Travel

A sad comment on the state of our world.

I have just spent the last 10 minutes combing my backpack, trying to find and eliminate anything that might remotely be construed as some component of some device which might be used to harm another person.

We are flying to Seattle tomorrow for a friend's wedding. I had my tweezers confiscated by an overzealous airport security guard on a previous trip, so I have had a firsthand taste of the New Normal. And each time I think of whether or not a paper clip or pen in my bag might set the antennae wiggling, I am reminded of why we need to be so diligent, and I am sad.

Now, when I wake up in the morning and hear some mundane and trivial city hall story lead the news, I breathe a sigh of relief, because it means that nothing horrible has happened overnight. And no, I am not naive enough to think that if the CBC doesn't report it, it didn't happen (or, of course, the corollary, that if they did, it must be true). But it does say something about the reality in which we now operate, when the unthinkable is no longer unthinkable, but something we are hoping to avoid or prevent. We no longer feel invincible. We never were invincible. We mourn the loss of our sense of safety, but in getting on with life, we incorporate the knowledge that anything can happen. Anything did happen. It was a loss of innocence, as much as a loss of lives.

So I will do my part. I will not knowingly bring anything onto the plane which might turn out to be useful for some nefarious purpose. And I will think of the price, in lives, that North America has paid, to make this mentality necessary. Nothing will ever be the same again. We walk on eggshells. I don't see this as progress, as some changes are. This is both deeper and more superficial. It is about anger, hatred, religious doctrine. It is about a sense of violation and righteous indignation. It is about self-preservation.

I will post from Seattle, if I have time, assuming I am not hauled off the plane and detained for matters pertaining to national security, or having too much fun.

Couples

There are some people on the bus some mornings that I see over and over again and their behaviour screams "BLOG!!" to me.

There are two women and two men. They all have accents and are darker skinned, perhaps West Indian or Caribbean. The women sit together and the men sit together but usually across and back a row or two. They are all going to work. I get off the bus first, so I don't know where they work, but they all carry lunches and dress in blue collar attire.

The women are obviously very good friends, possibly sisters. They seem quite close; they are familiar with each other tone and word, and sit physically close, bordering on intimate but without crossing the line. The men also seem to know each other, but not as well. Their conversation is friendly but slightly less familiar. It is obvious that they are not as close to each other as the women are.

The two couples know each other. Often, one or the other of the women will toss back snide or derisive comments in the direction of the men. I have not eavesdropped closely enough to hear actual words, but the tone is obvious. This is pretty much all the factual information I have about them. The rest is blanks that I have filled in from my own imagination.

I imagine that the women are each married to one of the men. Perhaps one couple emigrated here and then sponsored her sister and husband. They are all struggling financially, socially and culturally in their new home. The sisters have an expressive approach to dealing with these stresses; they live their shared experiences together. They are emotionally connected and not afraid to share their frustrations with each other. The men are emotionally more reserved and less comfortable confiding in either their wives or each other. So they talk about sports and superficial things, and endure the bond their wives have with each other, since it is painfully obvious to even the most casual observer that the women prefer the company of each other to that of their own husbands. What may have been strong and loving relationships prior to the move that uprooted them and brought them so far from home have warped and bent under the strain, and may now have some serious structural flaws.

The couples live, I imagine, in two apartments next door to each other in the same building, and spent all their social time together. I expect that the sisters will conspire to get pregnant at the same time. As soon as they leave their apartments for work each morning, the women pair off and gratefully hand off the men to each other, compatibility be damned. The men put up with it because they don't mind each other's company, really, but also because to protest would be to risk incurring the wrath of their women, which would be by no means worth the effort. Forced together through the circumstances of their wives' bond and their own mutual heritage, they grin and bear the situation with little complaint.

The only times the couples are alone in their own homes, as couples, is for bed, and it is then, only occasionally, that the men make tentative and hesitant forays into the forbidden territory of expanding the couple's social horizons, maybe suggesting an outing Friday night with the guy from work and his wife, only to be shot down by her standing plans with her sister. Every once in a while, tempers flare, and give ammunition to the women's snide and derisive comments on the bus, although more often than not, the men bite their tongues and suffer in silence, knowing full well that every word of the conversation will be reported to the other sister in a tearful midnight phone call.

I imagine that one day, one of the men will grow tired of his secondary role and will leave. Maybe to go back to his country of origin. His leaving will disrupt the balance of this little community and eventually the solidarity of the sisters will force the other one to cut his losses and leave as well. At first, the sisters will barely notice the absence of the men and will move in together and raise their children as siblings. The men will go on to mature, happy relationships with other women back home; the women will become bitter and frustrated, and spend the rest of their years not acknowledging that all they needed to do was the required marital work of recognizing husband as friend and partner, and valuing them at least as highly as they did each other.

It's all about give and take... sometimes, often, I get all wrapped up in my own tasks and my own stresses, and forget for the briefest of moments that I have a friend and partner that needs to be acknowledged and appreciated. And thankfully, he keeps me grounded, brings me back around to the realization that it's not all about me anymore, it's about us, all four (and more) of us. He reminds me daily, just by the little things he does, that all that required marital work is worth every ounce of energy it takes. I love you. Thank you.

