his beard. I know care of those who are dying isn't for everyone, but I find hospice nursing to be such a special aspect of healthcare. I like knowing that I'm able to provide comfort to those who are embarking on their last stage of life. And to not only provide comfort to the dying, but to the families that they are leaving behind.
I wish I could have stayed in Texas to help take care of Bob. Had I known that he was going to pass the day after I left, I probably would have. I wanted to be there to make sure he was comfortable, that he wasn't struggling to breathe, and that the nurses and hospice people were checking on him. I wanted to be there for his family, to explain what was happening while it was happening. I made a decision the day that I left...that I was going to do whatever it is that I have to do to become hospice certified, and to make myself available to my family members in the future who might need hospice care. I know there are a lot of good hospice caregivers out there, but how many of them have the availability to devote themselves to just one patient? I can do that. I can make that happen. And I want to do it. More than anything, I want to be available to provide comfort in the dying process to the people who I love the most. I want to be able to do the last good thing, even if that's just a cool wash cloth on the forehead, or a foot massage, or putting on some chapstick. I want to take care of those things so my family doesn't have to, so my family can just spend time doing what they need to do to cope...to play cards, to banter, to tell stories. It's those little things that provide the most comfort in the end.
The most comforting thing of all in these situations is spending time with family. Every night that I was in Texas, I stayed up until 1am or later drinking beer and playing cards with my aunts, uncles, and cousins. One of the nights we stayed up until past 2am, and as I was getting into bed, I heard Tom and Paul (Bob's brothers) giggling like little kids in the back room as they were getting ready for bed. I believe they had gotten into the Fireball that night. My heart was so full of love for my family as I listened to them finding happiness in the sadness. It's how we cope, it's how we stay close, it's how we honor our family members who lead a good life and who are passing into whatever comes next. We played a few hands of Texas Hold 'Em, which was Bob's favorite poker game. We even found a bottle of some homemade Kahlua that Bob had infusing in the cupboard, so we poured a bunch of glasses of it and put up a toast to the husband, the father, the brother, the uncle, and the grandpa who we loved and who we were all going to miss. To top it off, it would have been fitting to have gone out in the yard and shot off a bunch of Bob's guns while shouting at the stars, but we refrained. Given that Bob was vigilant about gun safety and that guns were only for protection or hunting, he would not have approved of that behavior. But I still think it would have been a fitting tribute...sober, of course. It made me sad to think that some of the last good times I've had with my family were centered around someone's death or illness. I think celebrating someone's life is as good a reason to get together as any, but I don't want that to be the only time that we do it. I want to see my family more. I want to travel to see my cousins who live near and far, I want to finally commit to taking that trip to Thailand to see my uncle Sy. I want to celebrate life while we're all still healthy enough to do it.
So I've got some new goals to accomplish this year, and I have uncle Bob to thank for it. Sometimes getting pointed in the right direction takes inspiration from the most unexpected of places. I'm going to take his illness and his passing and do something positive with it. Thanks for everything, uncle Bob. We love you. We miss you. God speed.
Bob was born in 1942, around the time that my Grandpa Ellringer was shipped to the South Pacific to fight in World War 2. Bob was the first of 11 Ellringer siblings...not the smallest family of that era, but certainly not the biggest either. Bob and his siblings grew up in the tiny town of Eyota, Minnesota, where a smattering of his siblings, nieces, and nephews still live to this day. Bob joined the military after high school and made a career out of it. He was a Captain in the Air Force and traveled all over the world with the military, but ultimately spent most of his time stateside. He married my aunt Carol and they had two children, Clint and Tiffany. Clint followed in his father's footsteps and became a career military man, but he chose the Navy instead.
Up until a few years ago, I didn't know my uncle Bob all that well. As far back as I can remember, he lived in Texas, and so I only saw him about once a year, if that. There were a few years there in the late 90's when my family and I road-tripped south around the holidays to see my uncles and aunts who lived in Oklahoma and Texas. I remember the 5 of us in my family, plus Grandma, all piling into the minivan together and driving for what felt like days. Having criss-crossed the country multiple times in the last decade, I realize that it's a lot shorter trip than it felt like back then. Anyway, uncle Bob and his family lived in West Texas, which is about what you would expect when you think about West Texas. Dry, desert climate, the ground peppered with mesquite trees and prickly pear cactus, oil derricks in the middle of vast open fields lazily moving up and down, sunshine and short sleeves in December...in other words, not at all like Minnesota. It was like being transported to another world. I was just a kid then...probably 15 or 16 years old, and even at that young age I realized what an opportunity it was to be able to go to a different place in the country with my family...to have family to visit who lived somewhere other than Minnesota.
Bob was always a presence. If you've ever met him, you know what I'm talking about. He was an imposing man, largely built with thick hands, a big head, and small feet...like most of the Ellringers. They come from farming stock...one look at any of them, and you'll believe it. They have the look of people who put their whole bodies to work, and they work hard. Bob's most distinguishing characteristic was his thick head of hair, and his burly beard that went down to his chest. Above that beard were his round cheeks and his distinctively dark-brown Ellringer eyes. All the Ellringer kids have those dark brown eyes; not a single one of them inherited my grandma's piercing baby blues. We see her blues in some of us grandkids though. Most often Bob could be spotted wearing his favorite bib overalls, with or without a shirt underneath, depending on what time of the year it was. The Ellringer men seemingly run hot, so Bob's typical attire was sans shirt. Not a single one of us bats an eye at a little familial partial nudity. It's common for 10+ Ellringers to pile into one house and stay there for days on end together...you're bound to see someone naked at some point, there's just no avoiding it. Most of the Ellringers are exorbitantly loud, and out of all of them, I'd say that Bob was one of the most quiet...which isn't to say that he didn't make himself heard...he had a very commanding voice. When Bob barked out an order, we all turned at attention. He'd raise his voice every now and again if he felt like someone was cheating at poker (Tom), or if someone was "leading crooked" during Sheep, their favorite card game (Sy), or if someone started to get on his case about his Republican loyalty (Dave). Truth be told, all the Ellringers are loud, so to say that one of them is more quiet than the others probably just means that they operate at normal volume for everyone else. It's a wonder that we're not all deaf, given all the yelling we have to do just to be heard during family gatherings, especially during card games.
