(These "memories of ..." stories will link together in due time. First, the cast of characters need to be defined and then the nightmare will be shared.)
*****************
My dad's mother was born with a very small hole in her heart which, as she got older, gave her blood system circulation issues. On the hottest days, she'd wear sweaters - plural. Being constantly cold was, I'm sure, a problem but it meant she made the most excellent pie crusts ever. (Cold fingers are a huge help when working with pastry.)
Another thing that hole did was greatly limit her activity level. Since her blood couldn't circulate properly, oxygen wasn't carried throughout her body (as it would normally be) and it didn't take much for her to get very tired. Oh, and I remember her as appearing to be of a blue-ish hue and always ... always ... properly dressed for each occasion.
She was raised as an only child ('tho she was her father's second daughter - his first being from a different marriage) and in a fairly well-to-do home. Since her heart defect was detected at an early age, she was restricted from most normal childhood activities. There was no running about, no jump rope ... nothing that raised her heartbeat too terribly. From what I've learned in asking family members, she was raised as a very protected, very sheltered child.
*****************
This couldn't have been more opposite for her half-sister, who I'd come to know as "The Candy Lady". My Great Aunt was the first woman on record under the age of 21 to shoot a mountain lion in the county. She also was in charge of driving a team of 12 horses at the tender age of 16. She roamed into the valley areas - alone - and fell in love with the different cultures and tribes she found there. (I'm not being insensitive ... the Valley we know as "Silicon" was, at that time, very much home to Native Americans of all sorts.) She became a teacher to the children of these cultures and tribes, instructing them on the very basics - how to read, how to sign their names, how to count - so that they could teach their parents the same skills. My Great Aunt came boldly into a room where my Grandmother would quietly just suddenly be there. They couldn't have been more different.
*****************
I don't know at what point my Great Aunt and my Grandmother knew of each other, and while I wouldn't exactly call them best friends, they seemed to enjoy each other’s company well enough. When my parents decided my Grandmother was going to come and live with us, my Great Aunt took it upon herself to introduce her to the local libraries, activity centers, churches and schools ... all places my Great Aunt loved to visit but that my shy and withdrawn Grandmother was overwhelmed by. She'd go along without complaint, but I never got the feeling she looked forward to these outings.
At some point I became aware that my Grandmother was not just shy ... but that she was also sad. I know now that she was likely suffering from (at least) clinical depression and, in reviewing her life, I give her credit for all she forced herself to do. She was sullen and quiet at times, but always made an effort to help me practice piano (the one activity her parents allowed her to do in her childhood) and seemed genuinely pleased when I'd do well. As a child who enjoyed playing a musical instrument in a family where there were no musically-inclined members, her guidance and critiques were helpful to me. Having her in our home was alright by me, but her "sadness" was difficult - and, at times, maddening - for my parents.
The treatment for "chronic sadness" in that time was pill-driven. My Grandmother was a master at faking swallowing her pills (she'd had her whole life to perfect this skill, after all) and my mother would find them wrapped up in a napkin or sitting at the bottom of a glass after meals. Since pills weren't working (not surprising, since they weren't actually being taken), I guess it was decided that more severe treatment options should be tried.
While I wasn't ever told what that treatment would be (I was deemed too young to understand), I knew that twice a month, my Grandmother would get her hair done, dress for a day out, and then would go to her doctor's appointment. When she came back from those appointments, she was VERY tired and seemed ... not herself. Unresponsive. Vacant. She'd stare at her TV in her room for hours, and it wasn't turned on. My young self was confused but understood that this was an adult topic. I'd be informed of whatever I needed to know only on a "need-to-know" basis and - apparently - I didn't need to know anything at all. While my frequent trips to the doctor became stories of "show and tell" in school, we never talked about what went on at my Grandmother's trips to her doctor.
My Great Aunt continued to encourage my Grandmother to go with her to the libraries and activity centers during this time of new treatments. Sometimes my Grandmother would agree to tag along but, as treatment continued, more and more, she'd just choose to sit alone in her room. She didn't seem as sad to me anymore, but she didn't seem ... anything at all, really. I'd learn years later how extreme these treatments were but I was never told details as a child.
Which made my nightmare all the more curious and frightening to my family.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Memories of The Candy Lady
When I was a child, my parents’ home was considered to be "in the country". We were not on city water, we were served not by city police and fire but by the county sheriff and the local forestry department, we had dirt roads with no sidewalks, and even pizza places that said they delivered city-wide drew the line at driving "up the hill".
My parents’ home was the only structure on the left side of the road, and only Old Miss Jaton's place and the Harris' homes were on the other side. The Davidson's lived one road over, as did "The Candy Lady". And, except for Mr. Mariani's ranch across the creek, that was the extent of the neighborhood. Not one of those homes had children under the age of forty, and so my sister and I had our animals and a few friends who lived a few blocks away to keep ourselves busy.
I can't speak for how my sister spent her childhood hours, but I spent more than my fair share of time playing with Old Miss Jaton's cats (ignoring my sister's warnings that she was really a witch, which couldn't be true. After all, she had cats!), helping Mr. Harris take care of his rabbits and his chickens (which we'd inherit soon enough), helping Mr. Mariani with his horses and goats, looking at Mr. Davidson's polished rock collection (which was sparkly and some of it was gold! Fool’s gold, sure but still!!) and, most of all, hanging out with "The Candy Lady".
*****************
That wasn't her name, of course, though that was the nickname she'd been given and she more than lived up to it. She was also my Great Aunt from my father's side of the family, and it was because of her that my parents had even known of the house being for sale. "Don't pass this up", she told my dad. "It isn't cheap but it's good land and the house is in good shape."
My parents drove down from the city, walked around the property and checked out the house. I don't know how much they'd saved up by that point, but I've been told the asking price was slightly under $30,000.00. I do know it was farrrrr more than they'd budgeted and that my father was leaning against the purchase - but my mother would not be swayed. Her father had always wanted to own a farm ... and while he wasn't around to see it, I guess my mom wanted to somehow fill that dream for him. My folks borrowed cash from everyone they knew, with a decent chunk coming from my Great Aunt, and moved in. They still live there today.
Growing up "on a farm" was, for an active kid with a wandering imagination, great fun. There were forts to make and animals to play with and insects to discover. And when we'd get tired or bored, we could go visit "The Candy Lady" and know we'd get some "coffee" (heated condensed milk with two sugar cubes and a scant teaspoon of Folger’s Coffee) and, true to her name, be made an offer of having some candy, usually from a bowl of Brach's Pick-A-Mix.
We would sit on her deck with her two mis-matched dogs - Dutchie, the squat gentleman Dachshund, and Buster, the gray shortish hair mutt who constantly smelled of creek water and who was, truth be told, our dog. Buster was lured from being our dog by the constant stream of treats and attention that he knew he could count on at my Great Aunt's home. Buster was no dummy.
On quiet sunny afternoons, even Boots, the tuxedo Tom Cat we'd given my Great Aunt, would slowly sway by. At his largest, I remember weighing Boots on the bathroom scale and that he added 22lbs. to my scrawny kid frame. The dogs knew enough to steer clear of bothering Boots and he paid them no mind. It was a peaceful existence for all concerned.
*****************
The not great part of being an active kid with a wandering imagination was that I spent an extraordinary amount of time with my mother, sister, and Great Aunt in the hospital emergency waiting room. I fell out of trees, off of swing sets, from the backs of horses, you name it. I broke both my arms twice before the age of 18. I actually knew - and recognized - ER hospital staff, especially the two guys in the casting room - when I saw them in grocery stores. And it never failed that my father would be working a long shift when these trips to the ER were required, so we had to "borrow" an extra adult for the ER wait and my Great Aunt would come along for the wait.
My sister would walk over to my Great Aunt's house to tell her we needed to go to the hospital while my mother was wiping my forehead, or my shoulder, or my knees, or my hands clean before we drove to see what I'd broken, sprained, split, shattered, or need stitched up. My father would return home to discover I was now missing my front teeth, had a new cast on my right arm, a split on my ring finger ... I'm sure he came to expect it. And my Great Aunt, God love her, sat for hours in those plastic ER chairs watching my sister sleep while my mother and I explained, once again, what had happened to cause the latest visit.
*****************
The other not great part of being an active kid with a wandering imagination had to be the nightmares. My dreams were filled with scary phone calls from monsters who could reach through the telephone wires, being trapped in a wooden barrel never to be seen again, or creepy things in the attic looking down at me when I wasn't aware of them. Those were the three recurring nightmares I had - on a rotating basis - and while they don't read as "scary", I find my description here doesn't do them justice even today.
I think it was in my early teen years that I had such a frightening dream that I managed to wake up the entire house with my yelling before I was even fully awake. And the memory of having that dream would be triggered by an MRI experience in 2011.
My parents’ home was the only structure on the left side of the road, and only Old Miss Jaton's place and the Harris' homes were on the other side. The Davidson's lived one road over, as did "The Candy Lady". And, except for Mr. Mariani's ranch across the creek, that was the extent of the neighborhood. Not one of those homes had children under the age of forty, and so my sister and I had our animals and a few friends who lived a few blocks away to keep ourselves busy.
I can't speak for how my sister spent her childhood hours, but I spent more than my fair share of time playing with Old Miss Jaton's cats (ignoring my sister's warnings that she was really a witch, which couldn't be true. After all, she had cats!), helping Mr. Harris take care of his rabbits and his chickens (which we'd inherit soon enough), helping Mr. Mariani with his horses and goats, looking at Mr. Davidson's polished rock collection (which was sparkly and some of it was gold! Fool’s gold, sure but still!!) and, most of all, hanging out with "The Candy Lady".
*****************
That wasn't her name, of course, though that was the nickname she'd been given and she more than lived up to it. She was also my Great Aunt from my father's side of the family, and it was because of her that my parents had even known of the house being for sale. "Don't pass this up", she told my dad. "It isn't cheap but it's good land and the house is in good shape."
My parents drove down from the city, walked around the property and checked out the house. I don't know how much they'd saved up by that point, but I've been told the asking price was slightly under $30,000.00. I do know it was farrrrr more than they'd budgeted and that my father was leaning against the purchase - but my mother would not be swayed. Her father had always wanted to own a farm ... and while he wasn't around to see it, I guess my mom wanted to somehow fill that dream for him. My folks borrowed cash from everyone they knew, with a decent chunk coming from my Great Aunt, and moved in. They still live there today.
Growing up "on a farm" was, for an active kid with a wandering imagination, great fun. There were forts to make and animals to play with and insects to discover. And when we'd get tired or bored, we could go visit "The Candy Lady" and know we'd get some "coffee" (heated condensed milk with two sugar cubes and a scant teaspoon of Folger’s Coffee) and, true to her name, be made an offer of having some candy, usually from a bowl of Brach's Pick-A-Mix.
We would sit on her deck with her two mis-matched dogs - Dutchie, the squat gentleman Dachshund, and Buster, the gray shortish hair mutt who constantly smelled of creek water and who was, truth be told, our dog. Buster was lured from being our dog by the constant stream of treats and attention that he knew he could count on at my Great Aunt's home. Buster was no dummy.
On quiet sunny afternoons, even Boots, the tuxedo Tom Cat we'd given my Great Aunt, would slowly sway by. At his largest, I remember weighing Boots on the bathroom scale and that he added 22lbs. to my scrawny kid frame. The dogs knew enough to steer clear of bothering Boots and he paid them no mind. It was a peaceful existence for all concerned.
*****************
The not great part of being an active kid with a wandering imagination was that I spent an extraordinary amount of time with my mother, sister, and Great Aunt in the hospital emergency waiting room. I fell out of trees, off of swing sets, from the backs of horses, you name it. I broke both my arms twice before the age of 18. I actually knew - and recognized - ER hospital staff, especially the two guys in the casting room - when I saw them in grocery stores. And it never failed that my father would be working a long shift when these trips to the ER were required, so we had to "borrow" an extra adult for the ER wait and my Great Aunt would come along for the wait.
My sister would walk over to my Great Aunt's house to tell her we needed to go to the hospital while my mother was wiping my forehead, or my shoulder, or my knees, or my hands clean before we drove to see what I'd broken, sprained, split, shattered, or need stitched up. My father would return home to discover I was now missing my front teeth, had a new cast on my right arm, a split on my ring finger ... I'm sure he came to expect it. And my Great Aunt, God love her, sat for hours in those plastic ER chairs watching my sister sleep while my mother and I explained, once again, what had happened to cause the latest visit.
*****************
The other not great part of being an active kid with a wandering imagination had to be the nightmares. My dreams were filled with scary phone calls from monsters who could reach through the telephone wires, being trapped in a wooden barrel never to be seen again, or creepy things in the attic looking down at me when I wasn't aware of them. Those were the three recurring nightmares I had - on a rotating basis - and while they don't read as "scary", I find my description here doesn't do them justice even today.
I think it was in my early teen years that I had such a frightening dream that I managed to wake up the entire house with my yelling before I was even fully awake. And the memory of having that dream would be triggered by an MRI experience in 2011.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
The November Chronicles
A month ago, I wrote this:
"Even if something is left undone, everyone must take time to sit still and watch the leaves turn."- Elizabeth Lawrence
*****************
As one could see from what I've written since then, it's clear to see that the leaves are, in fact, turning. I've had quiet periods to reflect, to sit still and observe the changes in my life, wonder on my future ... wonder on OUR future ... and while I can't say that I've embraced or even fully accepted what is still left undone, I respect that the timeline was not created by me and isn't mine to measure against.
And while I wish ... with all my being ... that the diagnosis of Parkinson's was mine alone to deal with, I also thank the heavens that the diagnosis of Parkinson's is NOT mine alone to deal with.
I will not be alone to take the time to sit still and watch the leaves turn.
The Awesome Fiancé is by my side.
"Even if something is left undone, everyone must take time to sit still and watch the leaves turn."- Elizabeth Lawrence
*****************
As one could see from what I've written since then, it's clear to see that the leaves are, in fact, turning. I've had quiet periods to reflect, to sit still and observe the changes in my life, wonder on my future ... wonder on OUR future ... and while I can't say that I've embraced or even fully accepted what is still left undone, I respect that the timeline was not created by me and isn't mine to measure against.
And while I wish ... with all my being ... that the diagnosis of Parkinson's was mine alone to deal with, I also thank the heavens that the diagnosis of Parkinson's is NOT mine alone to deal with.
I will not be alone to take the time to sit still and watch the leaves turn.
The Awesome Fiancé is by my side.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
For This, I Am Very Thankful.
The warm blanket we snuggle under.
The kitty who meows us awake.
The neighbor who looks after us (and who we look after).
The kitty who appreciates our attention.
The coffee shop employees who know my order.
The job that gives me goals and motivation (and health care and a paycheck).
The kitty who finally trusts us.
The family for being who they are.
The meals we share.
The quiet times in the evening hours when it's enough to just sit beside you.
The last words we exchange before we sleep.
For this, and for so much more, I have much to be thankful for.
The kitty who meows us awake.
The neighbor who looks after us (and who we look after).
The kitty who appreciates our attention.
The coffee shop employees who know my order.
The job that gives me goals and motivation (and health care and a paycheck).
The kitty who finally trusts us.
The family for being who they are.
The meals we share.
The quiet times in the evening hours when it's enough to just sit beside you.
The last words we exchange before we sleep.
For this, and for so much more, I have much to be thankful for.
Friday, November 18, 2011
A Totally True Tabby Tale
This
is Tabby. As you can see she'd like to shake your hand. (And yes, she has thumbs.)
Anyway, that's Tabby. Tabby is a gooooooooooood kitty.