Girlfriend

We had a Girls' Night yesterday, I and my oldest dearest friend. I looked forward to it all week. I abandoned my family for the evening to drink white wine and eat junk food, watch a chick flick, dye my hair (yes, it's true, Pomegranate is not my natural colour) and talk about... well... things only girlfriends can talk about. We gave ourselves pedicures. My toenails are painted, my relationships are all straightened out, and my faith in estrogen therapy (the psychological variety) is restored.

There is no remedy for sagging spirits (not that mine were sagging, at least not this week) like the unbiased and nonjudgmental ear of a true friend. You can say things to a friend you would not say to your spouse or even your mother. And you in return for your disclosure, you get straight from the hip, no holds barred, opinions and advice.

You can take criticism from a girlfriend. You can take it when she tells you that yes, your ass does look big in that skirt, without feeling the need to pout, punish, or retaliate. You always get unconditional sympathy from a true friend, even when maybe you don't deserve it, but you just need it. You can also count on a friend to lend you the perfect necklace for the outfit that doesn't make your ass look big. Heck, she's usually good for the enire outfit, when there's nothing in your own closet.

The best kind of friend is the kind where you don't necessarily feel the need to converse every day, but even if it's been a while, you pick up where you left off as if you last chatted an hour ago. That's why the phone calls are always so long, because there's always something to say. I know there have been stretches where we didn't talk much, but I never remember why and it doesn't seem to have amounted to much at the next two hour phone call.

A good friend tends to be more constant than anything. I have now known this particular friend more than half my life. We met in high school, when I was struggling to fit in by purposely not fitting in, and she was struggling with her desire to have seven children - she is permanently childless now, by choice. We knew each other before partners, before careers, before (my) children. We have vats of mutual memories, some fun, some embarassing, most provoking peals of laughter that no one else shares. We became the people we are, together. Through thick and thin, good boyfriends and losers, joys and heartbreaks, countless moves, several careers, and a few different cities, her number has always been on my speed dial. What does that tell you?

So, today, my feet are soft, and my heart is full. Thank goodness for Girls' Night, and thank goodness for my friend. I raise my glass to her and to many more Girls' Nights. Next time, though, she gets to pick the movie. I'll bring the wine.

Olympics

At the risk of voicing an sentiment unpopular amongst my countrymen, I am not convinced federal money should fund athletics. Canadians are crying the blues about how few medals we have won in Athens. "If only the athletes had more money, they could afford to train," we whine.

I am finding it tough to rationalize the idea that we spend tax money on what really amounts to little more than entertainment. Really, what good does it do a country to see a few dozen elite athletes compete on the world stage? It doesn't do much to make us a more peaceful nation (we're Canadians, how much more peaceful could we be?), it certainly brings little in the way of revenue, and endless hours of couch time takes a toll on our bodies and our collective health. Sure, we laugh, we cry, we mourn the loss of the gold in women's hurdles (there is a feisty and admirable woman, that Perdita...), but really, can we justify handing over the cash it takes to pay for the athletes' food, rent and running shoes while we wait three months for a CT scan?

It is a resource allocation issue. I tend to think that a better use of the money would be to spread it around a little. Keep using it for athletics, but maybe divert it toward making our nation more athletic as a whole. What about good, upstream, health promotion and illness prevention initiatives like, say, physical education for elementary schools? Remember Participaction? What about improving access to community-based soccer or hockey leagues? The idea is to prevent diabetes and heart disease by helping people establish healthy lifestyles...that would be a good use of that money. Better than grooming the chosen few so that the vast majority have yet another excuse to sit motionless for hours on end and eat junk food while they are entertained by the chosen few in the brief, intermittent glimpses of Olympic action the CBC (itself another resource allocation issue, some might argue) allows us, sandwiched between McDonald's commercials and Brian Williams yammering on about how underpriveleged these talented young people are because their government just won't cut them a break.

Lance Armstrong did not need to rely on tax money to achieve his lofty goals; he had no difficulty getting private sector funding for his team. Heck, he probably makes more from sponsorships in one year than our entire Olympic contingent put together gets from the government. The sponsors will come to the truly talented. Those who are, well, less talented... maybe they shouldn't quit their day jobs. Hey, how about volunteering as a kids' soccer coach?

Injury

On Saturday, Jack experienced what must certainly be considered our first childhood injury of any significance. He somehow managed to put his teeth through his tongue.

We are not sure how; it was quite far towards the back of the tongue, but man, it was big. And gaping. And probably sore, because our own family garbage disposal ate nothing but powdered (reconstituted) "chicken" noodle soup for two days. It bled a lot, too, which is why I consider it our first brush with disfigurement. The first of many, I'm sure, for my little goalie-in-training. We figure he must have been performing some sort of acrobatic Spiderman-inspired manoeuvre on the furniture, while licking his eyebrows, when he slipped and smacked his chin on a toy, unfortunately placed many metres (rooms) from where it actually belongs.