The Ellringers are big card players, and there are a few games that they like to play. It can almost be guaranteed that at any given Ellringer outing, poker will be played at some point. Everyone gets out their money pots, which vary in description from leather pouches to prescription pill bottles. They are as varying in size and shape as they are in the currency contained within. My container (a prescription pill bottle...fitting, for someone in the healthcare profession) is usually mostly empty, a testament to my poker playing ability. The Ellringers are typically conservative poker players, betting mostly nickels and dimes, and it's considered a big bet when someone throws in a quarter. When the quarters start flying, the players start dropping. You'd be surprised at some of the fights that have almost broken out over a pile of nickels, dimes, and quarters. I suppose it's not so much the currency, but the principle of the thing.
The traditional Ellringer game, and the one that I still can't quite seem to play correctly, is a game called Sheep, or Schafskopf, as it's known in Germany. It's a trump game, and it's also a partner game. One of the things that makes it complicated is that your partner changes with each hand, based on what cards you and your opponents happen to have. There are also a lot of goofy rules, and the order of the trump makes no sense to me. Many an Ellringer will scoff at this as they read it, as the order of trump makes perfect sense to people who have been playing this game for 50-60 years or so. Truth be told, I came across a card game book some years ago and I found the official rules for Schafskopf, and let's just say that the Ellringers have their own version...hahaha! Not that the official rules of Schafskopf made any more sense to me than the Ellringer rules anyway. Bob could almost always be counted on to be the one to get the cards started; usually his cue that he was ready to be done with the pleasantries and get down to card playing was the appearance of his money pouch in front of him. He'd get to work organizing his quarters, dimes, and nickels and wait for the rest of us to catch on. He rarely, if ever, missed a card game at a family gathering. I remember waking up in the wee hours of the morning, hearing their whiskey-fueled banter as they gave each other crap about their cards. They really do have fun together.
A few years back, Bob and his wife Carol started coming to Minnesota in the spring to stay with my parents. They typically would stay for almost the entire summer. Simon and I were still travel nursing at that time, and given that we spent most of our winters on assignments, we were frequently home in the summers. It was then that I really got to know my uncle Bob. I learned that he was a God-fearing gun-toting right-wing Republican Veteran with a fierce love of America and an overall appreciation for a good cup of coffee, a home-cooked meal, a rousing card game, a loyal dog, and time spent with family. He would get choked up when talking about his mom or his dad, who had passed on some years ago. He gave the biggest, tightest, rib-crushingest bear hugs. When you got right down to it, his gruff persona was just a facade for the tender-hearted man hiding beneath the surface. He also liked to go for walks, do puzzles, play horseshoes, and watch movies. He did not, however, enjoy Team America: World Police. It was fun for the rest of us to watch him watch it, particularly the puppet sex scene. I'm honestly surprised that he watched the whole thing...but that was kind of Bob's thing...once you start something, you finish it. He didn't talk much about his military service, and I found out later that that was probably due to the fact that he simply couldn't. Apparently uncle Bob was involved in some highly classified operations. My mom recalls him coming home one time with a briefcase shackled to his wrist, with orders not to discuss it with anyone. So he didn't. Perhaps he was a secret agent of some kind. It's kind of fun to think of my uncle Bob as a secret agent.
I'll never forget the first time my buddy Franko met Uncle Bob...it's truly one of my favorite stories. Franko and I were elbows deep in a Shafskopf lesson with Uncle John, Tom, my mom, Paul, and probably Dave. A good majority of the Ellringers were in Minnesota staying at Grandma's house for some reason or another, so it's safe to say that we were crammed in there like sardines, that the windows were fogged up from all the breathing, and that there were no less than 20 bags of potato chips at the ready. We love chips. I remember there were 6 of us playing the game, and playing six-handed Shafskopf versus the tradional four-handed Shafskopf is probably not the best or easiest way to learn, but dang-nabbit they were going to teach us. Franko was convinced that they were all cheating. So here's Franko, a robust, boisterous person himself, getting into it with the Ellringers for cheating, and all the sudden uncle Bob just appeared from the basement. He walked through the kitchen, said not a word to anyone, and proceeded to go into the living room and have a seat. Odds are pretty good that he wasn't wearing a shirt, but I don't remember...after a while, you just quit keeping track of who has a shirt on and who doesn't. All of us were non-plussed...it was just Bob, having woken from a nap. Franko threw down his cards, looks at me, and says, "You guys are all cheaters...and who the heck was that guy??" I suppose Bob would be a bit of a shock to someone who'd never seen him before, particularly after having woken from a nap with his hair all askew and having nothing to say to anyone in ways of greeting or parting as he made his way through the room.
I'll also always remember the tutorial Bob gave Simon and me on why bib overalls are truly the best pants a person could ever wear. He proceeded to compare bib overalls to a backpack with pants attached. He went through every pocket and explained all the possibilities of all that things you could put in them. Pens, rolls of quarters, toothpicks, mini screwdriver, chapstick, breath mints, wallet, cell phone, amongst other things. He stated that you can literally carry 20-30 pounds worth of stuff in your bibs. He then pointed out the buttons on the sides of the bibs, and explained that if you get hot, you just unbutton those buttons and you have built in ventilation. No matter that people can see your underpants when you have the buttons unbuttoned...we're all family here...mostly, anyway. Given that several of my uncles like to wear bib overalls, it's safe to say that I've probably seen more of my relatives' underpants than most people have of their relatives. Like I said, we're family, it's all good. It's funny...when I come across a random person wearing bibs, I can't help but smile. It reminds me of my family, and how much I adore their little oddities.