It is mouse season here on the East Coast. As it gets colder and wetter, the outside mice get the brilliant idea to move indoors. There's not a lot one can do except to accept it and set traps in obvious "mice" areas. We have VERY cat-safe traps, so that little paws are kept safe. It wouldn't be a problem for Tabby so much ... she's beyond kitten-hood (about 10ish years old) but Shiloh is estimated to be a curious teen ... about 3 years. So yeah, we're careful.
We've known we have mice (plural ... because honestly no one has "mouse") for a couple of weeks. Not because of signs or droppings but because Tabby has been staring at corners and doors and just generally acting weird (even for a cat).
Last week, I moved the kitty toy box from the corner of the living room because Tabby was staring at it ... and she pounced. (She's about 12 lbs but even so - it was a definite pounce.) The mouse she caught had a body length that was smaller than a large paperclip ...... this was a smalllllllllllllllllllllllll mouse. She looked up at me, mouse mouth and all, as if to ask "ok so now what" and I pleaded to her to please please please head into the kitchen (non-carpeted floor and not a lot of super heavy things to run underneath) and she LISTENED to me!!! SUCH a good kitty. By the time she dropped the little creature on the kitchen floor to show me, it was very close to dying so I praised her (a LOT) and disposed of said critter.
Fast forward to a few nights ago. (Well, a few mornings actually ... 3:20am according to the bedroom clock.) Dead quiet throughout the house. Not a creature was stirring, not even a ..... well ... actually ...
So Tabby comes padding quickly into our bedroom (her little feet on the carpet make a small "psshh" sound as she walks) and says, in an urgent-type voice, "Meow! Meow meow meow! Rrrrow merrow!" which was either "Come quickly, Timmy's fallen into the well again" or "Come see the snack I have to share!" The Awesome Boyfriend was awake and standing before I was fully awake but we both followed as Tabby proudly marched into the kitchen to show us her latest hunting victim ... another ridiculously tiny mouse that was, again, nearly dead. "Such a gooooood kitty" we said, while rubbing our eyes and reaching for a paper towel and a plastic zip-top bag.
And of course she is a very good kitty. But consider this ...
She caught this creature somewhere in the house, likely played with it for awhile, left it in the kitchen, walked into our room (when she could have VERY easily brought the mouse with her), told us to come to the kitchen, and went back to the kitchen for her praises and kudos. I've had some smart kitties before ... but ... geez, that's impressive as heck to me! It seems against the nature of a beast to hunt and then LEAVE the hunted to go get the humans to show off the kill. Seriously I can't believe she didn't bring the mouse into our bedroom.
Needless to say, Tabby's getting extra treats for this. And I'd be honored to shake her hand.
Anyway, that's Tabby. Tabby is a gooooooooooood kitty.
It is mouse season here on the East Coast. As it gets colder and wetter, the outside mice get the brilliant idea to move indoors. There's not a lot one can do except to accept it and set traps in obvious "mice" areas. We have VERY cat-safe traps, so that little paws are kept safe. It wouldn't be a problem for Tabby so much ... she's beyond kitten-hood (about 10ish years old) but Shiloh is estimated to be a curious teen ... about 3 years. So yeah, we're careful.
We've known we have mice (plural ... because honestly no one has "mouse") for a couple of weeks. Not because of signs or droppings but because Tabby has been staring at corners and doors and just generally acting weird (even for a cat).
Last week, I moved the kitty toy box from the corner of the living room because Tabby was staring at it ... and she pounced. (She's about 12 lbs but even so - it was a definite pounce.) The mouse she caught had a body length that was smaller than a large paperclip ...... this was a smalllllllllllllllllllllllll mouse. She looked up at me, mouse mouth and all, as if to ask "ok so now what" and I pleaded to her to please please please head into the kitchen (non-carpeted floor and not a lot of super heavy things to run underneath) and she LISTENED to me!!! SUCH a good kitty. By the time she dropped the little creature on the kitchen floor to show me, it was very close to dying so I praised her (a LOT) and disposed of said critter.
Fast forward to a few nights ago. (Well, a few mornings actually ... 3:20am according to the bedroom clock.) Dead quiet throughout the house. Not a creature was stirring, not even a ..... well ... actually ...
So Tabby comes padding quickly into our bedroom (her little feet on the carpet make a small "psshh" sound as she walks) and says, in an urgent-type voice, "Meow! Meow meow meow! Rrrrow merrow!" which was either "Come quickly, Timmy's fallen into the well again" or "Come see the snack I have to share!" The Awesome Boyfriend was awake and standing before I was fully awake but we both followed as Tabby proudly marched into the kitchen to show us her latest hunting victim ... another ridiculously tiny mouse that was, again, nearly dead. "Such a gooooood kitty" we said, while rubbing our eyes and reaching for a paper towel and a plastic zip-top bag.
And of course she is a very good kitty. But consider this ...
She caught this creature somewhere in the house, likely played with it for awhile, left it in the kitchen, walked into our room (when she could have VERY easily brought the mouse with her), told us to come to the kitchen, and went back to the kitchen for her praises and kudos. I've had some smart kitties before ... but ... geez, that's impressive as heck to me! It seems against the nature of a beast to hunt and then LEAVE the hunted to go get the humans to show off the kill. Seriously I can't believe she didn't bring the mouse into our bedroom.
Needless to say, Tabby's getting extra treats for this. And I'd be honored to shake her hand.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
The November Chronicles
I will write about my MRI experience in time. Yesterday I experienced something and, since it is fresh in my mind, I'm gonna write about it.
*****************
Along with "arm tremor", I've experienced an extreme decline in fine motor control in my right hand. My once blazing typing speed has dropped considerably, and I just don't even enjoy using my laptop in my downtime anymore because it's more frustrating than anything else.
Because I've slowly developed this tremor, I've slowly found ways to work around it. Since my handwriting is so stupidly tiny and damn near impossible to read, I either use pre-printed labels or I create a document on my computer and fold it into a note card or whatever. If I can pre-fill out forms in my own time, that's ideal. I also have a weird "left-handed assist" thing I do whenever I type now. I get to a point of typing where I use my left index fingers to reset my right hand ... kind of picking it up and dropping it back onto the keyboard ... and then I carry onwards. I also use my left hand for ANY mouse-related computer stuff, even 'tho I am (of course) right handed.
When I'm sitting on the couch at home, I have a pillow shoved up under my right arm for support. Even though I'm not asking my arm to DO anything. I also occasionally give my right hand a brief massage with my left hand. I do random arm "windmill" movements to keep my shoulder lose. I push my right arm straight against something solid to work out any tightness in my elbow, which aches a little from being folded at my side all day. (Even when I'm walking. Actually ESPECIALLY when I'm walking.)
All of these things are dexterity-related. None of them are strength-based things. I do *feel* as though I have lost muscle tone in my right arm from overall lack of use over the past three years, but that's from just not trusting the arm itself. It has betrayed me.
*****************
I met last week with a Physical Therapist. I arrived about 9:40am because I would be asked to fill out a few forms (ugh), sign and date here, initial here, and then I sat quietly and waited for just a few moments before Janie called my name. We spoke (and did various tests) for an hour. She had me seated in curtained-off area in a very busy room but I had her full attention. She was a good listener and allowed me to do my best to answer her questions as honestly as I knew how. I explained that I didn't have a loss of mobility so much as a lack of dexterity. I also shared with her my fears over loss of muscle tone in my not-as-actively-involved right arm, but explained that I really believed that was more in my head than my arm.
We tested grip strength. We ran movement-based tests. We tested resistance and push and pull but when all was said and done, she confirmed pretty much what I had already known: there was no obvious difference in strength between my left hand and my right. She did, however, ask if I'd be willing to return the following week to see an Occupational Therapist, who would be better suited to address my dexterity issues. I was fine with this and we made the appointment for Tuesday at 8am, which was my choice.
*****************
Yesterday I arrived at 7:55am for my 8am appointment. I was given the same forms to sign and initial. Janie walked by and greeted me (by name) and said that Dawn would be with me shortly. The front desk then pulled Janie aside and asked (in a voice I probably wasn't meant to hear) if she perhaps still had my chart. All the notes we'd done ... tests we'd gone through ... anything we'd thought was important was in that now-missing chart. This was less than ideal.
At 8:10am my chart was found and at 8:15am I was called back. I was given water to take my daily dose of Selegiline with and Dawn said "so what does that do for you then?" I told her that it helped to make my arm tremor slightly less obvious. "So if you take enough of that, the shake goes away?" she asked. "If only" was my reply. "I was taking something else but it was over-treating it and in time would cause unwanted movements." She looked sideways at me. "If you take a pill to undo shakes it will cause you to shake?" she asked. "Basically yeah" I said. "Have you seen a Parkinson's patient who has kind of 'flowing' motions? That's the side effect I'm trying to avoid for as long as possible."
While none of these questions were annoying or extreme, the idea that this sort of information was new to the person who I was hoping would help me control the dexterity of my fingers was a bummer.
*****************
We spent most of the next 40 minutes testing ... my arm strength. Given that Dawn was used to dealing with patients who had been in splints or stitches or casts, it wasn't surprising that she didn't have a lot of things to suggest for maintaining dexterity but it WAS frustrating. If she'd gone over my chart in advance ... ohhhhh wait, they'd lost my chart until 5 minutes before I sat down.
As I was answering her questions, Dawn would walk over to another patient and say "uh huh" but I didn't get the feeling she was actually listening to my responses. All in all, it felt like ... being in a hair salon. Same gossip-y vibe, same regular customer base, same rotating of who is overseeing someone's progress ... it was disappointing. I did actually speak up ... more than once ... to say "it's not connected to strength or muscles, it's about nerves" and "it's not a strength thing, it's a control thing" but I was clearly wasting my time. And Dawn's. I guess that was it ... I felt like it was a date neither of us had the guts to bow out of. She finished the appointment with a basic "call me if you want more ideas" but I'd stopped caring about any of her ideas about 20 minutes before that.
I walked out feeling like a guest speaker who had been invited to a forum attended by convicts. I wasn't prepared and she wasn't interested. We were both there because we felt we had to be.
*****************
It's only been two months since my diagnosis, and I don't KNOW what kind of questions to ask, or even WHO to ask. I can only describe what my hand and arm feel like ... I don't know what to do about it. I know what I've BEEN doing about it but that's not working as great as I'd like anymore (she typed, using her left hand to reset her right). So yes, I've muddled through this far but I'd like more muddling tools. And the "not being listened to" part? Yeaaaaaah ... that's not cool.
*****************
I arrived at work feeling dejected. I realize and accept that not every medical or service-related hospital-type person will be up on all their "Parkinson's" info but this was frankly just a case of "lazy". And honestly, pre-diagnosis this wouldn't have been a trigger with me at all. But that's not the situation, which is unfortunate all the way around. I'm post-diagnosis and this IS a trigger. Again, today is the best I will be. By this time tomorrow, I will miss my level of what I can do today. My time - with regards to what I can do now, how I can prepare for the future, and steps I can take to grasp (no pun intended) onto any level of achievement - is being stolen from me at a rate I do not know by a thief I cannot even see, let alone fight. Am I frustrated? I don't even have time for that.
I was met at my desk by a co-worker, Liz, who happens to have all kinds of connections in the medical world specific to Neurology and when I lamented "I just need a name of an OT with Parkinson's experience", Liz (bless her heart) said "I know three. I'll see who has room and get a name to you."
I hope Dawn doesn't wait to hear from me for too long.
*****************
Along with "arm tremor", I've experienced an extreme decline in fine motor control in my right hand. My once blazing typing speed has dropped considerably, and I just don't even enjoy using my laptop in my downtime anymore because it's more frustrating than anything else.
Because I've slowly developed this tremor, I've slowly found ways to work around it. Since my handwriting is so stupidly tiny and damn near impossible to read, I either use pre-printed labels or I create a document on my computer and fold it into a note card or whatever. If I can pre-fill out forms in my own time, that's ideal. I also have a weird "left-handed assist" thing I do whenever I type now. I get to a point of typing where I use my left index fingers to reset my right hand ... kind of picking it up and dropping it back onto the keyboard ... and then I carry onwards. I also use my left hand for ANY mouse-related computer stuff, even 'tho I am (of course) right handed.
When I'm sitting on the couch at home, I have a pillow shoved up under my right arm for support. Even though I'm not asking my arm to DO anything. I also occasionally give my right hand a brief massage with my left hand. I do random arm "windmill" movements to keep my shoulder lose. I push my right arm straight against something solid to work out any tightness in my elbow, which aches a little from being folded at my side all day. (Even when I'm walking. Actually ESPECIALLY when I'm walking.)
All of these things are dexterity-related. None of them are strength-based things. I do *feel* as though I have lost muscle tone in my right arm from overall lack of use over the past three years, but that's from just not trusting the arm itself. It has betrayed me.
*****************
I met last week with a Physical Therapist. I arrived about 9:40am because I would be asked to fill out a few forms (ugh), sign and date here, initial here, and then I sat quietly and waited for just a few moments before Janie called my name. We spoke (and did various tests) for an hour. She had me seated in curtained-off area in a very busy room but I had her full attention. She was a good listener and allowed me to do my best to answer her questions as honestly as I knew how. I explained that I didn't have a loss of mobility so much as a lack of dexterity. I also shared with her my fears over loss of muscle tone in my not-as-actively-involved right arm, but explained that I really believed that was more in my head than my arm.
We tested grip strength. We ran movement-based tests. We tested resistance and push and pull but when all was said and done, she confirmed pretty much what I had already known: there was no obvious difference in strength between my left hand and my right. She did, however, ask if I'd be willing to return the following week to see an Occupational Therapist, who would be better suited to address my dexterity issues. I was fine with this and we made the appointment for Tuesday at 8am, which was my choice.
*****************
Yesterday I arrived at 7:55am for my 8am appointment. I was given the same forms to sign and initial. Janie walked by and greeted me (by name) and said that Dawn would be with me shortly. The front desk then pulled Janie aside and asked (in a voice I probably wasn't meant to hear) if she perhaps still had my chart. All the notes we'd done ... tests we'd gone through ... anything we'd thought was important was in that now-missing chart. This was less than ideal.
At 8:10am my chart was found and at 8:15am I was called back. I was given water to take my daily dose of Selegiline with and Dawn said "so what does that do for you then?" I told her that it helped to make my arm tremor slightly less obvious. "So if you take enough of that, the shake goes away?" she asked. "If only" was my reply. "I was taking something else but it was over-treating it and in time would cause unwanted movements." She looked sideways at me. "If you take a pill to undo shakes it will cause you to shake?" she asked. "Basically yeah" I said. "Have you seen a Parkinson's patient who has kind of 'flowing' motions? That's the side effect I'm trying to avoid for as long as possible."
While none of these questions were annoying or extreme, the idea that this sort of information was new to the person who I was hoping would help me control the dexterity of my fingers was a bummer.
*****************
We spent most of the next 40 minutes testing ... my arm strength. Given that Dawn was used to dealing with patients who had been in splints or stitches or casts, it wasn't surprising that she didn't have a lot of things to suggest for maintaining dexterity but it WAS frustrating. If she'd gone over my chart in advance ... ohhhhh wait, they'd lost my chart until 5 minutes before I sat down.
As I was answering her questions, Dawn would walk over to another patient and say "uh huh" but I didn't get the feeling she was actually listening to my responses. All in all, it felt like ... being in a hair salon. Same gossip-y vibe, same regular customer base, same rotating of who is overseeing someone's progress ... it was disappointing. I did actually speak up ... more than once ... to say "it's not connected to strength or muscles, it's about nerves" and "it's not a strength thing, it's a control thing" but I was clearly wasting my time. And Dawn's. I guess that was it ... I felt like it was a date neither of us had the guts to bow out of. She finished the appointment with a basic "call me if you want more ideas" but I'd stopped caring about any of her ideas about 20 minutes before that.