I feel most sorry for the kid, not because he practically bit his tongue right through, but because he has a nurse for a mother. Nurses are either too concerned, or not concerned enough. At first, it was not enough, because when I was following him to the bathroom where he spit what probably seemed to him like alarming and copious amounts of blood into the sink, I was checking the carpet to make sure he didn't get any on it. Then, after the initial excitement wore off, the pendulum of worry swng the other way, as I started thinking about his heart murmur and valve damage from strep infections as a result of injury to the oral cavity, blah blah blah. I called a healthcare hotline that night and was reassured that salt water rinses would be sufficient, and in a few short days it has healed perfectly.

My poor kids. They are either underprotected or overprotected. There's no middle ground here.

Oh, well, someday, they will have this blog to take to their therapists. It should explain a lot.

Rain

I love rain. I love how dark and dreary and romantic everything gets. Some people feel melancholy when it rains... I have moments of regret when the sun comes out after a good soaking. Rain is comforting. It is an excuse to stay in and eat warm food and read books and do not much of anything.

It is granted that I don't live in a climate where we get rain 300 days a year or anything, but I really do love rain. I think even if we did get 300 days of rain a year, I would still love it.

And there is nothing better than a thunderstorm. A storm where the sky is far darker than it should be for the time of day and every once in a while a flash will paint everything bluish and as bright as noon for half a second. The kind of storm that is right overhead, where the lightning and thunder are almost simultaneous and the rain is falling so hard that the drains overflow and if you are caught out in it you get soaked to the skin in half a minute. That's the kind of rain that, if you aren't home, you dash through it anyway, just so you can get home quick and change into warm jammies and curl up with a scotch and a blanket and a good book in front of the window before it's over.

Overload

I am drained. It is the end of week two of the new job and I feel like my head will explode if I learn one more piece of new information.

It's not just the learning that is taxing, although it is mentally exhausting to become competent enough to put such toxic poisons into people's bodies -- there is so much to know. You give ice chips with this drug but not this one. You can expect nausea with this one but not that. This one is always given first except under these specific circumstances. With this one, the patient might go into shock and die, so watch them carefully for the first 10 minutes. This one makes your veins black, this one can make you deaf, this one makes your hair fall out. I need to know what to warn people about so that when they go home with these things coursing through their veins, they know when to call their nurse and when to write off a symptom as an inevitable but unfortunate side effect of the therapy.

The other part of the exhaustion is the adjustment to the changes. Even though the change is, generally, good, it is a change, and with any change, there is a certain amount of mental energy required to adjust. Now, I need to think more about things like transportation, who is going to pick the kids up and at what time, what to wear (I don't have to wear scrubs anymore if I don't want to). Minor things, like that payday is now on opposite weeks from before, to bigger things, like full time versus part-time, and remembering the names of all my new co-workers. All of these things take time and energy to process. The rhythm and routine of our household had undergone some alteration, and a little fine-tuning is definitely in order.

It hasn't helped that the kids and I have had a cold, and I have been worried about who would look after them if they couldn't go to daycare, and worried about me killing some patient who has no immune system with a common virus, but also worried about missing out on some valuable learning opportunity and looking like a slacker on my first two weeks if I call in sick. Learning to block the sound of sick, hurting kids so I can concentrate on my job is another item on my laundry list of things to cope with.

But, this is kind of a good tired. Not really a satisfying just-ran-a-marathon physical tired, but a can't-really-answer-that-because-my-brain-has-disengaged mental tired. It feels like I am back in school (but this time they're paying me!!) and I like the feeling of learning things. I like knowing lots of Stuff, useful or otherwise.

Transitions are hard, even if they are positive ones. Simply processing the differences and assimilating the New Normal takes energy. Sometimes I feel as if I have a finite amount of energy, and a lot of it has been sapped just by dealing with the spinoffs from the transition. I have energy brown-outs, mostly felt by my family, when at the end of the day I can't even muster the will to make a decision about what to have for dinner.

Luckily, the human brain is a sponge of unlimited capacity (I believe), and if you add it slowly enought to be absorbed and incorporated into your base of useful knowledge, it can accomodate whatever information you need it to. Hooray for me. This is going to be a great job.

And now, I am going to bed.

Will

Wow, two posts in one night... I must be short of reading material.

So the other night, Aimee had Ebola or West Nile or whatever the virus is that has ripped through our house. She stayed home from daycare that day, and so once again we relied on the kindness of grandparents so that we could actually go to work.

In the evening, I figured she should have some tylenol or advil or something so she could get a good night's sleep and maybe start to recover (I figured we were just about at the end of our welcome with the grandparents and maybe should get back to parenting the child ourselves, but was personally unwilling to take any more time off in the second week of a new job). She didn't agree. She said medicine was yucky and she wouldn't take it.