The news of Bob's cancer diagnosis was a shock to all of us. Apparently last fall he had developed a cough and just wasn't feeling all that well. He went to the doctor for a checkup, and they decided to do a chest x-ray. They had the device a little lower than usual, and noticed a few suspicious spots on his liver. One test lead to the next, which ultimately resulted in the diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. Initially he was given 6 months to a year to live, which was then quickly escalated to a cautiously generous 6 weeks. We were floored. Being in healthcare, I know that pancreatic cancer is a death-sentence, and typically a short, painful one. My heart dropped when I found out the news. It dropped for Bob, but it dropped even more for his family. The Ellringers are a clan...they rally together when someone is in trouble, and they whoop it up when it's time to have fun. They have a closeness that I admire, and despite their differences, they love each other fiercely. They are some of the most fun people I know, and some of my favorite memories are the huge family gatherings that we've had over the years. Probably the best one was the gigantic party we threw after Grandma passed away several years ago. She lived to the ripe old age of 92, and if she could have found a way to attend her own funeral party, she would have been right there with us eating pizza, playing cards, and shouting loudly to be heard. It's just what we do...what we've always done. It makes me sad to hear about families that aren't close, or families who don't even like each other. I can't imagine life without my giant family.
Bob is the first of my mom's siblings to pass away. Given that he was 73 years old, he had a good long run, filled with lots of family time and doing all the things he wanted to do. I never once heard him lament about missing out on something that he had wanted to do. If he wanted to do something, he did it. If it didn't seem worth doing, he didn't. With Bob there was very little grey area, and I can appreciate that about a person. He lived life on his terms, and for the most part, I think he was a really happy guy, even if he was mostly quiet about it (by Ellringer standards, anyway).
I'm so grateful that I had the opportunity to see him before he passed. I was disheartened to see the man in the bed, my uncle, sleepy and delirious at times. I was amazed by quickly his illness had aged him. By all means still an imposing man, but he looked more like a hospital patient than my robust, commanding uncle. By the time I arrived, Bob was no longer getting out of bed, and he was in a nursing home on hospice care. He needed to be fed, and didn't have much of an appetite. When he did eat, however, he pretty much always made sure to eat dessert first...smart man. He wasn't able to play cards. It absolutely breaks my heart to tell this next story, but my mom told me that before I got there, they were playing cards and Bob was having a good day. They asked him if he wanted to play with them, and he said that he would just listen. And so they played cards while he laid in bed with his eyes closed, listening to his brothers and sisters having fun. Even as sick as he was, it gave him comfort to hear his family playing his favorite games. Apparently at one point while they were playing, he told Paul to stop cheating. It was probably the last good thing they could have done for him.
Once I got there, I quickly went into "hospice nurse" mode, rubbing his feet, swabbing his mouth, and trying to make him comfortable. I checked his catheter and enlisted my brothers and Simon in moving him in the bed to get him into a more comfortable position. I became almost completely unglued when I noticed that he had my grandma's hands. I ran my fingers though his beautiful salt-and-pepper hair (so much like Grandpa's)...still just as thick as I always remembered. I was amazed by how soft and silky it was, and told him that someday I hope my greys will be as pretty as his. We did get some reaction out of him when we talked about his guns, when I put Cooper on the bed for him to pet ("Isn't he ugly, Bob?" "Yep"), and when I told him that I finally beat some of the uncles the night before at Sheep...he smiled at that one...I think Bob always thought I was the worst Sheep player, and a little part of him swore inside every time he found out I was his partner...hahaha! Carol also got quite the grumble of disdain out of him when she told him that she was going to shave his beard. I know care of those who are dying isn't for everyone, but I find hospice nursing to be such a special aspect of healthcare. I like knowing that I'm able to provide comfort to those who are embarking on their last stage of life. And to not only provide comfort to the dying, but to the families that they are leaving behind.
I wish I could have stayed in Texas to help take care of Bob. Had I known that he was going to pass the day after I left, I probably would have. I wanted to be there to make sure he was comfortable, that he wasn't struggling to breathe, and that the nurses and hospice people were checking on him. I wanted to be there for his family, to explain what was happening while it was happening. I made a decision the day that I left...that I was going to do whatever it is that I have to do to become hospice certified, and to make myself available to my family members in the future who might need hospice care. I know there are a lot of good hospice caregivers out there, but how many of them have the availability to devote themselves to just one patient? I can do that. I can make that happen. And I want to do it. More than anything, I want to be available to provide comfort in the dying process to the people who I love the most. I want to be able to do the last good thing, even if that's just a cool wash cloth on the forehead, or a foot massage, or putting on some chapstick. I want to take care of those things so my family doesn't have to, so my family can just spend time doing what they need to do to cope...to play cards, to banter, to tell stories. It's those little things that provide the most comfort in the end.
The most comforting thing of all in these situations is spending time with family. Every night that I was in Texas, I stayed up until 1am or later drinking beer and playing cards with my aunts, uncles, and cousins. One of the nights we stayed up until past 2am, and as I was getting into bed, I heard Tom and Paul (Bob's brothers) giggling like little kids in the back room as they were getting ready for bed. I believe they had gotten into the Fireball that night. My heart was so full of love for my family as I listened to them finding happiness in the sadness. It's how we cope, it's how we stay close, it's how we honor our family members who lead a good life and who are passing into whatever comes next. We played a few hands of Texas Hold 'Em, which was Bob's favorite poker game. We even found a bottle of some homemade Kahlua that Bob had infusing in the cupboard, so we poured a bunch of glasses of it and put up a toast to the husband, the father, the brother, the uncle, and the grandpa who we loved and who we were all going to miss. To top it off, it would have been fitting to have gone out in the yard and shot off a bunch of Bob's guns while shouting at the stars, but we refrained. Given that Bob was vigilant about gun safety and that guns were only for protection or hunting, he would not have approved of that behavior. But I still think it would have been a fitting tribute...sober, of course. It made me sad to think that some of the last good times I've had with my family were centered around someone's death or illness. I think celebrating someone's life is as good a reason to get together as any, but I don't want that to be the only time that we do it. I want to see my family more. I want to travel to see my cousins who live near and far, I want to finally commit to taking that trip to Thailand to see my uncle Sy. I want to celebrate life while we're all still healthy enough to do it.