I walked out feeling like a guest speaker who had been invited to a forum attended by convicts. I wasn't prepared and she wasn't interested. We were both there because we felt we had to be.
*****************
It's only been two months since my diagnosis, and I don't KNOW what kind of questions to ask, or even WHO to ask. I can only describe what my hand and arm feel like ... I don't know what to do about it. I know what I've BEEN doing about it but that's not working as great as I'd like anymore (she typed, using her left hand to reset her right). So yes, I've muddled through this far but I'd like more muddling tools. And the "not being listened to" part? Yeaaaaaah ... that's not cool.
*****************
I arrived at work feeling dejected. I realize and accept that not every medical or service-related hospital-type person will be up on all their "Parkinson's" info but this was frankly just a case of "lazy". And honestly, pre-diagnosis this wouldn't have been a trigger with me at all. But that's not the situation, which is unfortunate all the way around. I'm post-diagnosis and this IS a trigger. Again, today is the best I will be. By this time tomorrow, I will miss my level of what I can do today. My time - with regards to what I can do now, how I can prepare for the future, and steps I can take to grasp (no pun intended) onto any level of achievement - is being stolen from me at a rate I do not know by a thief I cannot even see, let alone fight. Am I frustrated? I don't even have time for that.
I was met at my desk by a co-worker, Liz, who happens to have all kinds of connections in the medical world specific to Neurology and when I lamented "I just need a name of an OT with Parkinson's experience", Liz (bless her heart) said "I know three. I'll see who has room and get a name to you."
I hope Dawn doesn't wait to hear from me for too long.
Monday, November 14, 2011
The November Chronicles
I wrote earlier that there were some ... let's call them "adventures" ... in doing some of my tests while traveling down the road to confirm my diagnosis.
Today's "adventure" is gonna go straight down the toilet.
*****************
It was recommended by my neurologist that blood work, a urinalysis, and an MRI be conducted to check for *any* other factors that could be behind my arm tremor.
You see - as of today anyway - one cannot get an eye scan, brain scan, have a blood count done or do ANY other test to confirm a diagnosis of Parkinson's Disease. (It's one of maaaaaaaaaaany medical things I've learned as of late.) One can do those tests and confirm other things, but there is no marker known where a conclusive diagnosis of Parkinson's can be made. (This is kinda amazing, especially when one considers that Dr. James Parkinson first noted "Shaking Palsy" in 1817.)
The blood work was easy. Four vials were taken by a Phlebotomist who, judging from her skill, had been practicing for decades. I've only had an issue with needles once in my life, and (honestly) it was my doctor's fault. (You should NEVER show a six year old the size of the needle used for a tetanus shot.)
So after the vials of blood were labeled and corked, I was given instructions regarding the procedures required for a proper urinalysis to be conducted. When the collection was done, the sample would be tested for high amounts of copper, which could indicate abnormal liver function and/or Wilson's Disease (which can cause damage to the nervous system).
*****************
Warning: I will do my best to describe this tastefully and accurately. I may not succeed in the former.
*****************
I was told that my collection was to be a 24-hour sample, but not to include my first morning visit to the facilities, because really that's from the night before, I guess. I was given a container which I'd use to hold the collection and a funnel-like device because ... because ... well because women and men are different, that's why.
None of that was what I envisioned to be my biggest problem. No ... my biggest problem was going to be how one collects their - fluid output - for the day when one is at work. I thought about it and decided the best course of action would be to not act at all, meaning no at-work bio-breaks whatsoever.
*****************
That day for me went like this:
Wake up.
Get ready for work.
Feed pets.
Use facilities, no collection required.
Kiss Awesome Boyfriend before heading out the door.
Notice the skies seem kinda dark and cloudy.
Stop at coffee shop for usual order (20oz of Mocha).
Skip mid-morning 8oz hot chocolate.
Eat lunch kinda early (yogurt, granola bar) with hopes of "soaking up" fluid I'd taken in already.
Notice the skies are even darker now.
Also notice the soaking up fluid idea doesn't feel all that successful.
Sit at desk while sipping 18oz of fruit juice and eat second granola bar during actual lunch time.
Process invoices and ... is that rain on the window behind me?
Continue to process payments and try not to notice water STREAMING down the windows.
Sort through email to take mind off of virtual monsoon outside.
Glance disbelievingly at clock on wall, which says it is just 2:10pm.
Order office supplies, including batteries for obviously malfunctioning clock.
Seriously - it's like someone is standing on the roof with a hose or something.
Co-workers in office finally ask why I'm so edgy, so I share my plight with them.
Laughter ensues.
Note that laughter doesn't help with bladder pressure.
Manage to keep busy for rest of the day and ignore giant ark floating by my 3rd story window.
Walk to vehicle while dodging raindrops.
Drive home ... with windshield wipers on high and radio on loud.
Pull up into driveway and exhale for a moment.
Casually walk into home and greet Awesome Boyfriend.
Note Awesome Boyfriend has kindly cleared the path of any pets or obstacles between me and the facilities.
Take my time and act casual about NOT dashing into restroom.
Give up the "brave" act and use facilities while saying a small prayer of thanks for indoor plumbing.
*****************
When I went to work the next day, I was treated like a superhero ... "Bionic Bladder Babe" or something like that. I work in an office of all women and the consensus was that I was either brave for trying to do what I'd done (or, really, NOT done) or stupid ... even 'tho I'd succeeded at NOT doing what I had set out to NOT do.
*****************
So that's the story behind the urinalysis I was asked to do. The test results from it showed nothing unusual whatsoever, so we were able to rule out liver malfunction and Wilson's Disease. My doctor and I were going to continue to work under the umbrella diagnosis of Parkinson's Disease and the Carbidopa/Levodopa route would be followed for the time being. And, as I had noticed by this time, like it or not, the tremor was in fact responding to the medication.
Basically the only thing left standing between me and Parkinson's was the slim chance of something showing on the MRI. As twisted and stupid as this will read, I secretly started to hope that the MRI would show a growth or tumor of some sort. My reasoning was that at least a physical ... something ... could be operated on or removed or treated.
You see ... not only is there no test to conclusively diagnose Parkinson's, there's no treatment method to counteract or halt or reverse its progress. And "progress" it does.
Today's "adventure" is gonna go straight down the toilet.
*****************
It was recommended by my neurologist that blood work, a urinalysis, and an MRI be conducted to check for *any* other factors that could be behind my arm tremor.
You see - as of today anyway - one cannot get an eye scan, brain scan, have a blood count done or do ANY other test to confirm a diagnosis of Parkinson's Disease. (It's one of maaaaaaaaaaany medical things I've learned as of late.) One can do those tests and confirm other things, but there is no marker known where a conclusive diagnosis of Parkinson's can be made. (This is kinda amazing, especially when one considers that Dr. James Parkinson first noted "Shaking Palsy" in 1817.)
The blood work was easy. Four vials were taken by a Phlebotomist who, judging from her skill, had been practicing for decades. I've only had an issue with needles once in my life, and (honestly) it was my doctor's fault. (You should NEVER show a six year old the size of the needle used for a tetanus shot.)
So after the vials of blood were labeled and corked, I was given instructions regarding the procedures required for a proper urinalysis to be conducted. When the collection was done, the sample would be tested for high amounts of copper, which could indicate abnormal liver function and/or Wilson's Disease (which can cause damage to the nervous system).
*****************
Warning: I will do my best to describe this tastefully and accurately. I may not succeed in the former.
*****************
I was told that my collection was to be a 24-hour sample, but not to include my first morning visit to the facilities, because really that's from the night before, I guess. I was given a container which I'd use to hold the collection and a funnel-like device because ... because ... well because women and men are different, that's why.
None of that was what I envisioned to be my biggest problem. No ... my biggest problem was going to be how one collects their - fluid output - for the day when one is at work. I thought about it and decided the best course of action would be to not act at all, meaning no at-work bio-breaks whatsoever.
*****************
That day for me went like this:
Wake up.
Get ready for work.
Feed pets.
Use facilities, no collection required.
Kiss Awesome Boyfriend before heading out the door.
Notice the skies seem kinda dark and cloudy.
Stop at coffee shop for usual order (20oz of Mocha).
Skip mid-morning 8oz hot chocolate.
Eat lunch kinda early (yogurt, granola bar) with hopes of "soaking up" fluid I'd taken in already.
Notice the skies are even darker now.
Also notice the soaking up fluid idea doesn't feel all that successful.
Sit at desk while sipping 18oz of fruit juice and eat second granola bar during actual lunch time.
Process invoices and ... is that rain on the window behind me?
Continue to process payments and try not to notice water STREAMING down the windows.
Sort through email to take mind off of virtual monsoon outside.
Glance disbelievingly at clock on wall, which says it is just 2:10pm.
Order office supplies, including batteries for obviously malfunctioning clock.
Seriously - it's like someone is standing on the roof with a hose or something.
Co-workers in office finally ask why I'm so edgy, so I share my plight with them.
Laughter ensues.
Note that laughter doesn't help with bladder pressure.
Manage to keep busy for rest of the day and ignore giant ark floating by my 3rd story window.
Walk to vehicle while dodging raindrops.
Drive home ... with windshield wipers on high and radio on loud.
Pull up into driveway and exhale for a moment.
Casually walk into home and greet Awesome Boyfriend.
Note Awesome Boyfriend has kindly cleared the path of any pets or obstacles between me and the facilities.
Take my time and act casual about NOT dashing into restroom.
Give up the "brave" act and use facilities while saying a small prayer of thanks for indoor plumbing.
*****************
When I went to work the next day, I was treated like a superhero ... "Bionic Bladder Babe" or something like that. I work in an office of all women and the consensus was that I was either brave for trying to do what I'd done (or, really, NOT done) or stupid ... even 'tho I'd succeeded at NOT doing what I had set out to NOT do.
*****************
So that's the story behind the urinalysis I was asked to do. The test results from it showed nothing unusual whatsoever, so we were able to rule out liver malfunction and Wilson's Disease. My doctor and I were going to continue to work under the umbrella diagnosis of Parkinson's Disease and the Carbidopa/Levodopa route would be followed for the time being. And, as I had noticed by this time, like it or not, the tremor was in fact responding to the medication.
Basically the only thing left standing between me and Parkinson's was the slim chance of something showing on the MRI. As twisted and stupid as this will read, I secretly started to hope that the MRI would show a growth or tumor of some sort. My reasoning was that at least a physical ... something ... could be operated on or removed or treated.
You see ... not only is there no test to conclusively diagnose Parkinson's, there's no treatment method to counteract or halt or reverse its progress. And "progress" it does.
Friday, November 11, 2011
The November Chronicles
When she returned, my Neurologist asked me for the name of the place where I worked. I had thought we were done with the tests but played along and told her. (It's one of many noted places of medically-focused learning on the East Coast., and the department I'm in specifically works in the field of brain research.)
“So you work with doctors who study brain disorders and what not?” she asked, while making total eye contact. The air in the room suddenly felt more serious. I knew this air. I knew this moment.
“Right”, I responded. “We study and test for advanced age-related neurological issues, developmental disorders in children, behavioral and biological brain development” came from my mouth while my OWN brain was going through the hundreds of illnesses and sicknesses and treatable diseases I’d been reading on various emails, wondering which one she’d be assigning to my arm … and, apparently, to my foot.
“I take it”, she continued, “that you’ve done a fair amount of research then – especially after your appointment with your general practitioner.” “Ohhhh yeah”, I laughed. “Until he said it, I’d never even heard of ‘benign essential tremor’ and to think that literally millions of people have it was strangely comforting.” I lightened up. This felt better. She had news to deliver but it ... it felt alright somehow.
“Uh huh” she said. “The thing is that sometimes a dominant symptom is diagnosed, rather than finding the real primary cause of that symptom. It happens pretty frequently actually. Like – when you were diagnosed with migraines, for instance. Sure you had headaches but it was after you walked us through the frequency and the type of pain and location … that’s when we were able to say that your headaches were, in fact, migraines. They are headaches that are also migraines. Someone can have just a headache and not have it be a migraine … but you can’t have a migraine without it also being a headache.”
I nodded, took a breath and continued to listen.
“You DO have benign essential tremor, just as your GP stated. And that, combined with your difficulty in writing, slowly traveling tremor, description of how the interior of your arm feels when it shakes, lack of mobility in your right wrist, your walking gait … I’m nearly certain you have Parkinson’s disease.”
I exhaled slowly. “Yeaaaaah, I’d researched that, too.” Immediately my eyes welled up and my throat tightened.
She handed me a tissue and did her best to keep me focused. “We’re gonna take some blood today and I want you to sign up for a urinalysis. We’ll check for high concentrates of copper, which can cause tremors – I wanna rule that possibility out. Also, as soon as possible I want you to have an MRI to rule out any tumour or stroke-type events. Continue to take your Inderal – no sense in you getting migraines – but I’m prescribing Carbidopa/Levodopa that, over the next 6 weeks, I want you to slowly increase until you’re taking 3 tablets a day. And I want to see you again before the end of October.”
And I’m sure she said other things, too … but my brain had left the building and was floating away.
*****************
I am forty three years old and I have Parkinson's Disease.
No family history. Not even EXTENDED family.
How to tell The Awesome Boyfriend.
My God - I’m only forty three years old.
How to tell co-workers.
Seriously ... forty three. FORTY THREE.
Being one more damn thing for The Awesome Boyfriend to worry about. One more bother. One more burden.
How to face that look that one gets when others know bad news about them.
How to tell family back on the West Coast.
Forty fucking three years old.
*****************
While in the parking lot, I called The Awesome Boyfriend and apologized for it … for the diagnosis. After the numbness wore off a little, he asked “are you going back to work or can I meet you at home?” “Hell yes I’m going to work” I blurted out. “I’m NOT sitting at home and wallowing.”
*****************
A lot has happened since that day. I finished the blood work. I did the urinalysis (more on that later). I did the MRI (more about that later, too). I told my family. I told my coworkers. And, because I work where I work, I was given the contact info of a Neurologist who specializes in Parkinson’s research and was able to get his opinion about the diagnosis, treatment options, and a LOT of additional information.
But the real bummer is that the Carbidopa/Levodopa really … honestly … truthfully … seemed to make a difference, even after just a few days of taking it. Which sucked. A lot. A whole lot. Because since that worked, it pretty much confirmed that she'd found the right primary cause of my stupid little arm shake, which was no longer funny at all.
*****************
I am forty three years old and I have Parkinson's Disease. It probably won't kill me and I probably won't ever see a cure. The best I can hope for is symptom management. There will come a time when I will look back in longing when I had "just" the arm tremor. This - today - is the best I will ever be. Eventual decline is as inevitable as the leaves falling in November - it's both strangely beautiful and sad.
I’ll write about this as things change – which may be often. Read about it or don’t - we all have our own sack of crap to handle and mine is no heavier than yours.
Just, for my own sake, don't treat me differently if at all possible. I'm not defined by this any more than I'm defined by my job or my height or my shoe size. Yes, I’m forty three years old and yes, I have Parkinson’s Disease … but I am – I will always be – more than that.
OK? Got it?
“So you work with doctors who study brain disorders and what not?” she asked, while making total eye contact. The air in the room suddenly felt more serious. I knew this air. I knew this moment.
“Right”, I responded. “We study and test for advanced age-related neurological issues, developmental disorders in children, behavioral and biological brain development” came from my mouth while my OWN brain was going through the hundreds of illnesses and sicknesses and treatable diseases I’d been reading on various emails, wondering which one she’d be assigning to my arm … and, apparently, to my foot.
“I take it”, she continued, “that you’ve done a fair amount of research then – especially after your appointment with your general practitioner.” “Ohhhh yeah”, I laughed. “Until he said it, I’d never even heard of ‘benign essential tremor’ and to think that literally millions of people have it was strangely comforting.” I lightened up. This felt better. She had news to deliver but it ... it felt alright somehow.