I tried persuasion, I tried bribery, I tried blackmail. I tried talking calmly, I tried yelling. I tried begging. I didn't try sitting on her and holding her nose until she opened her mouth, but I thought about it. I might have even threatened to. I tried everything I could think of that was something short of withdrawing my maternal love and affection if she didn't take the damn medicine.

She refused. And refused. And refused some more. We argued for 45 minutes. Finally I told her I was too frustrated and she should just go to bed. She did, wailing. I hugged her and kissed her and told her I loved her. She rebuffed my affections, and fell asleep, still snuffling.

I was mad. I felt guilty. Instead of burning my excess stress hormones with exercise, as I should have, I drank wine and fumed.

It was a battle of wills: the six-year-old versus the parental guilt-induced-by-fear-of-traumatizing-one's-own-child. The six-year-old won.

The silver lining for my bruised parental ego: I am hoping that this is a sign that, in future, she will not succumb to harmful pressures from the limitless and unsavoury influences outside of her safe, cozy circle of family and family-approved friends.

She slept well all night and woke up sufficiently recovered to function at daycare the next day.

In the morning, I apologized to her.

Downtowners

It was damn cold today. October, more than August. I heard snow flurries were spotted downtown yesterday. Even for this northern clime, this is beyond ridiculous for August. We have had maybe a dozen hot days so far this summer, if you can call it a summer... hardly worth it. I tell ya, if it wasn't for grandparents, I would have moved away a long time ago (but that is another post).

Which brings me to today's subject. I now take the bus to work. Before, I had a five minute bike ride through my very own suburban, middle-class neighbourhood. Now, I have a 45-minute ride from that neighbourhood to the dingiest, most central of the downtown core area. Blocks from the Low Track red light district, nestled amongst crack houses and shooting galleries, where desperate, crack addicted 14 year olds peddle their wares. You must keep in mind that I am one of those shamelessly white, middle class, sheltered little girls who was shocked and appalled to find out, not a few short years ago, that the drug of choice here is cocaine. And I still don't have a hot clue how or where to get it.

So you get an idea about the characters I might see on a given day on my way to or from work. Today, I saw:

The usual assortment of honest, hard working first-and-subsequent-generation Canadians, on their way to menial and low-paying jobs in factories and convenience stores. I imagine them to work fourteen hours a day and drag themselves home to their clean, well-kept homes in run-down neighbourhoods (right next door to the crack houses, because real estate in that area is cheap), so they can pay for their childrens' university education;

Giggling teenaged girls who have sedentary lifestyles, frosted lipstick, jiggly bellies, tight, too-low pants that reveal colour-coordinated thongs, and with contraband cigarettes in their purses. I imagine that about one third of them will end up pregnant before they are 20 (a made up statistic, but I wonder how far off I am, up or down), as a result of half-conscious plots, borne of low self esteem and the conviction that no one will ever Love them;

Sullen teenaged males, asserting their independence, whose jeans hang precariously and in a gravity-defying manner from the bottom curve of their buttocks and who speak English in a way that is completely foreign to me but meaningful to each other. I imagine that many will end up incarcerated or addicted to something, and have parents who are insufficiently concerned for their welfare;

A young mother of two small boys, maybe three and four years old, all with sunglasses, one child with his thumb in his mouth, the other with his finger up his nose. The mother was reading a book called "A Rational Approach to Behaviour Disorders" or something. I imagine her to be single but patient and a good parent, sleeping on the couch in their cheap one-bedroom apartment so the boys can have the bed, struggling her way through career college so she can provide a good life for her boys, in spite of their absent deadbeat father;

Another teenage boy, decked out in black nail polish, with his earlobes stretched around 1-inch black plastic discs, with tatttoos and chains and piercings and various and sundry decoration of clothing and body, doodling with a pen on a lined recipe card (he moved to a different seat so I couldn't see what the drawing turned out to be), whose most annoying feature was the tinny thrash drumming that squawked from the headphones dangling around his neck. He got off the bus in a nice suburban neighbourhood. I imagine that he went home to his black-painted, romantically subterranean room in the basement of his parents' nice bungalow and then, with his angst amplified for effect, ate chicken and rice with them at 5:00 and had a pleasant conversation and I think his name might have been Norman or Walter (which might possibly be the source of his angst, moreso than the mere fact of his age);

A few odd people, obviously walking purposefully somewhere, but slowly, deliberately casually, as if time was not an object, and I imagined them to be on their way to their favourite watering hole, but knowing it was not yet open, and meandering so that they would not have to line up outside but would arrive just as the doors were unlocked, so as not to appear too anxious for that first happy hour draft.

Of course those were some of the more interesting people. Who knows, maybe I sat next to someone stalking the girl ahead, or a convicted sex offender, or someone whose cat had just died. That's the coolest thing about taking the bus. Even when you finish your book half way home, there's always something to look at, if you use your imagination.

Having said that, I am now going to look for a new book to read.

Gullibility

Yesterday the kids wanted to play with a flashlight. T told them no, because the flashlights are never returned and when we find them the batteries are always dead. That would be a problem, he said, if there was a power failure and we needed a flashlight. I said you could get lost in your own basement. It happened to Daddy once, I said, when he was about six or seven. I was down there for three days said T.