So I've got some new goals to accomplish this year, and I have uncle Bob to thank for it. Sometimes getting pointed in the right direction takes inspiration from the most unexpected of places. I'm going to take his illness and his passing and do something positive with it. Thanks for everything, uncle Bob. We love you. We miss you. God speed.
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
Hump Day Randomness....
Here's a fun fact for the day: I've never seen Cooper lick his wiener. Not that I'm the type of weirdo who hangs around keeping track of that sort of thing, but Simon and I were talking with friends recently and they commented about how their dog licks his wiener at the most inopportune times. Which is usually the case with dogs, and cats too, I suppose. They behave normally until you sit down to watch TV or you have guests over, then decide that right then and there is the perfect time to give a good washing to their genitals. In front of everyone. No shame. So that got me thinking...Cooper never does that. Isn't that weird? Shouldn't he? I can't decide if he neglects wiener washings simply because he doesn't care, or if it's a matter of him not having the flexibility to reach. I certainly don't want to take up the torch of cleaning his wiener for him, especially since it's been 11 years and all has been well in that department thus far. It's just kind of a funny thing to think about. Animals are weird. They cause us people to be weird, too.
Moving on with more stories about Cooper...seriously, I could probably fill an entire blog up with stories about him...he's such an odd little bugger. Simon and I went to Phoenix in late December to have a sort of couple's getaway. It was a nice reprieve from all our responsibilities, and while there was a cold snap going through and it wasn't the nice, warm, balmy weather we expecting, it was nice to just get away from work, laundry, doing the dishes, cooking, bills, and all those other things that get in the way of us just focusing on each other and having fun. So we lined up our wonderful pet sitter, Bryn, to watch Cooper for us, as usual. Well...all was not as usual when Bryn messaged me to tell me that Cooper had peed all over our bed after we left. Like, on the pillows. Granted, Simon and I have needed new pillows for a while, but I hadn't counted on the dog making that final decision for us. I was completely flabbergasted by it. It's a phenomenon known as the "angry pee," and it's really not all that uncommon of a thing. It's their way of punishing us for leaving them behind or putting them in situations that they're not happy about. My first dog, Lady, was notorious for the angry pee. If that little dog felt slighted in the least, you could bet there would be a puddle on the floor to show for it. And what do you do then? Punish her? And risk yet another angry pee? I usually did punish her, but I felt bad about it because I knew that she was frustrated or afraid and couldn't think of a better way to show it. The alternative to angry peeing probably would have been to destroy something of mine or Simon's...most likely mine, since she adored Simon. So back to Cooper...at 11 years old, he has never, ever angry peed. And the reason I know that it was an angry pee and not just a straight up accident is because it was on our bed. He's had the occasional accident over the years, but never on the bed...this time, it was personal. I felt bad for Bryn, having to deal with that, but luckily we have lots of spare bedding at the ready, so at least she didn't have to deal too much with it. What a little turd.
So now that it's wintertime, I can air my grievances about my disdain for the smell of cold people. I know, it's such a weird thing to notice, but I don't like the way people smell when they come inside from the cold. I can't even describe what it smells like, just that I find it overwhelmingly unpleasant. I have a hypersensitive sense of smell, and while good things smell really really good, that also means that bad things smell really really bad. Downright terrible, in fact...frequently nauseating. People ask me how I've been able to be a nurse for this long with a strong sense of smell. Simple...I hold my breath. All the time. Sometimes to the point that I feel as though I'm putting myself at risk for passing out. I haven't passed out yet, but there have been some close calls of me running out of the door of the patient room for a brief second just to take a breath of some fresher air (because, let's be serious, you don't have to be a hypersensitive smeller to realize that there's no such thing as fresh air in a hospital). I couldn't eat Indian food for the longest time, not just because it looks like vomit, but because the smell of the spices upon entering the restaurant made me want to hurl. The first time I went to an Indian restaurant I physically almost turned around and walked right back out. Had my friends not been behind me, I probably would have. Even after all these years of really enjoying Indian food, I still hold my breath when I enter an Indian restaurant. I physically gag almost every time I pick up Cooper's poop. You'd think after all this time I'd have the breath holding down to a science when it comes to picking up dog poop, but no, sometimes I just forget and inhale at the wrong time, or sometimes I do get the breath holding just right, but the smell still lingers after I've determined that it might be safe to breathe. Simon used to make fun of me every time I'd pick up the poop, because I would always say, "that poop stinks!" Well, yeah...because it's poop...poop always stinks. But...I think it stinks worse to me. When we first started dating and I would comment on how good something smelled, Simon used to think that having a hypersensitive sense of smell was a blessing in disguise...after having to deal with me and my nose for 8+ years, he's come to believe that it's actually quite the curse, having determined that there are far more bad smelling things in this world than good smelling. Life is hard, eh?