“Uh huh” she said. “The thing is that sometimes a dominant symptom is diagnosed, rather than finding the real primary cause of that symptom. It happens pretty frequently actually. Like – when you were diagnosed with migraines, for instance. Sure you had headaches but it was after you walked us through the frequency and the type of pain and location … that’s when we were able to say that your headaches were, in fact, migraines. They are headaches that are also migraines. Someone can have just a headache and not have it be a migraine … but you can’t have a migraine without it also being a headache.”
I nodded, took a breath and continued to listen.
“You DO have benign essential tremor, just as your GP stated. And that, combined with your difficulty in writing, slowly traveling tremor, description of how the interior of your arm feels when it shakes, lack of mobility in your right wrist, your walking gait … I’m nearly certain you have Parkinson’s disease.”
I exhaled slowly. “Yeaaaaah, I’d researched that, too.” Immediately my eyes welled up and my throat tightened.
She handed me a tissue and did her best to keep me focused. “We’re gonna take some blood today and I want you to sign up for a urinalysis. We’ll check for high concentrates of copper, which can cause tremors – I wanna rule that possibility out. Also, as soon as possible I want you to have an MRI to rule out any tumour or stroke-type events. Continue to take your Inderal – no sense in you getting migraines – but I’m prescribing Carbidopa/Levodopa that, over the next 6 weeks, I want you to slowly increase until you’re taking 3 tablets a day. And I want to see you again before the end of October.”
And I’m sure she said other things, too … but my brain had left the building and was floating away.
*****************
I am forty three years old and I have Parkinson's Disease.
No family history. Not even EXTENDED family.
How to tell The Awesome Boyfriend.
My God - I’m only forty three years old.
How to tell co-workers.
Seriously ... forty three. FORTY THREE.
Being one more damn thing for The Awesome Boyfriend to worry about. One more bother. One more burden.
How to face that look that one gets when others know bad news about them.
How to tell family back on the West Coast.
Forty fucking three years old.
*****************
While in the parking lot, I called The Awesome Boyfriend and apologized for it … for the diagnosis. After the numbness wore off a little, he asked “are you going back to work or can I meet you at home?” “Hell yes I’m going to work” I blurted out. “I’m NOT sitting at home and wallowing.”
*****************
A lot has happened since that day. I finished the blood work. I did the urinalysis (more on that later). I did the MRI (more about that later, too). I told my family. I told my coworkers. And, because I work where I work, I was given the contact info of a Neurologist who specializes in Parkinson’s research and was able to get his opinion about the diagnosis, treatment options, and a LOT of additional information.
But the real bummer is that the Carbidopa/Levodopa really … honestly … truthfully … seemed to make a difference, even after just a few days of taking it. Which sucked. A lot. A whole lot. Because since that worked, it pretty much confirmed that she'd found the right primary cause of my stupid little arm shake, which was no longer funny at all.
*****************
I am forty three years old and I have Parkinson's Disease. It probably won't kill me and I probably won't ever see a cure. The best I can hope for is symptom management. There will come a time when I will look back in longing when I had "just" the arm tremor. This - today - is the best I will ever be. Eventual decline is as inevitable as the leaves falling in November - it's both strangely beautiful and sad.
I’ll write about this as things change – which may be often. Read about it or don’t - we all have our own sack of crap to handle and mine is no heavier than yours.
Just, for my own sake, don't treat me differently if at all possible. I'm not defined by this any more than I'm defined by my job or my height or my shoe size. Yes, I’m forty three years old and yes, I have Parkinson’s Disease … but I am – I will always be – more than that.
OK? Got it?
Thursday, November 10, 2011
The November Chronicles
If you've ever spent time with any medical specialist, I think it's safe to say that they're generally NOT known for their warm, fuzzy bedside manners. My Neurologist was 25 minutes behind schedule ('tho I was her first appointment of the day), and breezed in as 'tho she was a few minutes early. She started firing questions at me faster than most repeating guns have the capability of - family medical history, self medical history, worries, age, height, walk this line, touch these fingers, move this arm, now move THIS arm, move these fingers again, draw these circles, touch your nose.
And yes, this was BEFORE I'd had my mocha. It was a hell of a way to start a day.
Between each "test", she'd type furiously into her computer while saying "ok got it". I must've heard "ok got it" about 45 times in 15 minutes. The $1,000,000 question I still had was: Ok, what have I got?
*****************
It was when she had me walk down the hallway for the third time that it dawned on me. While she had read my medical history, she was testing me for things the GP had already cleared me of. I appreciated her thoroughness, even though it made me somewhat nervous. But, overall, I figured it was her time to waste. I guessed she would just cross a few things off the list and we’d go from there.
When I came back to stop in front of her, she said “now we both know that’s NOT how you typically swing your arms. I know you’re thinking about it and trying to walk as ‘normal’ as possible but I gotta really see what you walk like so let’s do it again”.
Properly scolded, I did a few more laps. Then she had me sit back down and tested my reflexes and my wrist flexibility and pricked my toes with pins. When she was writing down more responses and uttering more “ok got its”, she stopped mid-keyboard stroke and said “tell me why you’re holding your right hand down.” She was being blunt and honest, so I did the same. “Because it’s shaking and I’m embarrassed.” “Ok fair enough” she responded. “So go ahead and just let it shake and why don’t you tell me how long your right foot has had a tremor.”
I looked down … disbelievingly … and, as if it knew it was in trouble, my right foot was completely still. “Oh”, I said, eager to nip this line of thought in the bud. “Oh – haha – no. That’s just because my arm shaking when it’s resting on my leg is gonna make my leg shake. Ha! That’s all.” and I immediately moved my arm off my leg, as if to show how in control of my limbs I was.
Instead of agreement, I received another “ok got it”. This phrase was becoming less and less satisfying with each time I heard it. I was told to put my shoes back on while she visited her office for a few minutes.
I put on my socks and shoes while glaring at my right foot in disappointment … the problem child.
*****************
And yes, this was BEFORE I'd had my mocha. It was a hell of a way to start a day.
Between each "test", she'd type furiously into her computer while saying "ok got it". I must've heard "ok got it" about 45 times in 15 minutes. The $1,000,000 question I still had was: Ok, what have I got?
*****************
It was when she had me walk down the hallway for the third time that it dawned on me. While she had read my medical history, she was testing me for things the GP had already cleared me of. I appreciated her thoroughness, even though it made me somewhat nervous. But, overall, I figured it was her time to waste. I guessed she would just cross a few things off the list and we’d go from there.
When I came back to stop in front of her, she said “now we both know that’s NOT how you typically swing your arms. I know you’re thinking about it and trying to walk as ‘normal’ as possible but I gotta really see what you walk like so let’s do it again”.
Properly scolded, I did a few more laps. Then she had me sit back down and tested my reflexes and my wrist flexibility and pricked my toes with pins. When she was writing down more responses and uttering more “ok got its”, she stopped mid-keyboard stroke and said “tell me why you’re holding your right hand down.” She was being blunt and honest, so I did the same. “Because it’s shaking and I’m embarrassed.” “Ok fair enough” she responded. “So go ahead and just let it shake and why don’t you tell me how long your right foot has had a tremor.”
I looked down … disbelievingly … and, as if it knew it was in trouble, my right foot was completely still. “Oh”, I said, eager to nip this line of thought in the bud. “Oh – haha – no. That’s just because my arm shaking when it’s resting on my leg is gonna make my leg shake. Ha! That’s all.” and I immediately moved my arm off my leg, as if to show how in control of my limbs I was.
Instead of agreement, I received another “ok got it”. This phrase was becoming less and less satisfying with each time I heard it. I was told to put my shoes back on while she visited her office for a few minutes.
I put on my socks and shoes while glaring at my right foot in disappointment … the problem child.
*****************
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
The November Chronicles
After a month on the Inderal, I honestly tried to talk myself into believing I was shaking less. Really, I tried. Ask my friend Kathleen - hell, I was practically bragging about how much better I was doing when we had dinner in Philadelphia.
The truth of the matter was that yes, I was experiencing FAR fewer migraines, which was a blessing in and of itself, of course. But this time, since I was taking the Inderal for the express purpose of controlling the tremor ... well ... maybe I was expecting a little too much. Again, we can talk ourselves into pretty much anything when we're observing our own patterns. (Remember the ice cubes that you're not supposed to think about?) Was I really shaking less or was I just really wanting to believe I was shaking less?
*****************
I wrote to my GP and said "Hey doc - can we up the size of the dose to see if that helps?" and he agreed to do that - and also made an appointment on my behalf to go get a second opinion from a Neurologist. Which I was totally alright with. I wouldn't expect a GP to be 100% comfortable in diagnosing a neurological disorder after all. And he had already let me off the hook for my biggest worries so I had nothing to lose! Hell - bring on the Neurologist.
The truth of the matter was that yes, I was experiencing FAR fewer migraines, which was a blessing in and of itself, of course. But this time, since I was taking the Inderal for the express purpose of controlling the tremor ... well ... maybe I was expecting a little too much. Again, we can talk ourselves into pretty much anything when we're observing our own patterns. (Remember the ice cubes that you're not supposed to think about?) Was I really shaking less or was I just really wanting to believe I was shaking less?
*****************
I wrote to my GP and said "Hey doc - can we up the size of the dose to see if that helps?" and he agreed to do that - and also made an appointment on my behalf to go get a second opinion from a Neurologist. Which I was totally alright with. I wouldn't expect a GP to be 100% comfortable in diagnosing a neurological disorder after all. And he had already let me off the hook for my biggest worries so I had nothing to lose! Hell - bring on the Neurologist.
Monday, November 7, 2011
The November Chronicles
The doctor was already writing me a prescription for Inderal as the rest of the questions and answers came fast …
“How did it start? Did I trigger it during my ‘Katrina’ days?” I asked, as though it was one word.
“Too hard to figure out, since you were taking Inderal back then. You can't really make this happen or injure yourself to have this occur, ‘tho ... just like migraines, you either get it or you don't.”
“Does it ever just go away?”
“The short answer is 'no, it doesn’t'. (I liked that he said that. I like honest doctors and hearing one admit there wasn't an easy answer available was reassuring to me, even if I didn't like the response itself.) "There's no treatment or cure that will eliminate it altogether so- un-medicated - you'll forever have bad handwriting, and you’ll shake. Medicated, it can be reduced to be nearly unnoticed by those around you, 'tho you'll still feel it. More than 8 million people have ‘ET’, but less than 60% ever see a doctor about it because they’re worried about what it COULD be.” (I liked that he said that, too. I could relate to that message VERY well.)
Then he added ...
“Do you drink?”
“Typically not this early in the day”, I laughed.
“Well, start having a beer or mixed drink with dinner. It will probably reduce your shaking when the medication is beginning to wear off near bedtime. It'll buy you enough time so that you can fall asleep.”
(This was something The Awesome Boyfriend and I had discussed. When we’d do our “marathon meals”, there was usually alcohol at some point. But we were normally so focused over how great the food is that we’d forget to sneak glances at my arm.)
*****************
When I finally arrived at my desk at work, I took to the Internet. “Essential Tremor” may not be the most popular diagnosis, but there is a LOT of information about it. Of course I wanted to call The Awesome Boyfriend with what I was digesting as good news, but I decided to wait for a face-to-face conversation. I couldn't imagine starting a conversation with "so I went to the doctor today" and not being there in the flesh to show him I was fine.
I was instructed to email my doctor in a month to report on how things were going. He told me that if I didn’t feel I was shaking less, we could do tests to absolutely eliminate MS and Parkinson’s, just to ease my (and mostly The Awesome Boyfriend’s) mind but my new doctor - the one who just told me that I'd always shake and to start drinking more - really seemed to believe what we were looking at was ET.
Or, as I will call it in my “always being positive” spin, "The Hippy Hippy Shakes".
Because if it sounds funny, it really can’t be all that serious.
“How did it start? Did I trigger it during my ‘Katrina’ days?” I asked, as though it was one word.
“Too hard to figure out, since you were taking Inderal back then. You can't really make this happen or injure yourself to have this occur, ‘tho ... just like migraines, you either get it or you don't.”
“Does it ever just go away?”
“The short answer is 'no, it doesn’t'. (I liked that he said that. I like honest doctors and hearing one admit there wasn't an easy answer available was reassuring to me, even if I didn't like the response itself.) "There's no treatment or cure that will eliminate it altogether so- un-medicated - you'll forever have bad handwriting, and you’ll shake. Medicated, it can be reduced to be nearly unnoticed by those around you, 'tho you'll still feel it. More than 8 million people have ‘ET’, but less than 60% ever see a doctor about it because they’re worried about what it COULD be.” (I liked that he said that, too. I could relate to that message VERY well.)
Then he added ...
“Do you drink?”
“Typically not this early in the day”, I laughed.
“Well, start having a beer or mixed drink with dinner. It will probably reduce your shaking when the medication is beginning to wear off near bedtime. It'll buy you enough time so that you can fall asleep.”
(This was something The Awesome Boyfriend and I had discussed. When we’d do our “marathon meals”, there was usually alcohol at some point. But we were normally so focused over how great the food is that we’d forget to sneak glances at my arm.)
*****************
When I finally arrived at my desk at work, I took to the Internet. “Essential Tremor” may not be the most popular diagnosis, but there is a LOT of information about it. Of course I wanted to call The Awesome Boyfriend with what I was digesting as good news, but I decided to wait for a face-to-face conversation. I couldn't imagine starting a conversation with "so I went to the doctor today" and not being there in the flesh to show him I was fine.
I was instructed to email my doctor in a month to report on how things were going. He told me that if I didn’t feel I was shaking less, we could do tests to absolutely eliminate MS and Parkinson’s, just to ease my (and mostly The Awesome Boyfriend’s) mind but my new doctor - the one who just told me that I'd always shake and to start drinking more - really seemed to believe what we were looking at was ET.
Or, as I will call it in my “always being positive” spin, "The Hippy Hippy Shakes".
Because if it sounds funny, it really can’t be all that serious.
Friday, November 4, 2011
The November Chronicles
I awoke with the alarm and while I went about getting ready for my day, I made myself be aware of two things: (1) Try to appear normal so as to not alert The Awesome Boyfriend that I wasn't going to work but was heading to a doctor's appointment and (2) try to occasionally notice what I was doing - or not doing - when my arm began to shake.
I took a shower, fed the cats, got dressed, gathered my work items, kissed The Awesome Boyfriend farewell, and left home and not once ... NOT ONE STUPID TIME ... did my arm shake. I drove to my coffee shop and sat at what used to be "my" table and read the morning paper. No shake. I drove to the hospital and parked. No shake. Maybe I had cured it by just making the appointment.
*****************
So it was that my wounded ego, banged-up chin, no-longer shaking arm and I registered for our 8:30am appointment. As I sat in the waiting room, I glanced at the stack of magazines in the corner. As God as my witness, the smiling, eternally youthful face of Michael J Fox underneath the “Good Housekeeping” header stared back at me.
“Oh just fuck you”, I muttered to the room.
*****************
My doctor walked in and shook my hand with our introductions. “Good grip”, he said. “Damn thing hasn’t shaken once today”, I responded. We did the standard question and answer routine (smoke? No. Exercise? No. Sleep? Pretty well.) and then we did a few basic strength tests - push/pull motions, holding my arms out in front of me, rotating my shoulders and neck, etc. Since there was no numbness, lack of movement, or stiffness, he thought a pinched nerve was unlikely.
I wasn't happy about this. A pinched nerve was what I wanted to hear. A pinched nerve eventually will heal. Ruling it out left the scarier stuff on the table.
He moved into my medical history and asked about my past prescriptions, which was when I told him I used to take Maxalt for migraine pain and Inderal for daily migraine management but that my prescriptions ran out about the time this started to get worse. He nodded and set down his clipboard.