Three days? they said. Why didn't you just go upstairs? Because it was so dark I couldn't find my way out, he said. What did you do? they asked. I bounced a basketball to keep my sanity he said. What did you eat? they asked. Nothing, I starved, he replied. I slept on the cold, hard floor, he told them.

But how did you brush your teeth? they wanted to know. I didn't, he said, for three days. Did you get cavities? they asked. Yes, look, he said, and showed them his mouthful of fillings.

This went on for a while, and eventually petered out. We figured they knew we were pulling their legs.

Then later, in the grocery store, Jack was trying to convince me we needed new batteries. I said no, and he argued with me. But we might get lost in the basement like Daddy, he said. Do you really think that happened? I asked. Yes! he replied with conviction. How do you know? I asked. Because of all Daddy's fillings! he told me.

Apparently today, when the kids were at Gramma's house, T got a call at work from his mom. What's this I hear about you getting lost in the basement when you were a kid? she said.

There's something perversely entertaining about this little fiction. I am wondering how far it will go and if it will burst their little omnipotent-benevolent-mommy-and-daddy-don't-lie bubbles someday when they figure it out. This really shows me they are primed and ready for Santa this year. Now that is going to be fun.

Junk

We had a yard sale yesterday. Three or four households put their useless junk together in one driveway and the maddened hordes flocked to us. They paid us AND took our junk away. What more could you want? At the end of the day there were two garbage bags and two boxes of junk left which some charity will pick up next week for free.

The masses came even before the sign-erector (and a mighty nice sign it was, too) was back from his erecting. 8 am on a Saturday, and people were out looking for bargains.

The kids had a lemonade stand. They even sold some to non-relatives, although I'm not sure exactly how much drink made it into each styrofoam cup (the conclusion was that the cute factor was a much bigger influence in their $7.75 profit - the lemonade was donated by a benevolent Grandma hoping to keep them busy, and teach them something about entrepreneurship, for a while - than the juice).

I think the highlight of the morning was when Jack proudly showed me the booger he pulled out of his ear. The way things were flying out of the driveway, he probably could have gotten a quarter for it if he'd marketed it a bit.

All in all, I am glad we live in a culture of frugality and that it is perfectly acceptable, among some, to bring other people's junk home and call it your own. T says if someone else is willing to sell it at a garage sale, we don't want it. I tend to agree, but there is something to be said for recycling. I was happy to recycle my crap to reduce, at least for now, my burden on the landfill site.

And then, we spent our profits on Chinese food and wine, with enough left over for a couple of good steaks to barbecue tonight. Worth the work, I would say.

Sadness

Tuesdays and Fridays are pediatrics day in the Chemo Treatment Room.

Ever since I was a lowly student nurse, I worried about how I would deal with the emotional aspects of my interactions with patients. I had considerable anxiety about it, prior to my first clinical practicum, to the point where I spoke up and asked a panel of nurses in to talk to our First Year class how they dealt with the pain and anxiety and worry of their patients.

But when I got to the clinical areas, I discovered that most of the time it was a non-issue. Generally speaking, many nurses are not daily confronted by the heart-wrenching. It is an asepct of care we often do not have time for, and, as a novice nurse, I have to say that I tend to spend much of my time and energy on completing the tasks required of me by my job description and the other members of my team. Patients are, at times, a health history and a condition and a series of tasks I need to complete. A bit of self-analysis made me realize that while this is partly a defense-mechanism, a necessity of self-preservation, it also defined my work and my job. For the purposes of getting a job done, there is often little time for emotional involvement, and that aspect of care is often glossed over out of necessity, for the sake of my own mental health, my professional development, and the need to get the job done.

When I changed jobs recently, that same old anxiety resurfaced. Cancer nursing is an area where you see the same patients over and over; where you get to know people and where a nurse has time to sit and listen to an illness narrative. It is now my job to find out how someone is coping with their chemo, because if there are problems, I need to do what is necessary to help them be fixed. It is a daunting prospect, to be faced with both the nursing tasks and needs of the patients, but also their general well-being, their emotional health, too. Certainly this should have always been a part of my practice, regardless of the clinical area, but somehow it seems all the more integral to the care cancer patients because it is so central to their recovery. And it is harder to minimize when the nurse is developing a long-standing relationship with a patient, and not just changing their dressing and sending them home.

I did fine, though, the first day I was on the floor. I discovered that to give good nursing care, I need to have a bit of emotional distance, because if I got caught up in each individual story, I would quickly become too emotionally crippled to work. Each diagnosis seems an insurmountable tragedy to the patient. Each day of survival is a triumph, and each relapse is a heartbreak. But cancer patients daily surmount the insurmountable and bear the unbearably sad reality of their bodies' rebellions. I have already, in two days, learned from these patients that we cope with what we get and take everything one event, one day at a time. What the patients want is not someone who feels sorry for them. They need someone who can answer questions and relieve pain and nausea and anxiety with their professional knowledge. Good lessons for the first week of work, right?