In my previous blog, I had eluded to the idea of some changes that I'm going to make in the coming year. One of those changes might be the acquisition of a Jeep Wrangler. Don't get me wrong, I like both of our current carss, but I don't particularly enjoy them. Ever since my Jeep Liberty, which I had for 8 wonderful years, I just haven't enjoyed our cars all that much. The Grand Cherokee is huge, and while it's got about all the bells and whistles a person could want, it's not all that fun to tear around in. Truth be told, I shouldn't be tearing around in it at all, as it's rather top heavy and feels like it's going to roll over if I take a corner too fast. But I do love those heated seats...oh yes, I don't think I'll ever own another car without heated seats (peter heaters, as we've come to call them). Outside of the lack of tearing around ability, the Grand Cherokee is a really good vehicle...it pulls our trailer like a champ. Even when we had two kayaks up top and a giant 6x12 trailer loaded to the gills on our move out here to Flagstaff, that thing never stuttered for a second. It's got a great engine, it can get through dang near any sort of terrain, and it has that fabulous Jeep turning radius. What more could a person want? Well...I want to start Jeeping...which means I want to start driving down dirt roads and taking off-road trails that are designed specifically for off-road vehicles. I know that the Grand Cherokee has a Trail Rated badge on it, which means that per factory specifications, it's equipped to go off-road, but it's big and sometimes unwieldy, and honestly, despite the wonderful Jeep turning radius, getting that thing turned around in a tight spot might very well have me careening off a cliff. But we're not ready to get rid of the Cherokee yet, mostly because it's the only vehicle we have that can pull our trailer, and better yet, it's paid off. So...the Juke might be the one to get the axe, should I decide to go through with getting the Wrangler. There used to be a time in my life when trading in my old car for a new car would have me in tears. As if the old car and I had bonded on an emotional level and that I was abandoning it to the unknown. That's probably why I've sold most of my old cars to my parents...so I could still drive them once in a while and feel that I left the car in good hands. Silly, I know. But I've kind of gotten over that. I like the Juke, but I don't love the Juke. I've never really gotten used to the turbo-charged engine, mostly because of the turbo-lag, which I knew nothing about prior to owning a car with a turbo. It's kind of like the car is under powered when you first push on the accelerator, which is actually quite frightening when you're trying to pull out in traffic, and then all the sudden that turbo kicks in and you're thrown back in the seat whilst roasting the tires...let me tell you, there's nothing sexier than a little front-wheel drive hatchback roasting the tires at an intersection...hahaha! Not that I'm looking for sexy, I'm just looking for something more enjoyable and fun. I've wanted a Wrangler for a long time, and now that I'm in a position to do so, and I'm trying to focus on activities and such that make me the happiest, I think I'd really enjoy a vehicle that I can do more with. So I'm thinking about it. In obtaining as much happiness as possible, I'm remaining mindful of the fact that flipping cars all the time isn't exactly financially smart, and given that one of our bigger changes in the next year or so will require a fair amount of money, maybe an additional expense simply for fun isn't the smartest idea. So we'll see.
More dog stuff, and this is just plain weird. So when I had Brie, my other little pug (rest her stinky little soul), one of her favorite things was to chew up my underpants. Sometimes she'd outright destroy them, other times she'd simply gnaw on them for a while and leave little damage to speak of, outside of maybe a small hole or two. Well, being the cheapy that I am, I'd survey the wreckage and determine if the underpants were salvageable or not. More often than not, they were, and those underpants would then be downgraded to the "work underpants" drawer. I have no idea how this whole idea of work underpants came about. I think because my job had the high probability of being disgusting a fair amount of the time, I found it somewhat frivolous to waste my good underpants on a night spent cleaning up blood and body fluids. Not that it even matters...they're just underpants for crying out loud, and it's not like I'm continually getting splashed by other people's excrement, but for some reason I feel that being at work requires underpants that are on the B-squad. Being a nurse, the last things I care about in underpants while on the job are panty lines or lace trim...what I really care about are underpants that aren't going to ride up my butt when I'm chasing a naked patient down the hallway. So the underpants that Brie liked the best soon became work underpants. The other day, a pair of Brie/work underpants reached the level of holiness that destined them for the trash can. I had a moment of sadness as I remembered what delight she got out of ripping apart my grundies...as if throwing them away was like throwing away a physical memory of her. Silly, I know, but I loved that little dog and I still miss her so much, and any little bit of her that I can hold on to, I do. Like I said...dogs are weird...so are their people.
Well, now that we're all weirded out by my personal habits and my bizarre attachment issues to chewed up underpants (would it be less weird if it was Simon who had been chewing on them? Wait...don't answer that...), let's move on. I have a weird annoyance associated with the addition of skin color choices for the emojis on my iphone. Why be annoyed by something so trivial? I have no idea. It's just one of those things. Prior to the skin color choices, pretty much everything that represented a human being was yellow. Bright yellow. Like no person outside of someone dying of liver failure is actually that shade of yellow. So, in representing no one, the yellow emojis represented everyone. Were people really complaining or offended by a lack of a brown, or a tan, or a white person emoji? There's a middle finger emoji now (complete with skin color choices); are people offended by that too? Simon said that maybe a white person or a black person might not feel like they're being accurately represented by the yellow emoji. Does the color of the emoji better get your point across? I mean, if you're getting an emoji from me and I chose to use a black person rather than a white person, does that change the meaning of the emoji itself? As a white person, is it appropriate for me to even use the black person emoji? It's like 2mm tall for pete's sake...half the time I can barely tell what the emoji is doing, let alone what its skin color happens to be. It's not like the emoji represents a significant portion of my expression, and I don't spend a lot of time thinking about them or using them...I think I'm more annoyed by that extra step I have to take in picking the skin color of my emoji that bothers me. So now I avoid the people emojis...problem solved. Of all the things to spend time thinking about in the world...
During the holiday season, there was a lot of discussion about when holiday pay started at work, and when it ended. I still don't know, but there was holiday pay on my paycheck so I figured that was good enough. But...I should probably know, so that if there were errors in the doling out of holiday pay, I could catch it and make it right. All that aside, a few coworkers and I got on the subject of holiday pay hours from jobs that we'd had previously. One of the guys in telemetry used to work for one of the local grocery store chains, and he said that during the application and interview process, management made a big deal about how the employees would receive holiday pay for Thanksgiving Day and Christmas Day. What the management didn't tell the employees until later was that the store closed at 3pm on Thanksgiving, and that it wasn't open at all on Christmas. So...really, they only got holiday pay for half of a day, one day a year. Not gonna lie, that seems a little dishonest, and why bother bringing it up at all? Honestly, most people would probably be more excited that they didn't have to work at all on Christmas than they would be about having to work and getting holiday pay. It just seemed like such an odd "benefit" to mention during the interview process, and I doubt most people base whether or not they take a job on the 2 days out of the year that holiday pay is offered. I just think it's funny the way management will sometimes manipulate a situation to make it seem better than it actually is, even if that situation is so trivial that it actually seems like more work to manipulate it in the first place.