It seems Inderal was created for - catch this - "chest pain, heart attack prevention or treatment, hypertension, tremors, heart rhythm disorders and other circulatory concerns". As it was being prescribed to recent stroke victims, more and more patients who were also migraine sufferers reported back that the frequency of their migraine attacks went wayyyyyy down. So the manufacturer ran tests and - lo and behold - they'd accidentally created a migraine suppressant. Here I was being given this to prevent my migraines because this stuff had a good side effect ……. and it's likely I'd been "shaking" the whole time. I'd just happened to be taking the right pill to suppress the tremor.
As he was telling me this, he glanced to my arm – which was shaking. “That”, he said, “doesn’t look like a Parkinson’s shake … not even close. A Parkinson’s shake is more of a finger-pill rolling kind of thing … that is an ‘Essential Tremor’ shake.”
*****************
After years … YEARS … I had a name – “Essential Tremor” - or, as I heard it in my head - “Not Gonna Kill Me”.
I took a shower, fed the cats, got dressed, gathered my work items, kissed The Awesome Boyfriend farewell, and left home and not once ... NOT ONE STUPID TIME ... did my arm shake. I drove to my coffee shop and sat at what used to be "my" table and read the morning paper. No shake. I drove to the hospital and parked. No shake. Maybe I had cured it by just making the appointment.
*****************
So it was that my wounded ego, banged-up chin, no-longer shaking arm and I registered for our 8:30am appointment. As I sat in the waiting room, I glanced at the stack of magazines in the corner. As God as my witness, the smiling, eternally youthful face of Michael J Fox underneath the “Good Housekeeping” header stared back at me.
“Oh just fuck you”, I muttered to the room.
*****************
My doctor walked in and shook my hand with our introductions. “Good grip”, he said. “Damn thing hasn’t shaken once today”, I responded. We did the standard question and answer routine (smoke? No. Exercise? No. Sleep? Pretty well.) and then we did a few basic strength tests - push/pull motions, holding my arms out in front of me, rotating my shoulders and neck, etc. Since there was no numbness, lack of movement, or stiffness, he thought a pinched nerve was unlikely.
I wasn't happy about this. A pinched nerve was what I wanted to hear. A pinched nerve eventually will heal. Ruling it out left the scarier stuff on the table.
He moved into my medical history and asked about my past prescriptions, which was when I told him I used to take Maxalt for migraine pain and Inderal for daily migraine management but that my prescriptions ran out about the time this started to get worse. He nodded and set down his clipboard.
It seems Inderal was created for - catch this - "chest pain, heart attack prevention or treatment, hypertension, tremors, heart rhythm disorders and other circulatory concerns". As it was being prescribed to recent stroke victims, more and more patients who were also migraine sufferers reported back that the frequency of their migraine attacks went wayyyyyy down. So the manufacturer ran tests and - lo and behold - they'd accidentally created a migraine suppressant. Here I was being given this to prevent my migraines because this stuff had a good side effect ……. and it's likely I'd been "shaking" the whole time. I'd just happened to be taking the right pill to suppress the tremor.
As he was telling me this, he glanced to my arm – which was shaking. “That”, he said, “doesn’t look like a Parkinson’s shake … not even close. A Parkinson’s shake is more of a finger-pill rolling kind of thing … that is an ‘Essential Tremor’ shake.”
*****************
After years … YEARS … I had a name – “Essential Tremor” - or, as I heard it in my head - “Not Gonna Kill Me”.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
The November Chronicles
One Saturday, we drove to our favorite fruit market to get the last of our jams done. With an entire bushel and a half of freestone peaches and 15 quarts of fresh strawberries in the back of the truck, we'd stopped at a hardware store for a last-moment jar purchase. We were nearly sure we had enough jars for the jam, but this particular location always had the same style jar we use and a few more wouldn’t hurt.
It was a warm summer day and I was glad to be wearing my flip-flops and sunglasses as I looped the bags with jars around my left arm and slung my purse over my right. I strode out the door while The Awesome Boyfriend was somewhat ahead of me – readying to open the truck door to stash the last of our required supplies.
My right foot dragged? Or caught the edge of the concrete landing outside the doors? Or scuffed on *something* and I went down. The Awesome Boyfriend turned as he heard me but by the time he started back to help, I was already flat on the ground. My legs and knees were slightly bent to the left, my arms were on either side of my body (not ahead of me to break my fall), and my purse and the jars were, luckily, far away from my face. My chin was flat against the ground as I said my first word … “ow”. The second words were “oh crap the jars.” (No one can tell me I’m not focused on what’s important!)
My left knee got most of my weight so it bruised up nicely and my chin was, of course, quite blackened (and stayed that way for more than a week). My pride and bravado was what took the biggest hit and I know what The Awesome Boyfriend and I were both thinking as we walked slowly to the truck. Sure, I’ve ALWAYS been klutzy but … the connection was too easy to make. I didn’t start crying until my passenger door was closed … and it was the first time I think I shared exactly how scared I really was.
*****************
And you would THINK that would be enough of a wake-up call, right? But when it really struck me was during a conversation I had with a dear friend I used to work with. He was helping me arrange for a birthday gift for my mom from a West-Coast artist and called on a Wednesday evening to say everything was under control and the piece (a painting) was nearly done. And then he said “hey – remember when we had lunch while you two were out here? Please don’t be upset … but I noticed something and it scared me and …” As it turned out, I wasn't as good at hiding my "personal earthquakes" as I thought I'd been.
His timing was incredible - my first appointment in meeting my new GP was the next morning.
It was a warm summer day and I was glad to be wearing my flip-flops and sunglasses as I looped the bags with jars around my left arm and slung my purse over my right. I strode out the door while The Awesome Boyfriend was somewhat ahead of me – readying to open the truck door to stash the last of our required supplies.
My right foot dragged? Or caught the edge of the concrete landing outside the doors? Or scuffed on *something* and I went down. The Awesome Boyfriend turned as he heard me but by the time he started back to help, I was already flat on the ground. My legs and knees were slightly bent to the left, my arms were on either side of my body (not ahead of me to break my fall), and my purse and the jars were, luckily, far away from my face. My chin was flat against the ground as I said my first word … “ow”. The second words were “oh crap the jars.” (No one can tell me I’m not focused on what’s important!)
My left knee got most of my weight so it bruised up nicely and my chin was, of course, quite blackened (and stayed that way for more than a week). My pride and bravado was what took the biggest hit and I know what The Awesome Boyfriend and I were both thinking as we walked slowly to the truck. Sure, I’ve ALWAYS been klutzy but … the connection was too easy to make. I didn’t start crying until my passenger door was closed … and it was the first time I think I shared exactly how scared I really was.
*****************
And you would THINK that would be enough of a wake-up call, right? But when it really struck me was during a conversation I had with a dear friend I used to work with. He was helping me arrange for a birthday gift for my mom from a West-Coast artist and called on a Wednesday evening to say everything was under control and the piece (a painting) was nearly done. And then he said “hey – remember when we had lunch while you two were out here? Please don’t be upset … but I noticed something and it scared me and …” As it turned out, I wasn't as good at hiding my "personal earthquakes" as I thought I'd been.
His timing was incredible - my first appointment in meeting my new GP was the next morning.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
The November Chronicles
I've had my arm shake for ... well ... ... let's just say for far, farrrrr too long. If I were being very honest with myself, it was very slightly shaking upon occasion when I was doing my Katrina recovery, but I always figured I was just working new muscles and it was easy to shrug off.
It's funny what we as humans will put off - either because it isn't "big enough" to bother with making an appointment, or because we're not sure of how to describe it if we WERE to make an appointment, or - at times - because if we make the appointment, we're admitting that there is something amiss.
And I've had bigger fish to fry - medically, physically, and emotionally. Adding to the stress was my extended joblessness, which brought about my feeling as though I was yet one more burden for The Awesome Boyfriend to care for, and the near constant interview process where I honestly stopped believing I had enough to offer an employer.
Not wanting to add to anyone’s load, I kept most of my concerns and feelings of not measuring up to myself – which I readily admit added to my self-induced stress level. Some days it took a WHOLE lot of energy to stay positive … and, while to the casual observer it may have appeared that I wasn’t doing anything to warrant being tired, there were certainly days where I was exhausted and grateful to finally just go to bed.
*****************
For awhile, when my arm would shake, I could shove it down to the right side of my body and kinda sit on my hand. This would enable me to ignore it and – even more important – it would prevent it from being noticed by anyone else, too. I found LOTS of ways to ensure my shaking would be ignored – writing personal checks alone at the kitchen table and allowing myself about 8 minutes per check, typing notes and printing them on paper to insert into cards sent to friends, saying I was cold or tired, holding something in my hand (like a pencil) and purposely “bouncing” it … oh, I was clever.
Eventually though The Awesome Boyfriend started asking me questions – “how is your balance?" and "do you walk with a strange gait?" or "do you swing your arms evenly?” I’m not a mental midget … I knew what he was asking. Those are Parkinson’s indicators … he was testing me for Parkinson’s. As a Research Scientist with many years of medical school swirling about in his head, it’s his very nature to ask for reasons behind certain behaviors – but there were days when I made it quite clear I was not his research project. I knew his concern came from a good place in his heart but … denial, she is a seriously righteous bitch.
As for noticing these things myself, I can only say this: Clear your mind. Take a deep breath. Don't think about ice cubes. So - quick - the image in your head right now is of an ice cube right? Of course it is! You can't test yourself to see if you swing your arms normally because the minute you think "I need to walk from this parking space to the store. Let's see how my arms swing", I promise you the test is ruined. You have to have someone else observe you walking ... but you can't KNOW they're observing you. Our brains are kinda nutso that way.
*****************
Finally I found a job, so I began the task of having my (considerably large) medical records transferred. This took a lot of forms and a lot of writing by hand – something I was embarrassed to admit was becoming more difficult with each passing month. It was a dance, really ... hold the pen with my writing hand (my right) but guide the movements with my left. When the shaking got too bad, stop and walk away. Repeat as often as needed until task was completed.
I decided that when I was finally officially transferred to my new health care provider, I’d make an appointment to be seen about my own “personal earthquakes”. (I’d taken to calling them this because it sounded funny, and I figured that something that sounded funny couldn’t be all that serious.) I wasn't wrong when I figured that process would take months. So more time rolled by ... but since I didn't know where to start with this problem, that was alright with me.
On the job, I told myself I couldn’t ask for medical time so early in a new working environment. And then the job got super busy so I couldn’t do it then. Next The Awesome Boyfriend and I were traveling to the mid-West, so I didn’t wanna wreck that trip with stupid medical stuff. Whoops – now we were headed to the West Coast to visit family and friends ... yeeeeeah, I had all kinds of reasons why I couldn’t make that appointment.
*****************
While we were having lunch with my parents on my birthday, my mother said “so are you going through some kind of withdrawal here or what?” (My mom and I … we’re a lot alike.) I explained that I was gonna get it looked at blah blah blah and waived it off, as I’d grown accustomed to doing. As we left for home at the end of our visit, my mom looked me straight in the eye and said “do something about that.”
I’d been given my orders.
So we arrived home and I surveyed our Summer plans … lots of “jam” weekends, trips to favorite restaurants that were just overnight treks, quiet times on the job … I guessed it was time. In the middle of July, I checked out available appointments … and I picked the furthest one out I could find. (I’m not stubborn – I’m Irish.) So at least now, when asked “hey – what’s with your arm?”, I could honestly reply that I had an appointment to get it looked at.
With the designated time and date looming, I’d already told The Awesome Boyfriend that I wasn’t going to let him know when my appointment was – he was already concerned, there was no reason to have him extra anxious on a specific date for no real reason. We started with our jams and our reservations and enjoyed the warm, Summer days.
It's funny what we as humans will put off - either because it isn't "big enough" to bother with making an appointment, or because we're not sure of how to describe it if we WERE to make an appointment, or - at times - because if we make the appointment, we're admitting that there is something amiss.
And I've had bigger fish to fry - medically, physically, and emotionally. Adding to the stress was my extended joblessness, which brought about my feeling as though I was yet one more burden for The Awesome Boyfriend to care for, and the near constant interview process where I honestly stopped believing I had enough to offer an employer.
Not wanting to add to anyone’s load, I kept most of my concerns and feelings of not measuring up to myself – which I readily admit added to my self-induced stress level. Some days it took a WHOLE lot of energy to stay positive … and, while to the casual observer it may have appeared that I wasn’t doing anything to warrant being tired, there were certainly days where I was exhausted and grateful to finally just go to bed.
*****************
For awhile, when my arm would shake, I could shove it down to the right side of my body and kinda sit on my hand. This would enable me to ignore it and – even more important – it would prevent it from being noticed by anyone else, too. I found LOTS of ways to ensure my shaking would be ignored – writing personal checks alone at the kitchen table and allowing myself about 8 minutes per check, typing notes and printing them on paper to insert into cards sent to friends, saying I was cold or tired, holding something in my hand (like a pencil) and purposely “bouncing” it … oh, I was clever.
Eventually though The Awesome Boyfriend started asking me questions – “how is your balance?" and "do you walk with a strange gait?" or "do you swing your arms evenly?” I’m not a mental midget … I knew what he was asking. Those are Parkinson’s indicators … he was testing me for Parkinson’s. As a Research Scientist with many years of medical school swirling about in his head, it’s his very nature to ask for reasons behind certain behaviors – but there were days when I made it quite clear I was not his research project. I knew his concern came from a good place in his heart but … denial, she is a seriously righteous bitch.
As for noticing these things myself, I can only say this: Clear your mind. Take a deep breath. Don't think about ice cubes. So - quick - the image in your head right now is of an ice cube right? Of course it is! You can't test yourself to see if you swing your arms normally because the minute you think "I need to walk from this parking space to the store. Let's see how my arms swing", I promise you the test is ruined. You have to have someone else observe you walking ... but you can't KNOW they're observing you. Our brains are kinda nutso that way.
*****************
Finally I found a job, so I began the task of having my (considerably large) medical records transferred. This took a lot of forms and a lot of writing by hand – something I was embarrassed to admit was becoming more difficult with each passing month. It was a dance, really ... hold the pen with my writing hand (my right) but guide the movements with my left. When the shaking got too bad, stop and walk away. Repeat as often as needed until task was completed.
I decided that when I was finally officially transferred to my new health care provider, I’d make an appointment to be seen about my own “personal earthquakes”. (I’d taken to calling them this because it sounded funny, and I figured that something that sounded funny couldn’t be all that serious.) I wasn't wrong when I figured that process would take months. So more time rolled by ... but since I didn't know where to start with this problem, that was alright with me.
On the job, I told myself I couldn’t ask for medical time so early in a new working environment. And then the job got super busy so I couldn’t do it then. Next The Awesome Boyfriend and I were traveling to the mid-West, so I didn’t wanna wreck that trip with stupid medical stuff. Whoops – now we were headed to the West Coast to visit family and friends ... yeeeeeah, I had all kinds of reasons why I couldn’t make that appointment.
*****************
While we were having lunch with my parents on my birthday, my mother said “so are you going through some kind of withdrawal here or what?” (My mom and I … we’re a lot alike.) I explained that I was gonna get it looked at blah blah blah and waived it off, as I’d grown accustomed to doing. As we left for home at the end of our visit, my mom looked me straight in the eye and said “do something about that.”
I’d been given my orders.
So we arrived home and I surveyed our Summer plans … lots of “jam” weekends, trips to favorite restaurants that were just overnight treks, quiet times on the job … I guessed it was time. In the middle of July, I checked out available appointments … and I picked the furthest one out I could find. (I’m not stubborn – I’m Irish.) So at least now, when asked “hey – what’s with your arm?”, I could honestly reply that I had an appointment to get it looked at.