So I did fine, that is, until my first peds day. I was relieved to hear I would not be working with kids, because I truly believe it would be beyond my personal capability to watch a blameless, trusting kid go through what they do. So I did fine, but what I didn't count on was being able to hear them. When I heard the first cry, the first kid yelling "Mommy! Mommy! It hurts! OOOOOOWWWWWWWWWW! Stoooooppppp!!" was very nearly more than I could bear. My stomach flipped and twisted and stayed clenched even when the voice was soothed. Tears came to my eyes and I tried furiously to keep the at bay. My hands shook and it took all of my concentration just to complete the simple task I was engaged in.

T called at lunchtime to say that he and Jack were at home because my poor little boy wasn't feeling well. That almost did me in. Typical mommy worry about a typical preschooler's typical cold would have allowed me to get through the day, but with a chorus of kids screaming, literally, in pain and fear, I took the opportunity to escape and left early to take care of Jack.

I am not ready to pack in the job because of it, but I am really going to have to find ways to cope with peds day, and I think if I do pack it in early, it will be because I do not have what it takes to watch kids suffer and be scared, even if I know it is the only way they will be able to live to see next Christmas. I will never again see another ageless bald chemo kid without my stomach doing that flip and my eyes watering.

That night, I looked at my kid and thought of those kids, probably still scared from what had happened to them and what was yet to come, and I thought of those parents, not sure if a sniffle was the first sign of the relapse that would mean for sure this time that they would outlive their own child. That night, my usual leave-work-at-work visualization techniques did not work. I wanted alcohol.

So I have concluded that I need to find a happy medium between task-focused professional detatchment and a high level of emotional involvement. That is the key to becoming a good nurse, and sticking with this job. I think I may need professional help on this one.

Tired

Last night I had one sick kid and one bedwetter. Granted it was not I who had to make the bedwetter a nest of clean linens on the floor next to us, but I did have to wake up enough to answer the questions from the sick kid, in his own nest on the floor, about why the light was on and why his older sister peed in her bed. Not to mention the fact that I would check the temperature of his sleeping forehead every time I rolled over and grazed my tender belly button enough that my irrational nurses-know-too-much-to-be-parents fear of West Nile and Ebola seeped in to my unconsciousness and disrupted my already scarce REM.

Needless to say, the child has neither West Nile nor Ebola, but I am beyond tired. I am off to change the virus-infested pillowcases on my bed, where both children fell asleep (I am hoping the third enforced voiding has rendered child #1 continent, at least while in my bed), I am going to read for no more than 5 minutes, even though it's a good book (Possession by AS Byatt) and go to sleep. No child shall throw up, or cough, or pee until 6 am. I have decreed.

Fitness

We ran The Hill tonight. Being in the middle of the big bald prairie, The Hill is only elevation in this city. It is dwarfed by a single-storey warehouse, but does provide a slight incline to tempt the masochistic who pine to Do It (whatever It is) harderfasterbetter. We ran it six or seven times, an incline of maybe 8 or 10 degrees. It took less than five minutes per ascent. Every minute was unpleasant, and felt much like one of those anxiety dreams where you are running as fast as you can and getting nowhere. As OT pointed out, it's a bit of a reality check... people who have run marathons and half marathons like to think they are in pretty good shape, but you feel like you should be breathing a little easier at what feels like a snail's pace, and, well, it hurts the ego a little.

Thrown in was one lung-and-leg-burning trip up Puke Mountain, the 30 or 40 degree inclined dirt path that only the hard-core attempt. I walked up the last two thirds... the T's did the testosterone thing and pounded up it as fast as their little legs could carry them. Neither puked, this time, but at least they agreed that it was extremely unpleasant. Whereas the regular Hill was just plain unpleasant.

We only did a half an hour or so, because Jack is sick and I wanted to get home in case he had West Nile or something. My last run up The Hill, done alone as the boys wanted one more shot at the Testosterone Cup at the top of Puke Mountain, I pushed it harder, thinking all the while of Lance, riding up steeper grades for four hours at a time. It helped me not feel so sorry for myself, knowing there were very few people in the world who would offer any sincere expression of sympathy or even commiseration.

Suck it up, I thought. Still, not bad for a 33 year old mother of two. My belly button did hurt with every chub-jiggling step. Another reminder of my attempts to find the fountain of youth.

Back to real life: aging, adequate fitness, and the sick kid.

Power

I started my new job today, as a chemotherapy nurse. It seems like it will be good... better hours, fewer weekends, patients that are more than just dressing changes and medical conditions. I suspect there will be some emotional component that I am not yet fully appreciating, but for now, at least, on paper, this is a Good Job.

The highlight of my day (besides the bus ride home, which is another post entirely), however, was a trip to the security office for my ID card. If I never had to see the control freak who does the photographs again in my life, it would be too soon. Unfortunately, I do, tomorrow, because apparently I cannot go to work at the facility unless I relinquish my old, expired, student ID card. This is a man who takes himself and his position far too seriously. He is prepared to go to the wall in not releasing a current identification card, unless I bring in the old one.