So there's that. I don't know if you've noticed (most likely not unless you work in the print industry), but I've been trying really hard to stop double-spacing after a period when I type. I was taught all those years ago that you had to double-space after a period to further denote the end of a sentence...apparently this stems from back in the day when people were using typewriters and all letters took up the same amount of space...meaning, a lowercase i took up the same space as a capital B. So it made sense back then to double-space at the end of a sentence so a person knew when one sentence ended and the other began. I'd have to think that the period would make that clear, but I wasn't using typewriters so I don't honestly know. Now that typefaces have changed to allow each letter to have its own individual space, there isn't a need to have so much extra space between sentences. A friend of mine who works in journalism has posted several grievances on Facebook about people who type letters to the editor and double-space after a period. Apparently it causes issues with the page layout and whatnot, meaning the editors have to go through and remove spaces one-by-one after every single sentence. So I've been making an effort to stop double-spacing (fun fact: Facebook automatically removes the double space behind a sentence and replaces it with a single space when you post something...so even when I double space on Facebook, it looks like I'm single-spacing). It's been really difficult to break my double-spacing habit. Partly because there is a certain satisfaction that comes with double spacing after a period...like "Whoo hoo! That sentence is DONE!" There's also that muscle memory associated with double-spacing...that's the hardest part. I'll be going along single-spacing, then all the sudden I have a full paragraph of double-spacing. Then I go back and take them out...quite the process. Good thing I don't have to do that for a living...sorry Adam, I am trying to be better! It still seems like a trivial thing to me, but now that it has my attention, I think about it...and I have to say, it looks weird to me, but I'll get over that with time. I'm sure there are simple oddities with my job too that would seem trivial to people outside the profession.
Simon and I saw Star Wars: The Force Awakens for the second time last night, and I have to say, I like it even more. I had read a few articles online about how some people were disappointed with some of the plot holes, some of the characters' behaviors, and some of the actors who ended up playing those characters. After seeing it a second time, I've come to the conclusion that those people need to find something else to do with their time. First of all, Star Wars isn't real...let's just throw that out there for all the people who seemed personally offended by the movie. I thought that this newest episode actually felt more like the first three (and by first three, I mean Episodes 4-6). It was light-hearted when it could be, but serious when it needed to be. I also liked that it had a lot of throwbacks to the some of the sayings and situations in Episodes 4-6, which a lot of fans seemed to appreciate (some thought it was a lack of imagination and that the writers were just recycling old material...I disagree). While I don't count myself amongst the many who thought episodes 1-3 were the worst movies ever made, I think Episode 7 was just as good as Episodes 4-6. And as for the plot holes...it was the first of 3 movies...they've got two more movies to clear up some of the things that left us guessing and scratching our heads...we have to trust in the writers and not get so worked up about it. Just relax and enjoy it for what it is...a fun action movie with recognizable characters. I will say, and this is a bit of a spoiler, I thought the whole scenario behind Poe's apparent rescue from Jakku after the TIE Fighter crash (and Finn being left behind) to his nonchalant appearance later on in the movie was rather weird. Who rescued him? Why did they leave Finn behind? How did the rescuers even know where Poe was? How did the rescuers get to Jakku before the First Order? And how did they get off Jakku without the First Order taking them out? That was my only beef with the movie...there was just a lack of details and some timeline issues surrounding the perceived death but actual rescue of an important character in the movie. But again, overall, a very good flick, and I'm looking forward to the next one. Is it 2017 yet??
And that's all she wrote! And by she, I mean me. Have a great Hump Day!
Moving on with more stories about Cooper...seriously, I could probably fill an entire blog up with stories about him...he's such an odd little bugger. Simon and I went to Phoenix in late December to have a sort of couple's getaway. It was a nice reprieve from all our responsibilities, and while there was a cold snap going through and it wasn't the nice, warm, balmy weather we expecting, it was nice to just get away from work, laundry, doing the dishes, cooking, bills, and all those other things that get in the way of us just focusing on each other and having fun. So we lined up our wonderful pet sitter, Bryn, to watch Cooper for us, as usual. Well...all was not as usual when Bryn messaged me to tell me that Cooper had peed all over our bed after we left. Like, on the pillows. Granted, Simon and I have needed new pillows for a while, but I hadn't counted on the dog making that final decision for us. I was completely flabbergasted by it. It's a phenomenon known as the "angry pee," and it's really not all that uncommon of a thing. It's their way of punishing us for leaving them behind or putting them in situations that they're not happy about. My first dog, Lady, was notorious for the angry pee. If that little dog felt slighted in the least, you could bet there would be a puddle on the floor to show for it. And what do you do then? Punish her? And risk yet another angry pee? I usually did punish her, but I felt bad about it because I knew that she was frustrated or afraid and couldn't think of a better way to show it. The alternative to angry peeing probably would have been to destroy something of mine or Simon's...most likely mine, since she adored Simon. So back to Cooper...at 11 years old, he has never, ever angry peed. And the reason I know that it was an angry pee and not just a straight up accident is because it was on our bed. He's had the occasional accident over the years, but never on the bed...this time, it was personal. I felt bad for Bryn, having to deal with that, but luckily we have lots of spare bedding at the ready, so at least she didn't have to deal too much with it. What a little turd.