With the designated time and date looming, I’d already told The Awesome Boyfriend that I wasn’t going to let him know when my appointment was – he was already concerned, there was no reason to have him extra anxious on a specific date for no real reason. We started with our jams and our reservations and enjoyed the warm, Summer days.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
The November Chronicles
"Even if something is left undone, everyone must take time to sit still and watch the leaves turn."- Elizabeth Lawrence
*****************
We are a people of "go". "Move". "Achieve". "Complete". Our microwave popcorn takes too damn long to pop and it takes whole minutes to get our morning cup of coffee. Various obstacles get in our way and we go around them ... over them ... through them ... whatever it takes to get THERE.
And, when we arrive THERE? We take stock, see what is next, and continue, which is to say "we go forward". Depending on what we went around, over, or through, we are - at times - observed by other individuals who shake their collective heads and utter words like "strength", "drive", "focus". Which, when one takes a moment to watch the leaves turn, one may recognize as complete drivel.
When someone suffers a loss or experiences a sadness, it's not as though they are given the opportunity to not carry onwards. After several days (or weeks or months) of recovery, we are expected to slip back into routine. Even if that routine is just to recover.
Proof?
Welcomed or not, there was a sunrise all over this planet on September 12th, 2001. And there has been a sunrise every day since, too.
*****************
I have said many times that I never started this ... uhhhh ... well THIS ... for anyone but myself. I've always written - even in fits and spurts. I tried writing stories in high school but nothing all that interesting had happened to me yet.
My high school days are long behind me.
This November, I've decided to write ... as I see fit, and sharing on this rather public space only what I'm comfortable with - protecting what is mine, respecting those on the journey with me, and attempting to define my THERE. I realize that, by my own description as written above, I will fail. My THERE - like everyone else's - moves as rapidly as the second hand on a clock. So it may be more accurate to say that I will reveal my journey thus far.
*****************
Perhaps it all started while I was tearing down an abandoned house in November of 2006 ...
*****************
We are a people of "go". "Move". "Achieve". "Complete". Our microwave popcorn takes too damn long to pop and it takes whole minutes to get our morning cup of coffee. Various obstacles get in our way and we go around them ... over them ... through them ... whatever it takes to get THERE.
And, when we arrive THERE? We take stock, see what is next, and continue, which is to say "we go forward". Depending on what we went around, over, or through, we are - at times - observed by other individuals who shake their collective heads and utter words like "strength", "drive", "focus". Which, when one takes a moment to watch the leaves turn, one may recognize as complete drivel.
When someone suffers a loss or experiences a sadness, it's not as though they are given the opportunity to not carry onwards. After several days (or weeks or months) of recovery, we are expected to slip back into routine. Even if that routine is just to recover.
Proof?
Welcomed or not, there was a sunrise all over this planet on September 12th, 2001. And there has been a sunrise every day since, too.
*****************
I have said many times that I never started this ... uhhhh ... well THIS ... for anyone but myself. I've always written - even in fits and spurts. I tried writing stories in high school but nothing all that interesting had happened to me yet.
My high school days are long behind me.
This November, I've decided to write ... as I see fit, and sharing on this rather public space only what I'm comfortable with - protecting what is mine, respecting those on the journey with me, and attempting to define my THERE. I realize that, by my own description as written above, I will fail. My THERE - like everyone else's - moves as rapidly as the second hand on a clock. So it may be more accurate to say that I will reveal my journey thus far.
*****************
Perhaps it all started while I was tearing down an abandoned house in November of 2006 ...
Monday, October 24, 2011
The Sound Of One Hand Clapping
What is the sound of someone who is NOT asking for help?
No. Really ... I need to know. Because I'm apparently doing it wrong. The "not asking for help" part, I mean.
I recently have been given some drama in my life (manageable drama, but drama just the same) and it seems like each time I update those not-so-near but still-quite-dear on the state of said drama, I get advice of what I should do, not do, read up on, etc.
And I don't get it. I really don't.
Each time this occurs (and yes, it has happened more than once), I review what I wrote or said, carefully scanning for the part where I ask for any guidance, opinions or assistance. And damned if I just can't find it.
Now in the arena of playing fair, I WILL say that out of the immediate family of which I am a part, I have *always* been the one who played her cards close to her vest. I've never really been the one to share every little detail - good or bad - because I guess I didn't want to be viewed as a whiner or a braggart. Annnnnnnd, seeing as how I know an awful lot of fairly personal details about my various cousins, I also didn't want my personal business being digested, discussed, debated, and distributed. So it wasn't always pride which helped me to keep my mouth shut - sometimes it was just my only means of protection of privacy.
So it is no surprise, really, that pretty much ANYtime I disclose something that may be going on with me, it feels like big news. (And if it feels that way to me, it's probably not too much of a stretch to say that it may feel like that to my family, too.)
But - sharing what is going on versus asking for advice ... those aren't the same, are they? I mean - it'd be one thing to say "I've decided to join a gym" ... and something different to say "I've decided to join a gym. Do you have any recommendations?"
My overall REAL problem is that I haven't found a polite way to get the advice to NOT flow freely. After all, those giving the advice are only doing so as a way of offering support. There's no nice way ... no non-defensive-sounding way - of saying "I've decided to join a gym. I'm just telling you. There is absolutely no action required from you whatsoever. The best response you could give would be to just say 'neat' and then drop it completely."
I'm grateful that I have people in my life who care about me - it's a wonderful problem to have, I know. And, like the other issues in my life, it's not a problem I need SOLVED.
No. Really ... I need to know. Because I'm apparently doing it wrong. The "not asking for help" part, I mean.
I recently have been given some drama in my life (manageable drama, but drama just the same) and it seems like each time I update those not-so-near but still-quite-dear on the state of said drama, I get advice of what I should do, not do, read up on, etc.
And I don't get it. I really don't.
Each time this occurs (and yes, it has happened more than once), I review what I wrote or said, carefully scanning for the part where I ask for any guidance, opinions or assistance. And damned if I just can't find it.
Now in the arena of playing fair, I WILL say that out of the immediate family of which I am a part, I have *always* been the one who played her cards close to her vest. I've never really been the one to share every little detail - good or bad - because I guess I didn't want to be viewed as a whiner or a braggart. Annnnnnnd, seeing as how I know an awful lot of fairly personal details about my various cousins, I also didn't want my personal business being digested, discussed, debated, and distributed. So it wasn't always pride which helped me to keep my mouth shut - sometimes it was just my only means of protection of privacy.
So it is no surprise, really, that pretty much ANYtime I disclose something that may be going on with me, it feels like big news. (And if it feels that way to me, it's probably not too much of a stretch to say that it may feel like that to my family, too.)
But - sharing what is going on versus asking for advice ... those aren't the same, are they? I mean - it'd be one thing to say "I've decided to join a gym" ... and something different to say "I've decided to join a gym. Do you have any recommendations?"
My overall REAL problem is that I haven't found a polite way to get the advice to NOT flow freely. After all, those giving the advice are only doing so as a way of offering support. There's no nice way ... no non-defensive-sounding way - of saying "I've decided to join a gym. I'm just telling you. There is absolutely no action required from you whatsoever. The best response you could give would be to just say 'neat' and then drop it completely."
I'm grateful that I have people in my life who care about me - it's a wonderful problem to have, I know. And, like the other issues in my life, it's not a problem I need SOLVED.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Feeling Good In The 'Hood
Life isn't a board game. Life is a city ... and it has many 'hoods.
Early in childhood, there is no dignity. The average child thinks very little of begging, pleading, pitching a fit, running about naked, whining, crying, bargaining, or generally doing whatever it takes to get what they want (or to get away from what they don't want). Childhood also seems to give us VERY short memories, which probably contributes to the equation. Most adults do not remember each time they begged, pleaded, pitched fits, etc as children ... but it sure seemed important at the time. With all those tantrums and whatnot, some would say that these actions are lack of self-awareness, lack of modesty, lack of ego - but, when all is said and done, if you plug in an adult in any of those situations, you'd probably think that they had little - or no - dignity ... and maybe short-term memory loss.
Teens also lack dignity. Yes, the level of fit-pitching, whining, crying, or bargaining may be different ... but it is hard and unusual to find a dignity-filled teen. (A teen running around naked would present entirely other issues, lack of dignity being the smallest problem.) They have moments of dignity, where the future adult they'll become shines through and it is WONDERFUL to witness, but then they slip back into teenager-hood.
But, somewhere down the line, human grown-ups (which is to say MOST human grown-ups) find their dignity. That line in the sand we stand behind and say "Yes, I want this outcome and am willing to do most anything to get there ... but there is a limit." This is the age of "adulthood".
Just when we get comfortable with our dignity ... just when we feel we have the most control over how we present ourselves and we are good with our self-image ... life, once again, starts to slowly chip away at our dignity.
The paperboy or grocery clerk who calls you "Ma'am".
*clink*
The polite teen who turns down their MP3 device in the elevator and apologizes for it being so loud.
*tap*
The coworker who refers to an event in history (several years before you were born) and turns to you to ask you what your memories were of that time.
*crack*
The movie theater cashier who gives you a senior discount ... for your 45th birthday.
*thwap*
The well-intentioned stranger who compliments your children for good behavior by commenting "My but they're using all their manners for Grandpop today, aren't they?"
*thud*
It is the perfect set up that we, as humans, slowly revert back into childhood the older we get. First fighting and resisting all offers of help ... but eventually accepting the fact that we cannot bend over to tie our own shoes without getting dizzy, cannot read the small writing at the bottom of the form because our arms aren't long enough, and our modesty, our ego, and yes, our dignity, slowly melt away with each event, no matter how small.
And you realize that you're being moved from your existing "hood" to make room for the newer (and younger) residents.
The trick - if there is one - may be to recognize and appreciate the hood you're in when you're there, fully realizing you'll be transitioning to another hood soon enough. It's when you're asked to move too early that the transition is difficult - when you're still enjoying your dignity and someone else says "we're looking out for you and helping you to get comfortable when you move to your new hood." No one wants to be reminded that they are temporary residents in their hood.
Now ... get off my lawn and outta my hood.
Early in childhood, there is no dignity. The average child thinks very little of begging, pleading, pitching a fit, running about naked, whining, crying, bargaining, or generally doing whatever it takes to get what they want (or to get away from what they don't want). Childhood also seems to give us VERY short memories, which probably contributes to the equation. Most adults do not remember each time they begged, pleaded, pitched fits, etc as children ... but it sure seemed important at the time. With all those tantrums and whatnot, some would say that these actions are lack of self-awareness, lack of modesty, lack of ego - but, when all is said and done, if you plug in an adult in any of those situations, you'd probably think that they had little - or no - dignity ... and maybe short-term memory loss.
Teens also lack dignity. Yes, the level of fit-pitching, whining, crying, or bargaining may be different ... but it is hard and unusual to find a dignity-filled teen. (A teen running around naked would present entirely other issues, lack of dignity being the smallest problem.) They have moments of dignity, where the future adult they'll become shines through and it is WONDERFUL to witness, but then they slip back into teenager-hood.
But, somewhere down the line, human grown-ups (which is to say MOST human grown-ups) find their dignity. That line in the sand we stand behind and say "Yes, I want this outcome and am willing to do most anything to get there ... but there is a limit." This is the age of "adulthood".
Just when we get comfortable with our dignity ... just when we feel we have the most control over how we present ourselves and we are good with our self-image ... life, once again, starts to slowly chip away at our dignity.
The paperboy or grocery clerk who calls you "Ma'am".
*clink*
The polite teen who turns down their MP3 device in the elevator and apologizes for it being so loud.
*tap*
The coworker who refers to an event in history (several years before you were born) and turns to you to ask you what your memories were of that time.
*crack*
The movie theater cashier who gives you a senior discount ... for your 45th birthday.
*thwap*
The well-intentioned stranger who compliments your children for good behavior by commenting "My but they're using all their manners for Grandpop today, aren't they?"
*thud*
It is the perfect set up that we, as humans, slowly revert back into childhood the older we get. First fighting and resisting all offers of help ... but eventually accepting the fact that we cannot bend over to tie our own shoes without getting dizzy, cannot read the small writing at the bottom of the form because our arms aren't long enough, and our modesty, our ego, and yes, our dignity, slowly melt away with each event, no matter how small.
And you realize that you're being moved from your existing "hood" to make room for the newer (and younger) residents.
The trick - if there is one - may be to recognize and appreciate the hood you're in when you're there, fully realizing you'll be transitioning to another hood soon enough. It's when you're asked to move too early that the transition is difficult - when you're still enjoying your dignity and someone else says "we're looking out for you and helping you to get comfortable when you move to your new hood." No one wants to be reminded that they are temporary residents in their hood.
Now ... get off my lawn and outta my hood.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Balancing Vision and Ego
Once upon a time, I worked at NeXT.
I remember my time there as an on-going effort to keep the Design and Engineering departments focused and organized while they tried to keep up with the constantly shifting direction from "upper management". While it was a challenging environment to work in (to say the least), I remember it as a campus filled with energized, motivated and largely happy people.
I don't think anyone working there ever really doubted Mr. Jobs or his decisions, but the sheer amount of change the employee base was exposed to (a layoff of more than 50% of the entire staff base, going from the hardware to software business, moving facilities, partnering with companies we actively avoided in the past) ... I guess he didn't make many friends there towards the end before being brought back into the Apple orchard.
I was "just a temp" at the time. I'd decided I'd accomplished all I could at my previous employer and contacted an agency to find me something where I'd be challenged and rewarded appropriately for achievement. Which was a nice way of saying "get me into the electronics industry where the real money is". I was sent to interview at NeXT, which was interesting because the last time I'd driven around in part of the Bay Area was when it was near the city dump. Now, it was an industrial park with signs and green lawns and paved roads. It was beautiful, yanno, for being a collection of buildings near a dump and all.
The interview went well and the folks I talked to seemed really smart. They told the agency they wanted to get me under contract, and the agency said that'd be fine. I enjoyed my job, liked my staff, and was kept busy. However, my agency kept reminding me that it was a temporary assignment. And, in time, that began to bother me. After all - my manager and I worked well together ... and everyone SEEMED to think I was working out well ... but whenever I mentioned how things were going to the agency, the response would be "well that's great. Just remember, it's a temporary job." I'd be reminded of that each time I looked at my employee badge stamped "Contract Worker" or turned in a time sheet ... it got old and, frankly, a little insulting.
I started interviewing.
Since I was "just a temp", I guess I didn't feel I owed my manager an explanation or any advance warning. After all, I figured he had set up the contract and he knew it was a temporary assignment. I found what would become my new job on the first interview. The pay was incredible, the benefits were embarrassingly great, the location was perfect, I'd have my own office, make my own hours ... there was quite literally no downside to the job, except that it wasn't the temp job I already had with the staff I already knew.
A background check was conducted and when the offer letter was sent, I felt like framing it. It was the first time I'd be working for "more than my age" in thousands. (When I shared that with my sister, I learned she also measured her first real job offer that same way.) All the while, I wished I could just stay put, but there was no point in asking for what I already had been told I couldn't have. It was both exciting and frustrating - to see what could be but to know I couldn't be a part of it.
When the offer was written up, I went to my temp job and sat down with my manager. Honestly I figured he wouldn't care either way. Even so, I was still giving him 2 weeks notice and offered to train whomever would be the next temp. I felt I owed him that ... I'd been there for 8 months after all, even if I was "just a temp" and wasn't worth hiring. He looked at the offer letter and then up at me. "You accepted this already?" "I did. I want a regular job and since it can't be here, I think I can do well at this new place." He sighed. "I've been getting approvals for your offer letter for a few weeks now. It's for a higher salary than this. If I can get it to you before the end of today, will you call off the other job?"