Perhaps if I had been offered a polite, or even emotionally neutral, explanation for why they require the old badge (terrorists may get hold of it and come and administer incorrect drugs to the patients; someone impersonating a student nurse may gain access to a building through the "Employees Only" entrance) his attitude would have been easier to swallow. But a curt, unfriendly, "I need your old one. NEXT!!" just doesn't cut it.

And the woman at the front desk was almost as bad. I think she must be his wife, or maybe his ex-wife (the only thing that might be worse than working with him might be being married to, or divorced from, him). The two are quite a pair. I can't figure out if they are a) not very smart, and therefore unable to cope with the slightest deviation from the routine, or b) power hungry control freaks who firmly believe the safety of the entire facility rests solely on their office, or c) two average people so bored with their menial jobs that they feel the need to kick up the excitment quotient every once in a while by seeing how far they can push people before they get a phone call from a supervisor.

I am tending toward b. On my bus ride home, I concluded that the only explanation for the behaviour of the photo guy was that he was not long retired from a grunt-like rank in the armed forces (perhaps because of situation a), above), sick and tired of being on the bottom rung of the hierarchy of power-to-shitkick-inferiors-at-will, and was stretching his new-found wings of authority by exerting what little control he has in life over hapless and unsuspecting potential employees. I also decided that he has a Nagging Wife (maybe even the receptionist) and it was a ship's cat situation... captain kicks the first mate, first mate kicks deckhand, deckhand only has ship's cat left to kick. Photo Guy is the deckhand, we are the ship's cats.

To be fair, I can see some problems with issuing duplicate cards. Security is an important consideration, especially in the post-nine-eleven era. But does it really warrant rudeness? I don't think so; not much does. Hopefully when I return tomorrow, I can keep my opinions to myself long enough to escape with my ID badge and without Photo Guy or Bitchy Receptionist calling in their goons to have me forcefully expelled from the building. Probably wouldn't look to good on an employee file, the first week. I'll let you know how it goes.

Piercing

The latest installment in my incessant quest to NOT look like a typical suburban 33-year-old mother of two happened today. I got my belly button pierced. White-middle-class-perpetually-sheltered-from-the-harsh-realities-of-life Jennifer Anne drove to a highly recommended tattoo and piercing establishment (after making an appointment, of course), showed my ID (to prove I was more than 18) and watched like a hawk as the pleasant and well groomed piercing technician (?) washed her hands, gathered her supplies, and cracked the sterile seals on her medical-supply-store-acquired 12 gauge needle and surgical steel barbell. She marked my belly and stood back with one eye closed trying to figure out where to put the ring... apparently I have an asymmetrical navel. Go figure. The actual event hurt like hell... reminded me of childbirth only blessedly shorter, but has been fine since. As long as I don't bend at the waist. Or, apparently, swim for 3 months. Perhaps I should have waited for beach season to be over.

I brought along my oldest dearest friend, for moral support and so she could get hers done too. She came through the piercing fine, but got, as predicted, ghostly pale and not a little wobbly when she stood up to admire the piercer's handiwork. I brought her cookies, but she was nauseated enough to wait until much later before attempting to increase her blood sugar. Kindly, and with as much consideration as I could muster, I refrained from telling her about the chest tube insertion I assisted on at work yesterday, thinking it might not help us get home any faster. But, once her fingers stopped tingling and her head cleared, her perfectly symmetrical innie made for a beautiful site (don't tell T, or he'll want to photograph it) for ornamentation. And she walked out upright. Hooray for her.

So in the end, we both got pierced, and we both look cool. I now have further inspiration to work on my abs, so that my new piece of jewelry does not disappear into folds of flab. Hey, whatever keeps you moving, right? I figure the added bonus is a good fitness role model for my equally white-bred suburban offspring.

At the end, I got back into my minivan (complete with 2 carseats) and drove myself back to the suburns where my nice little picket-fence nuclear family awaited me. But DAMN, I look cool.

Cat

This is my cat. Sorry if you typed "shaved puss" into Google and all you got was this, but consider it a testament to what one might find on the internet, and click "back" if what you wanted wasn't an ode to my cat and her new haircut.

.

She may not be long for the world, being the most miserable domestic feline ever. We have kept her, fattened on expensive prescription cat food and adequately veteranized for more than ten years now, and no amount of general anesthetic will produce that selective cerebral infarction necessary to improve her personality.

Periodically, her behaviour "issues" come to a head, and her matted fur, pulling on her skin and making her even more miserable than usual, must be shaved. Every six months or so, we must take her to the vet, where they don heavy-duty, shoulder length, leather eagle taming gloves in order to get close enough to administer a happy-cat shot, which renders her briefly unconscious. The frenzy of activity that must inevitably follow the gradual slithering to the bottom of the cat carrier and reduction in volume of the curses, hurled, in Cat (which would undoubtedly leave even the most foul-mouthed sailor or hardened trucker speechless, if translated to English), at the perpetrators of her shame, is timed to the second, so as to be complete by the time she comes to. She is shaved, her nails trimmed, her teeth checked, necessary vaccinations administered, and she is crammed back in her carrier double quick. She has a red flag on her chart at the vet's: EVIL.