So now that it's wintertime, I can air my grievances about my disdain for the smell of cold people. I know, it's such a weird thing to notice, but I don't like the way people smell when they come inside from the cold. I can't even describe what it smells like, just that I find it overwhelmingly unpleasant. I have a hypersensitive sense of smell, and while good things smell really really good, that also means that bad things smell really really bad. Downright terrible, in fact...frequently nauseating. People ask me how I've been able to be a nurse for this long with a strong sense of smell. Simple...I hold my breath. All the time. Sometimes to the point that I feel as though I'm putting myself at risk for passing out. I haven't passed out yet, but there have been some close calls of me running out of the door of the patient room for a brief second just to take a breath of some fresher air (because, let's be serious, you don't have to be a hypersensitive smeller to realize that there's no such thing as fresh air in a hospital). I couldn't eat Indian food for the longest time, not just because it looks like vomit, but because the smell of the spices upon entering the restaurant made me want to hurl. The first time I went to an Indian restaurant I physically almost turned around and walked right back out. Had my friends not been behind me, I probably would have. Even after all these years of really enjoying Indian food, I still hold my breath when I enter an Indian restaurant. I physically gag almost every time I pick up Cooper's poop. You'd think after all this time I'd have the breath holding down to a science when it comes to picking up dog poop, but no, sometimes I just forget and inhale at the wrong time, or sometimes I do get the breath holding just right, but the smell still lingers after I've determined that it might be safe to breathe. Simon used to make fun of me every time I'd pick up the poop, because I would always say, "that poop stinks!" Well, yeah...because it's poop...poop always stinks. But...I think it stinks worse to me. When we first started dating and I would comment on how good something smelled, Simon used to think that having a hypersensitive sense of smell was a blessing in disguise...after having to deal with me and my nose for 8+ years, he's come to believe that it's actually quite the curse, having determined that there are far more bad smelling things in this world than good smelling. Life is hard, eh?
In my previous blog, I had eluded to the idea of some changes that I'm going to make in the coming year. One of those changes might be the acquisition of a Jeep Wrangler. Don't get me wrong, I like both of our current carss, but I don't particularly enjoy them. Ever since my Jeep Liberty, which I had for 8 wonderful years, I just haven't enjoyed our cars all that much. The Grand Cherokee is huge, and while it's got about all the bells and whistles a person could want, it's not all that fun to tear around in. Truth be told, I shouldn't be tearing around in it at all, as it's rather top heavy and feels like it's going to roll over if I take a corner too fast. But I do love those heated seats...oh yes, I don't think I'll ever own another car without heated seats (peter heaters, as we've come to call them). Outside of the lack of tearing around ability, the Grand Cherokee is a really good vehicle...it pulls our trailer like a champ. Even when we had two kayaks up top and a giant 6x12 trailer loaded to the gills on our move out here to Flagstaff, that thing never stuttered for a second. It's got a great engine, it can get through dang near any sort of terrain, and it has that fabulous Jeep turning radius. What more could a person want? Well...I want to start Jeeping...which means I want to start driving down dirt roads and taking off-road trails that are designed specifically for off-road vehicles. I know that the Grand Cherokee has a Trail Rated badge on it, which means that per factory specifications, it's equipped to go off-road, but it's big and sometimes unwieldy, and honestly, despite the wonderful Jeep turning radius, getting that thing turned around in a tight spot might very well have me careening off a cliff. But we're not ready to get rid of the Cherokee yet, mostly because it's the only vehicle we have that can pull our trailer, and better yet, it's paid off. So...the Juke might be the one to get the axe, should I decide to go through with getting the Wrangler. There used to be a time in my life when trading in my old car for a new car would have me in tears. As if the old car and I had bonded on an emotional level and that I was abandoning it to the unknown. That's probably why I've sold most of my old cars to my parents...so I could still drive them once in a while and feel that I left the car in good hands. Silly, I know. But I've kind of gotten over that. I like the Juke, but I don't love the Juke. I've never really gotten used to the turbo-charged engine, mostly because of the turbo-lag, which I knew nothing about prior to owning a car with a turbo. It's kind of like the car is under powered when you first push on the accelerator, which is actually quite frightening when you're trying to pull out in traffic, and then all the sudden that turbo kicks in and you're thrown back in the seat whilst roasting the tires...let me tell you, there's nothing sexier than a little front-wheel drive hatchback roasting the tires at an intersection...hahaha! Not that I'm looking for sexy, I'm just looking for something more enjoyable and fun. I've wanted a Wrangler for a long time, and now that I'm in a position to do so, and I'm trying to focus on activities and such that make me the happiest, I think I'd really enjoy a vehicle that I can do more with. So I'm thinking about it. In obtaining as much happiness as possible, I'm remaining mindful of the fact that flipping cars all the time isn't exactly financially smart, and given that one of our bigger changes in the next year or so will require a fair amount of money, maybe an additional expense simply for fun isn't the smartest idea. So we'll see.
More dog stuff, and this is just plain weird. So when I had Brie, my other little pug (rest her stinky little soul), one of her favorite things was to chew up my underpants. Sometimes she'd outright destroy them, other times she'd simply gnaw on them for a while and leave little damage to speak of, outside of maybe a small hole or two. Well, being the cheapy that I am, I'd survey the wreckage and determine if the underpants were salvageable or not. More often than not, they were, and those underpants would then be downgraded to the "work underpants" drawer. I have no idea how this whole idea of work underpants came about. I think because my job had the high probability of being disgusting a fair amount of the time, I found it somewhat frivolous to waste my good underpants on a night spent cleaning up blood and body fluids. Not that it even matters...they're just underpants for crying out loud, and it's not like I'm continually getting splashed by other people's excrement, but for some reason I feel that being at work requires underpants that are on the B-squad. Being a nurse, the last things I care about in underpants while on the job are panty lines or lace trim...what I really care about are underpants that aren't going to ride up my butt when I'm chasing a naked patient down the hallway. So the underpants that Brie liked the best soon became work underpants. The other day, a pair of Brie/work underpants reached the level of holiness that destined them for the trash can. I had a moment of sadness as I remembered what delight she got out of ripping apart my grundies...as if throwing them away was like throwing away a physical memory of her. Silly, I know, but I loved that little dog and I still miss her so much, and any little bit of her that I can hold on to, I do. Like I said...dogs are weird...so are their people.