It seemed that the "temp only" part of my assignment was the idea of the agency. After all, they got a payment for each week I was there. As long as I was a temp, they'd keep getting paid. (In my defense, it was the first time I'd worked for an agency and I was very young. I should have figured this out on my own, I know, but it didn't occur to me.) My temp staff, temp manager, temp co-workers, temp company really DID like me and appreciated my work. And, when I explained to my temp manager that I'd accepted and signed the offer letter of the new job and didn't want to go back on my word, he wasn't just gracious - he was proud of me for getting the offer and for having enough integrity to follow through, even if he was disappointed that I'd never had the guts to just ask for what I wanted, no matter who was telling me I couldn't have it.
Steve Jobs was once wildly criticized for having a huge ego when he responded to the comment "Apple builds what people want" by saying that no, that was wrong and that Apple showed people what they wanted before they even knew they wanted it. As it turned out, that WASN'T "ego" talking ... that was "vision". A lot of people today are using the word "visionary" because most of the successful CEO's we know by name only have "ego". The industry and the population it serves suffered a loss yesterday and it'll be a long while before we see that kind of "ego/vision" balance again.
I remember my time there as an on-going effort to keep the Design and Engineering departments focused and organized while they tried to keep up with the constantly shifting direction from "upper management". While it was a challenging environment to work in (to say the least), I remember it as a campus filled with energized, motivated and largely happy people.
I don't think anyone working there ever really doubted Mr. Jobs or his decisions, but the sheer amount of change the employee base was exposed to (a layoff of more than 50% of the entire staff base, going from the hardware to software business, moving facilities, partnering with companies we actively avoided in the past) ... I guess he didn't make many friends there towards the end before being brought back into the Apple orchard.
I was "just a temp" at the time. I'd decided I'd accomplished all I could at my previous employer and contacted an agency to find me something where I'd be challenged and rewarded appropriately for achievement. Which was a nice way of saying "get me into the electronics industry where the real money is". I was sent to interview at NeXT, which was interesting because the last time I'd driven around in part of the Bay Area was when it was near the city dump. Now, it was an industrial park with signs and green lawns and paved roads. It was beautiful, yanno, for being a collection of buildings near a dump and all.
The interview went well and the folks I talked to seemed really smart. They told the agency they wanted to get me under contract, and the agency said that'd be fine. I enjoyed my job, liked my staff, and was kept busy. However, my agency kept reminding me that it was a temporary assignment. And, in time, that began to bother me. After all - my manager and I worked well together ... and everyone SEEMED to think I was working out well ... but whenever I mentioned how things were going to the agency, the response would be "well that's great. Just remember, it's a temporary job." I'd be reminded of that each time I looked at my employee badge stamped "Contract Worker" or turned in a time sheet ... it got old and, frankly, a little insulting.
I started interviewing.
Since I was "just a temp", I guess I didn't feel I owed my manager an explanation or any advance warning. After all, I figured he had set up the contract and he knew it was a temporary assignment. I found what would become my new job on the first interview. The pay was incredible, the benefits were embarrassingly great, the location was perfect, I'd have my own office, make my own hours ... there was quite literally no downside to the job, except that it wasn't the temp job I already had with the staff I already knew.
A background check was conducted and when the offer letter was sent, I felt like framing it. It was the first time I'd be working for "more than my age" in thousands. (When I shared that with my sister, I learned she also measured her first real job offer that same way.) All the while, I wished I could just stay put, but there was no point in asking for what I already had been told I couldn't have. It was both exciting and frustrating - to see what could be but to know I couldn't be a part of it.
When the offer was written up, I went to my temp job and sat down with my manager. Honestly I figured he wouldn't care either way. Even so, I was still giving him 2 weeks notice and offered to train whomever would be the next temp. I felt I owed him that ... I'd been there for 8 months after all, even if I was "just a temp" and wasn't worth hiring. He looked at the offer letter and then up at me. "You accepted this already?" "I did. I want a regular job and since it can't be here, I think I can do well at this new place." He sighed. "I've been getting approvals for your offer letter for a few weeks now. It's for a higher salary than this. If I can get it to you before the end of today, will you call off the other job?"
It seemed that the "temp only" part of my assignment was the idea of the agency. After all, they got a payment for each week I was there. As long as I was a temp, they'd keep getting paid. (In my defense, it was the first time I'd worked for an agency and I was very young. I should have figured this out on my own, I know, but it didn't occur to me.) My temp staff, temp manager, temp co-workers, temp company really DID like me and appreciated my work. And, when I explained to my temp manager that I'd accepted and signed the offer letter of the new job and didn't want to go back on my word, he wasn't just gracious - he was proud of me for getting the offer and for having enough integrity to follow through, even if he was disappointed that I'd never had the guts to just ask for what I wanted, no matter who was telling me I couldn't have it.
Steve Jobs was once wildly criticized for having a huge ego when he responded to the comment "Apple builds what people want" by saying that no, that was wrong and that Apple showed people what they wanted before they even knew they wanted it. As it turned out, that WASN'T "ego" talking ... that was "vision". A lot of people today are using the word "visionary" because most of the successful CEO's we know by name only have "ego". The industry and the population it serves suffered a loss yesterday and it'll be a long while before we see that kind of "ego/vision" balance again.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Who Do You Trust?
Because of ... let's say "medical reasons", I've been spending quite a bit of time thinking of my health, hospitals, doctors, tests, etc. I think it's safe to say that folks tend to ignore thinking of these things when all is well. Very few individuals who are perfectly well and don't work in medicine wake up in a cold sweat thinking "why can't doctors spend more time explaining why they prescribe one medication and not another?".
I find myself defending decisions like that lately. I don't like it. And knowing that I'm defending these decisions against information gathered from an internet search? It makes me so damn angry that people can be that stupid.
(Sidenote: Did you know that out of 500 internet search phrases, the term "Gandhi walked on the moon" is still ranking higher than "Walt Disney's lifelong friendship with Fidel Castro"? Wow - you didn't know that? I found it on the web so it MUST be true. Except I'm lying - I didn't find it on the web. But I just wrote it so it's there now. See how reliable that is?!?)
Meanwhile, I come by my medical ignorance honestly. Even when faced with terms that apply to me, I choose to know only what is necessary when it is required ... four W's and one H: What is wrong?, Why is it happening?, What are we gonna do about it?, When does it go away?, and How do I ensure it doesn't happen again?
And I tend to ask professionals these questions (when at all possible). Let me put it this way ... the internet is, largely, anonymous. Anyone can write anything. We'd LIKE to believe that everyone always has the best of intentions ... but we know better than that. Trusting strangers with important things is dangerous. That butthead that cut you off in traffic could be the one telling you that bees are repelled by olive oil - do you trust him? The librarian that extended your book loan may be the one giving step-by-step directions on a do-it-yourself kidney removal ... is she the best person to get this info from?
Sure it's possible that the bad driver is a pest removal expert and the librarian is a retired surgeon ... but what if they aren't? Do you wanna be that gullible? Because we all know that it was actually Disney who walked on the moon. Why else would he name Mickey's dog Pluto?
I find myself defending decisions like that lately. I don't like it. And knowing that I'm defending these decisions against information gathered from an internet search? It makes me so damn angry that people can be that stupid.
(Sidenote: Did you know that out of 500 internet search phrases, the term "Gandhi walked on the moon" is still ranking higher than "Walt Disney's lifelong friendship with Fidel Castro"? Wow - you didn't know that? I found it on the web so it MUST be true. Except I'm lying - I didn't find it on the web. But I just wrote it so it's there now. See how reliable that is?!?)
Meanwhile, I come by my medical ignorance honestly. Even when faced with terms that apply to me, I choose to know only what is necessary when it is required ... four W's and one H: What is wrong?, Why is it happening?, What are we gonna do about it?, When does it go away?, and How do I ensure it doesn't happen again?
And I tend to ask professionals these questions (when at all possible). Let me put it this way ... the internet is, largely, anonymous. Anyone can write anything. We'd LIKE to believe that everyone always has the best of intentions ... but we know better than that. Trusting strangers with important things is dangerous. That butthead that cut you off in traffic could be the one telling you that bees are repelled by olive oil - do you trust him? The librarian that extended your book loan may be the one giving step-by-step directions on a do-it-yourself kidney removal ... is she the best person to get this info from?
Sure it's possible that the bad driver is a pest removal expert and the librarian is a retired surgeon ... but what if they aren't? Do you wanna be that gullible? Because we all know that it was actually Disney who walked on the moon. Why else would he name Mickey's dog Pluto?
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Tag! Someone Else Can Be "It"
I remember. I remember all too well, actually. I remember how safe and how comfortable my mom made the rest of us felt when she went to get her knee replaced. She shrugged it off as no bigger than the average dental appointment. And because she was so casual … so nonchalant about it, I guess I didn’t think about it as being a big deal. I mean – I realized that not everyone gets fake knees at any age, let alone in their 70s, but still … she didn’t seem even remotely concerned about the actual procedure OR the recovery and so the rest of the family didn’t … or, at least, I didn’t … consider anything outside of the “get surgery, recover, rehab, carry forth” circle. Naive? Perhaps. But if the individual going through the process is fine with everything, what was my getting too worked up gonna do, except to freak her out?
And a year or so later, she had the other knee replaced. And the combo of it being a now familiar process as well as the continued non-freak-out-ed-ness of the patient once again made it easier for those supporting her to keep it low-key.
Now keeping in mind that my mother’s personality tends to default to “comforter, safe-harborer, caregiver, listener of woes and burdens, lightener of troubles and cares”, it’s more than probable that she *was* completely freaked out and wasn’t going to bother the rest of us with her concerns or worries. But that kind of “keeping fears to yourself” thing can bring on ulcers, cause nightmares, etc. And what IS family for if not for leaning on? Maybe she felt that she’d lean too hard, or that we wouldn’t be able to provide enough strength to calm her fears.
In any event, I’ve always been more like my father than my mother. And I’ve had plenty of opportunity to prove it as of late. Keep my fears, worries, concerns to myself? Hell no! While being careful to suppress the urge to run about like a headless chicken (‘tho believe me I’ve had my missing cranium fowl moments), I feel I’ve been far more Drama-Queen-esque about the status quo than is necessary. Certainly more than my own mother was.
So when I was told today about coming off as “being brave” about something? I laughed. And not a polite “tut tut” bashful kind of laugh. No, it was a verbal explosion of a snort/guffaw combo. The truth of the matter is that I don’t know enough to be brave. I don’t even know enough to be in denial. Numbness maybe … yeah, I can safely say I’m numb. Tell me that I’m “handling everything so well” and I’ll respond – honestly – that I’m not handling a damn thing.
Yanno that child that closes their eyes and says “Ha ha - you can’t see me!”? That’s who I am. I’ll open my eyes at some point … but only when I’m ready.
Friday, September 9, 2011
"That" Day
I don't have a big, scary "where I was" story for September 11th, 2001.
I was getting ready for work. I saw the reports on TV. I continued to get ready for work because I didn't want to watch the events unfold in a loop all day (as they did ... for several days). Also what was being shown wasn't happening anywhere close to me. I was perfectly safe.
I drove my 3-mile non-bridge/tunnel commute and parked my car in a largely-empty parking lot. I got to my desk, turned on my computer and listened to my voicemail - nothing dramatic was waiting for me. I checked in with my parents and my sister (just to let them know I'd gone to work) and eventually would start calling sales team members, to see where they were and how they were doing and, mostly, to get them home as safely and easily as possible.
Having come from a large company, my boss and I had business practices that, as it turned out, came in real handy that day. We had current cell phone numbers *and* at least one emergency contact number of a family member for each individual on our payroll. Human Resources fought us for it, saying it was unnecessary and an invasion of privacy. We countered that since we were paying for that cell phone, we had every right to cross-check the number to ensure we weren't being double-billed. As for the additional contact number, cell phones frequently got lost or were left uncharged and service areas were NOT nation-wide. Since I was in charge of keeping the 48-page org chart up-to-date (due to being the most advanced user of the application used to create it), I knew who we employed and who they reported to, even if they weren't in my department.
I remember sending out a blast email - without checking with management - to everyone who was a supervisor, saying (essentially) "here are the names and numbers of those who report to you. Make contact with them to confirm their safety and location and send me an update by Noon PST." I didn't have a plan as to what I'd do if anyone didn't get back to me, but it turned out to not be necessary. Responses flooded in. "All of Marketing is accounted for". "Financial Services checking in as alright". "IT has checked in." "Human Resources is here". I'd learn later that day that our CEO was sent this info from the head of HR, with no indication that she wasn't the originator of the effort. I didn't care for her taking credit but I wasn't surprised by it. (I learned later in the week that my own boss was forwarding the messages - with my action-to-be-taken request email - to the same CEO so, as it turned out, he knew about the background anyway. I tried not to feel too smug about that when the head of HR was asked to leave later in the month.)
The biggest, most spread out team was mine ... Sales. We had four regions and more than 50 team members. The receptionist and I broke up the list and, starting with the East Coast, began dialing. We'd get busy signals, or no answers, or recordings of "your call is unable to be completed at this time". We had a travel report as to who was booked on which plane to be in what city to meet with whatever customer and started tracking our team that way.
Around lunch time, our management ordered out for lunch for everyone there who wanted to stay and help with locating staff. Whoever wanted to go home was free to do so. Most stayed because, I suspect, they didn't want to stare at the TV all day. They wanted to DO something ... anything. Staff that had never had the need to book travel were renting cars in cities everywhere to ensure that SOME kind of transportation would be available. We didn't realize air travel would be halted, but we weren't having any luck getting through to re-route existing itineraries so we figured we'd just eat that cost if necessary and at least have a car waiting as a "last resort".
We accounted for all of our employees and, as luck would have it, renting the cars turned out to be a good move. In the weeks to come, I'd see receipts with notes like "only reimburse 1/2 the gas since the guy we caught up with in Cleveland paid 1/2". I don't think any life-long friendships were made in those times, but I know that strangers were kinder, quieter and a little more comforting in the weeks that followed. I remember the sudden appearance of American flags ...a LOT of American Flags.
It's hard to believe that was a decade ago. I'm glad I was a West-Coaster at the time, because it felt so removed and far away. I'm glad I was younger when it happened ... that I had the patience and naivety to feel so safe and measured ... as though I'd done something like that before.
Today, I'm an East-Coaster. I still haven't seen NYC. I don't know that I need to. I don't wanna lose that "so far away from me" feeling.
Monday, September 5, 2011
A Laborious Rambling
I looked it up.
Labor Day was the dream child of one Mr. Peter McGuire from the AFL (American Federation of Labor ... NOT American Football League). Seems Mr. McGuire got the idea from the Canadians, who had an ALF (Annual Labor Festival ... NOT a brown, furry puppet). Building from smaller state-wide observances, President Grover Cleveland signed it into Federal Law in 1894. This was right about the time that the nation also started having white sales, too. (*sigh* no ... not really. Sarcasm just doesn't work on the Internet.)
Somewhere along the way, Labor Day also ushered in the new school year, the end of Summer, the last great BBQ and my mother's birthday. As a kid, Labor Day also signaled the countdown of days until Halloween and then Christmas.
I have had jobs that have allowed me to not work on Labor Day and I've also had jobs that rewarded me/expected me to work on Labor Day. Those who do not get Labor Day as a paid holiday tend to be quite bitter about it, as though those who don't labor on Labor Day are somehow undeserving of such luxury. To which I reply "you forgot to ask me if I wanted fries with that order".
(Again ... sarcasm. Mostly.)
My mother was employed for most of her life, with a few chosen exception periods of time to allow for the proper care and upbringing of her children. She would have liked to have had more help from my father, I'm sure, but he worked about 10 days a month.
As a firefighter.