When she wakes, safely (for the vet's staff) back in her carrier, protesting with renewed energy at the indignities forced upon her, her growls, hisses, and bodily protests strike fear in the hearts of even the most seasoned vet. They say she does not like them; well, she doesn't like us a whole lot better. While she rarely takes an unsolicited swipe at any member of her family, my children would sooner soil themselves than step over her to get to the bathroom.

For days afterward, she withdraws into the little pocket created when her pendulous belly tucks over her back paws, and slinks around, as if she is truly embarassed. And really, she is, em-bare-assed, with the great wattle of flesh at her abdomen exposed for all the world to see. And to add insult to injury, they leave the fur on her head, tail and legs long and fluffy. She looks like an oddly coloured, endomorphic, miniature lion in hooker boots, needing a major tummy-tuck, and looking for all the world as if she is taking down numbers and hiring contract killers to exact revenge on the inhumane non-cats responsible for the disgraceful and humiliating state of her fur.

Perhaps, it is her name: Joe Boo, shortened to Boo, and further and more commonly derived to Boozer. Perhaps it is the dogs, who think she is also a dog and want to "play" mindless, slobbering, smelly, dog games, with her, as dogs do amongst their own kind. I tend to think she needs a nice little old lady to dote on her... unfortunately, I am not a good salesperson, and anyone who may have considered taking her off our hands runs screaming in fear for their life when I describe how she lies on the sidewalk and whacks anyone who dares to trespass on her patch of sunshine.

So time will tell whether this cat will continue to receive her bi-annual salon treatment or whether one of these times the difficult roommate mentality will push enough of her benefactors' buttons that she gets, rather than the happy-cat shot, the sleepy-cat shot. In the meantime, we feed and litter her, trying not to snicker behind hands, and hope she does not someday choose to murder us in our sleep, for regularly bestowing on her a feline mullet, even if it is for her own good.

Shorn cat, free to good home. Needs some TLC. Any takers?

Jack

Some things Jack has said recently that I want to remember forever:

Cars that have no roof... invertibles

Shorts that can be worn both regular and inside out... reflexible

The other day he was sitting on the toilet, as he often does. Jack is a leisurely pooper so this was well into his spell on the throne. I had long since gone back to whatever it was that I was doing, when he called me back into the bathroom. "Mom," he said, "I have knees on my fingers". "Oh," I said, "Those are called knuckles". "Well I think they look like knees," he said. Fair enough, I thought.

Another question posed by Jack while sitting on the toilet: Mom, if we fart when we're pooping, do we have to say excuse me?

I must preface this one by stating that we have worked very hard to banish certain naughty words from his vocabulary; his insult of choice would most often be hurled in a venomous tone of voice at whomever happened to be thwarting his plans for world domination at a given moment. Finally, we had sufficiently impressed upon him that screaming "stupid baby" at any human was an infraction worthy of a good time-out ("Aawww! Not again!!!"), and he was consistently finding more creative uses for his anger, like, say, beating on his sister (we're working on that one now). So one day, he trips and stubs his toe on a stool in the bathroom. He is hopping around, crying, holding his foot. And since I am a firm believer in the healing power of a well-timed, particularly vulgar curse word when in a similar situation, I said to him, "Jack, you know, sometimes when you stub your toe, the only thing that will make you feel better is to say a really bad word." So he looked up at me, with, literally, a gleam in his eye (possibly caused by the eye-watering agony of a stubbed toe), and assessing whether or not he could trust me not to throw him bodily into his usual penalty box, he hollered out, before collapsing into a fit of giggles, the toe cured, the baddest word he could think of, "BABY!!!"

Why?

Sometimes I think he asks why for no other reason than to hear himself talk.

Undercaffienated

This morning I went to take the kids to daycare. I was thinking we would walk; it's close and it was a beautiful morning. I forgot to share that piece of information with them so when they went outside, they got in the car. I said let's walk, they whined, I caved. We drove the 30 seconds to school (with my heartfelt apologies to the rainforests) and went in. I dropped them off with plenty of hugs, kisses and high fives, and I left. I was thinking about making more coffee and climbing back into bed for 15 minutes. I got almost all the way home before I realized I had forgotten the car at school.

The worst part was that on the way home, I walked past the home of our favourite neighbourhood cat, Harry, and saw him lounging contentedly under his person's car. I thought, hey, if we had walked to school this morning, the kids could have petted him. It was several more houses before I remembered that we didn't walk, and that I was missing what is possibly the largest physical object that I own (second only to my house).

I am on my way to Tim Horton's now, for coffee. I am debating about taking the car. I am also a little nervous about taking the kids anywhere at the moment. I'm pretty sure I left them at daycare...