Well, now that we're all weirded out by my personal habits and my bizarre attachment issues to chewed up underpants (would it be less weird if it was Simon who had been chewing on them? Wait...don't answer that...), let's move on. I have a weird annoyance associated with the addition of skin color choices for the emojis on my iphone. Why be annoyed by something so trivial? I have no idea. It's just one of those things. Prior to the skin color choices, pretty much everything that represented a human being was yellow. Bright yellow. Like no person outside of someone dying of liver failure is actually that shade of yellow. So, in representing no one, the yellow emojis represented everyone. Were people really complaining or offended by a lack of a brown, or a tan, or a white person emoji? There's a middle finger emoji now (complete with skin color choices); are people offended by that too? Simon said that maybe a white person or a black person might not feel like they're being accurately represented by the yellow emoji. Does the color of the emoji better get your point across? I mean, if you're getting an emoji from me and I chose to use a black person rather than a white person, does that change the meaning of the emoji itself? As a white person, is it appropriate for me to even use the black person emoji? It's like 2mm tall for pete's sake...half the time I can barely tell what the emoji is doing, let alone what its skin color happens to be. It's not like the emoji represents a significant portion of my expression, and I don't spend a lot of time thinking about them or using them...I think I'm more annoyed by that extra step I have to take in picking the skin color of my emoji that bothers me. So now I avoid the people emojis...problem solved. Of all the things to spend time thinking about in the world...
During the holiday season, there was a lot of discussion about when holiday pay started at work, and when it ended. I still don't know, but there was holiday pay on my paycheck so I figured that was good enough. But...I should probably know, so that if there were errors in the doling out of holiday pay, I could catch it and make it right. All that aside, a few coworkers and I got on the subject of holiday pay hours from jobs that we'd had previously. One of the guys in telemetry used to work for one of the local grocery store chains, and he said that during the application and interview process, management made a big deal about how the employees would receive holiday pay for Thanksgiving Day and Christmas Day. What the management didn't tell the employees until later was that the store closed at 3pm on Thanksgiving, and that it wasn't open at all on Christmas. So...really, they only got holiday pay for half of a day, one day a year. Not gonna lie, that seems a little dishonest, and why bother bringing it up at all? Honestly, most people would probably be more excited that they didn't have to work at all on Christmas than they would be about having to work and getting holiday pay. It just seemed like such an odd "benefit" to mention during the interview process, and I doubt most people base whether or not they take a job on the 2 days out of the year that holiday pay is offered. I just think it's funny the way management will sometimes manipulate a situation to make it seem better than it actually is, even if that situation is so trivial that it actually seems like more work to manipulate it in the first place.
So there's that. I don't know if you've noticed (most likely not unless you work in the print industry), but I've been trying really hard to stop double-spacing after a period when I type. I was taught all those years ago that you had to double-space after a period to further denote the end of a sentence...apparently this stems from back in the day when people were using typewriters and all letters took up the same amount of space...meaning, a lowercase i took up the same space as a capital B. So it made sense back then to double-space at the end of a sentence so a person knew when one sentence ended and the other began. I'd have to think that the period would make that clear, but I wasn't using typewriters so I don't honestly know. Now that typefaces have changed to allow each letter to have its own individual space, there isn't a need to have so much extra space between sentences. A friend of mine who works in journalism has posted several grievances on Facebook about people who type letters to the editor and double-space after a period. Apparently it causes issues with the page layout and whatnot, meaning the editors have to go through and remove spaces one-by-one after every single sentence. So I've been making an effort to stop double-spacing (fun fact: Facebook automatically removes the double space behind a sentence and replaces it with a single space when you post something...so even when I double space on Facebook, it looks like I'm single-spacing). It's been really difficult to break my double-spacing habit. Partly because there is a certain satisfaction that comes with double spacing after a period...like "Whoo hoo! That sentence is DONE!" There's also that muscle memory associated with double-spacing...that's the hardest part. I'll be going along single-spacing, then all the sudden I have a full paragraph of double-spacing. Then I go back and take them out...quite the process. Good thing I don't have to do that for a living...sorry Adam, I am trying to be better! It still seems like a trivial thing to me, but now that it has my attention, I think about it...and I have to say, it looks weird to me, but I'll get over that with time. I'm sure there are simple oddities with my job too that would seem trivial to people outside the profession.
Simon and I saw Star Wars: The Force Awakens for the second time last night, and I have to say, I like it even more. I had read a few articles online about how some people were disappointed with some of the plot holes, some of the characters' behaviors, and some of the actors who ended up playing those characters. After seeing it a second time, I've come to the conclusion that those people need to find something else to do with their time. First of all, Star Wars isn't real...let's just throw that out there for all the people who seemed personally offended by the movie. I thought that this newest episode actually felt more like the first three (and by first three, I mean Episodes 4-6). It was light-hearted when it could be, but serious when it needed to be. I also liked that it had a lot of throwbacks to the some of the sayings and situations in Episodes 4-6, which a lot of fans seemed to appreciate (some thought it was a lack of imagination and that the writers were just recycling old material...I disagree). While I don't count myself amongst the many who thought episodes 1-3 were the worst movies ever made, I think Episode 7 was just as good as Episodes 4-6. And as for the plot holes...it was the first of 3 movies...they've got two more movies to clear up some of the things that left us guessing and scratching our heads...we have to trust in the writers and not get so worked up about it. Just relax and enjoy it for what it is...a fun action movie with recognizable characters. I will say, and this is a bit of a spoiler, I thought the whole scenario behind Poe's apparent rescue from Jakku after the TIE Fighter crash (and Finn being left behind) to his nonchalant appearance later on in the movie was rather weird. Who rescued him? Why did they leave Finn behind? How did the rescuers even know where Poe was? How did the rescuers get to Jakku before the First Order? And how did they get off Jakku without the First Order taking them out? That was my only beef with the movie...there was just a lack of details and some timeline issues surrounding the perceived death but actual rescue of an important character in the movie. But again, overall, a very good flick, and I'm looking forward to the next one. Is it 2017 yet??
And that's all she wrote! And by she, I mean me. Have a great Hump Day!
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