He averaged 10 24-hour watches each month ... sometimes less but most of the times more. When he was home, there was a never-ending list of large tasks to do for the house and surrounding land: Build a new fence and electrify it for the horses, continue to shore up the retaining wall, repaint the shed, take down the scaffolding on the back, insulate the attic, remodel the bathroom, fix the shingles that were put up wrong, re-tar the side driveway that leads to the back of the house oh, and in your spare time, could you borrow a backhoe and dig out underneath the dining room for that second garage you keep saying you really want. They weren't exactly things my mom and her two challenging brats could do alone, so we did them as a family.
I don't remember a lot of family vacations but I remember helping my folks celebrate paying the last mortgage payment. We maybe didn't camp or take ski-weekends, but we would go get Sunday Doughnuts together or one of us kids might be invited for a last-minute run to the hardware store. We stayed home a lot but ... home was fun and big and there was lots to do and we all kept busy. Hell, we didn't even have cable TV ... but we had critters and we had imagination.
I don't remember us having a lot of relaxing down-time but we spent years of weekends working on that land, building that fence, slopping that tar, and digging the second garage. (That's NOT sarcasm. We really did that. It's why my parents have an upstairs garage and a downstairs garage. We worked moving that dust and rock bucket-full by bucket-full so much that my sister and I still know the smell of the land and can both remember finding it in our ears and noses. We worked so much that we ALL remember the time my mom challenged my uncle to an arm-wrestling match after our Thanksgiving meal to see who would do dishes ... and she unapologetically kicked his ass.)
Back to my dad. It'd be easy to say that, based on days worked in a month, my father wasn't a "full-time" employee and maybe didn't *deserve* Labor Day off. (An empty argument ... he didn't get it as a holiday anyway. If it was on his regular watch schedule, he worked it.) But there was no "Firefighters Day" to celebrate at the time. (There is now - May 4th. I looked that up, too.)
But I put this to you: When your car is on fire ... when your child has stopped breathing at the mall ... when you're stuck in an elevator ... when the smoke from the kitchen gets to be too thick and you have to call someone for assistance, who shows up? Look at an average emergency situation sometime and count the responders ... 9 times in 10 you'll see a firefighter. It makes sense - they're local, they don't usually patrol outside of their district, and they're ALWAYS waiting for your call so the dispatch transfer doesn't eat up valuable time. Next time you really need help, give your checkout clerk at the market - the one who feels he's EARNED Labor Day off - a call and see what happens.
And it's not just Labor Day, either. I can count on one hand the number of Christmas Days we celebrated ON December 25th. Family birthdays, Anniversaries, and pretty much all the other "special" days *still* have a 3-day window of happening within the ACTUAL day. Old habits die hard.
So maybe Betty Bitter and Paulie Pissedoff should just take a moment from bagging groceries, pumping gas, driving their bus, working the takeout window, answering the help-desk, or whatever their supposedly thank-less job is, and look around. Unemployment is STILL in the 8% average for the nation and if Betty and Paulie are that bent out of shape about working on a holiday that they feel must take a stand, they should do it somewhere else so the next person in line can take that job and be thankful for the opportunity.
The thing is that this country, like my parents home, was built by all sizes of hands. If you don't wanna get yours dirty or feel like you deserve a pat on the back for just doing your job ... well I recently learned that Canada has an ALF for you.
Labor Day was the dream child of one Mr. Peter McGuire from the AFL (American Federation of Labor ... NOT American Football League). Seems Mr. McGuire got the idea from the Canadians, who had an ALF (Annual Labor Festival ... NOT a brown, furry puppet). Building from smaller state-wide observances, President Grover Cleveland signed it into Federal Law in 1894. This was right about the time that the nation also started having white sales, too. (*sigh* no ... not really. Sarcasm just doesn't work on the Internet.)
Somewhere along the way, Labor Day also ushered in the new school year, the end of Summer, the last great BBQ and my mother's birthday. As a kid, Labor Day also signaled the countdown of days until Halloween and then Christmas.
I have had jobs that have allowed me to not work on Labor Day and I've also had jobs that rewarded me/expected me to work on Labor Day. Those who do not get Labor Day as a paid holiday tend to be quite bitter about it, as though those who don't labor on Labor Day are somehow undeserving of such luxury. To which I reply "you forgot to ask me if I wanted fries with that order".
(Again ... sarcasm. Mostly.)
My mother was employed for most of her life, with a few chosen exception periods of time to allow for the proper care and upbringing of her children. She would have liked to have had more help from my father, I'm sure, but he worked about 10 days a month.
As a firefighter.
He averaged 10 24-hour watches each month ... sometimes less but most of the times more. When he was home, there was a never-ending list of large tasks to do for the house and surrounding land: Build a new fence and electrify it for the horses, continue to shore up the retaining wall, repaint the shed, take down the scaffolding on the back, insulate the attic, remodel the bathroom, fix the shingles that were put up wrong, re-tar the side driveway that leads to the back of the house oh, and in your spare time, could you borrow a backhoe and dig out underneath the dining room for that second garage you keep saying you really want. They weren't exactly things my mom and her two challenging brats could do alone, so we did them as a family.
I don't remember a lot of family vacations but I remember helping my folks celebrate paying the last mortgage payment. We maybe didn't camp or take ski-weekends, but we would go get Sunday Doughnuts together or one of us kids might be invited for a last-minute run to the hardware store. We stayed home a lot but ... home was fun and big and there was lots to do and we all kept busy. Hell, we didn't even have cable TV ... but we had critters and we had imagination.
I don't remember us having a lot of relaxing down-time but we spent years of weekends working on that land, building that fence, slopping that tar, and digging the second garage. (That's NOT sarcasm. We really did that. It's why my parents have an upstairs garage and a downstairs garage. We worked moving that dust and rock bucket-full by bucket-full so much that my sister and I still know the smell of the land and can both remember finding it in our ears and noses. We worked so much that we ALL remember the time my mom challenged my uncle to an arm-wrestling match after our Thanksgiving meal to see who would do dishes ... and she unapologetically kicked his ass.)
Back to my dad. It'd be easy to say that, based on days worked in a month, my father wasn't a "full-time" employee and maybe didn't *deserve* Labor Day off. (An empty argument ... he didn't get it as a holiday anyway. If it was on his regular watch schedule, he worked it.) But there was no "Firefighters Day" to celebrate at the time. (There is now - May 4th. I looked that up, too.)
But I put this to you: When your car is on fire ... when your child has stopped breathing at the mall ... when you're stuck in an elevator ... when the smoke from the kitchen gets to be too thick and you have to call someone for assistance, who shows up? Look at an average emergency situation sometime and count the responders ... 9 times in 10 you'll see a firefighter. It makes sense - they're local, they don't usually patrol outside of their district, and they're ALWAYS waiting for your call so the dispatch transfer doesn't eat up valuable time. Next time you really need help, give your checkout clerk at the market - the one who feels he's EARNED Labor Day off - a call and see what happens.
And it's not just Labor Day, either. I can count on one hand the number of Christmas Days we celebrated ON December 25th. Family birthdays, Anniversaries, and pretty much all the other "special" days *still* have a 3-day window of happening within the ACTUAL day. Old habits die hard.
So maybe Betty Bitter and Paulie Pissedoff should just take a moment from bagging groceries, pumping gas, driving their bus, working the takeout window, answering the help-desk, or whatever their supposedly thank-less job is, and look around. Unemployment is STILL in the 8% average for the nation and if Betty and Paulie are that bent out of shape about working on a holiday that they feel must take a stand, they should do it somewhere else so the next person in line can take that job and be thankful for the opportunity.
The thing is that this country, like my parents home, was built by all sizes of hands. If you don't wanna get yours dirty or feel like you deserve a pat on the back for just doing your job ... well I recently learned that Canada has an ALF for you.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Some Whine With My Coffee
As I was reminded by our own weather this past weekend, it has been six years since the name "Katrina" came to mean something more than a version of "Katherine".
Six. Years.
Seems incredible what has - and hasn't - changed in that span of time.
Did you know that the lawsuits that began shortly after Katrina slammed into the Gulf are still being argued in courts? That it wasn't all that long ago that the "temporary trailers" meant to provide relief for a brief amount of time while rebuilding and relocating occurred were FINALLY hauled away? It's so hard to believe. I still glance at the online overhead map of Gulfport and Biloxi, just to virtually visit the streets, neighborhoods, and parks that I spent so many hours driving by. Much has changed. But, again, much has not.
And now we have had "Irene". Our immediate area was spared any real hardship and I understand that the remainder of folks who live in my state will have power restored by the end of this week. Honestly, the Awesome Boyfriend and I weren't put out at all by Irene's winds or rains whatsoever. We *just missed* having one of our vehicles damaged by an awfully large chuck of tree - but that was really the only close call we had. (For that matter, the tree chunk could have also fallen on the corner of the house too - but, again, it didn't.) Irene was kind to us.
All that being said, it doesn't take a mental giant to say that Irene WAS quite a storm to our neighbors to the North. Flood waters have changed creeks to rivers, washed away roads and bridges and housing, caused fires and turned connected streets into virtual islands onto themselves. The death toll started at four ... and then nine ... and then it was into the teens ... and now it has reached 40. Damage estimates are between $5 billion and $7 billion. I listened to those numbers as I pulled into the parking lot to get my coffee. I tried to wrap my head around all those zeros as I stood in line.
My concentration of counting zeros (cut me some slack ... I was doing math with NO coffee in me yet) was broken as I became aware of a buzzing behind me. A whiny, complaining sound ... "me me me me" it seemed to repeat. There was a well-dressed man in the line behind me who was going on about how stupid all the warnings and cautions and advance preparation and evacuations had been. About how, in the end, nothing storm-related had happened to anyone in his neighborhood and that Irene was very much ado about nothing at all. A non-event. About how put-upon he'd been to prepare during his precious down-time for a little bit of wind and rain that caused no damage whatsoever.
While he went on (and on and on and on), I thought to myself that perhaps he is a member of emergency personnel and, as such, was running on no sleep and had finally just lost his patience. I thought that perhaps he has a family member fighting for their lives in a hospital and just needed something to vent about. Maybe he is worried about his employment ... or had an ugly commute ... In my mind, I gave him every excuse to behave so boorishly and I tried (not very hard but I DID try) to ignore his seeming disappointment at the lack of Irene-caused destruction.
As the line continued to move forward and we approached the counter, I recognized the employee running the register. Being a regular at this establishment, I knew from our conversation the previous day that she lived with her parents and that they'd lost power early Saturday morning. When we spoke Monday, she said the power company told her that they'd do their best to restore it soon but to prepare for being without power for the week. Looking at her lack of usual makeup and not-as-neatly-coiffed hairstyle, I guessed that she was still without power.
I was just one person away from paying for my order when I heard the comment "honestly, this whole storm-centered weekend was a complete waste of my energy. I'd sue someone for the loss of my personal time because of this 'non-storm' if I could." And hearing that did it. Hearing that released my "whiny moron response button". With the fresh estimated damage cost and death toll data still swirling in my head and the image of this cashier and her family losing their hot showers and stored refrigerated food for the week, I handed her my personal cup for my order and then turned around to meet the scowling unhappy gaze of this man ... the source of the unending monologue of woe.
"I heard this morning", I said with as much of an expressionless face I could muster, "that the death toll is 40 and probably rising and the damage estimate is between $5 to $7 billion. How many people would have needed to die for it to have been a more 'worthwhile' storm for you?"
I honestly did want a response. I wasn't trying to shut him down completely and I really wasn't passing any judgement upon him. I'm sure his neighborhood WAS completely untouched and that is it totally possible he had no idea that lives were lost and that massive property damage had occurred. I actually was asking for his parameters because I was curious - at what body count number or dollar amount would his preparation been worthwhile to him?
Unfortunately I'll never know. My coffee order was ready and he had walked to the opposite corner of the waiting line area without a response.
Six. Years.
Seems incredible what has - and hasn't - changed in that span of time.
Did you know that the lawsuits that began shortly after Katrina slammed into the Gulf are still being argued in courts? That it wasn't all that long ago that the "temporary trailers" meant to provide relief for a brief amount of time while rebuilding and relocating occurred were FINALLY hauled away? It's so hard to believe. I still glance at the online overhead map of Gulfport and Biloxi, just to virtually visit the streets, neighborhoods, and parks that I spent so many hours driving by. Much has changed. But, again, much has not.
And now we have had "Irene". Our immediate area was spared any real hardship and I understand that the remainder of folks who live in my state will have power restored by the end of this week. Honestly, the Awesome Boyfriend and I weren't put out at all by Irene's winds or rains whatsoever. We *just missed* having one of our vehicles damaged by an awfully large chuck of tree - but that was really the only close call we had. (For that matter, the tree chunk could have also fallen on the corner of the house too - but, again, it didn't.) Irene was kind to us.
All that being said, it doesn't take a mental giant to say that Irene WAS quite a storm to our neighbors to the North. Flood waters have changed creeks to rivers, washed away roads and bridges and housing, caused fires and turned connected streets into virtual islands onto themselves. The death toll started at four ... and then nine ... and then it was into the teens ... and now it has reached 40. Damage estimates are between $5 billion and $7 billion. I listened to those numbers as I pulled into the parking lot to get my coffee. I tried to wrap my head around all those zeros as I stood in line.
My concentration of counting zeros (cut me some slack ... I was doing math with NO coffee in me yet) was broken as I became aware of a buzzing behind me. A whiny, complaining sound ... "me me me me" it seemed to repeat. There was a well-dressed man in the line behind me who was going on about how stupid all the warnings and cautions and advance preparation and evacuations had been. About how, in the end, nothing storm-related had happened to anyone in his neighborhood and that Irene was very much ado about nothing at all. A non-event. About how put-upon he'd been to prepare during his precious down-time for a little bit of wind and rain that caused no damage whatsoever.
While he went on (and on and on and on), I thought to myself that perhaps he is a member of emergency personnel and, as such, was running on no sleep and had finally just lost his patience. I thought that perhaps he has a family member fighting for their lives in a hospital and just needed something to vent about. Maybe he is worried about his employment ... or had an ugly commute ... In my mind, I gave him every excuse to behave so boorishly and I tried (not very hard but I DID try) to ignore his seeming disappointment at the lack of Irene-caused destruction.
As the line continued to move forward and we approached the counter, I recognized the employee running the register. Being a regular at this establishment, I knew from our conversation the previous day that she lived with her parents and that they'd lost power early Saturday morning. When we spoke Monday, she said the power company told her that they'd do their best to restore it soon but to prepare for being without power for the week. Looking at her lack of usual makeup and not-as-neatly-coiffed hairstyle, I guessed that she was still without power.
I was just one person away from paying for my order when I heard the comment "honestly, this whole storm-centered weekend was a complete waste of my energy. I'd sue someone for the loss of my personal time because of this 'non-storm' if I could." And hearing that did it. Hearing that released my "whiny moron response button". With the fresh estimated damage cost and death toll data still swirling in my head and the image of this cashier and her family losing their hot showers and stored refrigerated food for the week, I handed her my personal cup for my order and then turned around to meet the scowling unhappy gaze of this man ... the source of the unending monologue of woe.
"I heard this morning", I said with as much of an expressionless face I could muster, "that the death toll is 40 and probably rising and the damage estimate is between $5 to $7 billion. How many people would have needed to die for it to have been a more 'worthwhile' storm for you?"
I honestly did want a response. I wasn't trying to shut him down completely and I really wasn't passing any judgement upon him. I'm sure his neighborhood WAS completely untouched and that is it totally possible he had no idea that lives were lost and that massive property damage had occurred. I actually was asking for his parameters because I was curious - at what body count number or dollar amount would his preparation been worthwhile to him?
Unfortunately I'll never know. My coffee order was ready and he had walked to the opposite corner of the waiting line area without a response.
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