Here I sit with Shadow the cat atbthe Vet's. A plethora of animalia
has wandered in and out as we've waited. The last day before the Vet
takes off till the 2nd. A bulldog with cancer. A cat with worms and
one that "smells". And ours with eye goop. Does the Vet feel the
weight of all this love?
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Ms. Fixit Strikes Again
Yesterday the Starbucks Barista Machine stopped pulling shots. This led to blank, bleary stares of despair and confusion at 7 a.m. My husband and I blinked at each other in silent denial. Then he spoke the fateful words, "what do we do now?" For some reason, this clicked on a light in my brain, "fix it."
When your brain is trained to think in terms of desired outcome, sometimes it functions in a useful manner.
This morning, after the second day of pressed coffee (quite nice, actually) I went online to find solutions. There were even photos on one site, showing in detail how to clean a pump. I was pondering this attempt, when a line of text on another site got me thinking. Some portafilters (the handle-like gizmos that hold the ground coffee through which hot water is poured for a shot) are pressurized. These pressurized filters offset the pump pressure in the machine so that the machine can pull a shot from pre-ground coffee better than it would otherwise. The picture of a pressurized portafilter looked a lot like mine, if not exactly. These portafilters are typically found on basic home machines. That's what the Starbucks Barista is: basic.
The portafilter seemed an obvious problem since the machine seemed to pump fine till the portafilter was attached. In other words, if the portafilter were clogged the pressure of the whole system would be messed up as soon as the portafilter was put into use. So, I decided to unscrew the portafilter and see if it were clogged. If that didn't work, I'd consider attempting to clean the pump.
Here's what's what: You unscrew the 3 screws on the portafilter, placing them in a safe place all together so you don't lose the little sleeves on them. Then, carefully pull apart the portafilter (it kind of falls apart). I did this all over a mixing bowl, which was a good idea, as there are some small parts that can fall off (a couple of springs). If you need, take pictures at each step to make sure you remember how things go together. I found it pretty straight-forward, but everybody sees things differently.
Our portafilter was packed with gunk. It was frightening how disgusting it was. Were we drinking this? Yuk!
I soaked it all, screws, too, in vinegar with a little hot water, then scrubbed with a brush and used a pipe cleaner (aka chenille stem for you Martha Stewarts out there) for the small/tight areas.
When it was clean, I reassembled it and pulled a test shot.
Blessings on the internet and those fixit folks to whom I owe our dryer and barista machine and a great sense of accomplishment.
Have a happy and productive Friday!
When your brain is trained to think in terms of desired outcome, sometimes it functions in a useful manner.
This morning, after the second day of pressed coffee (quite nice, actually) I went online to find solutions. There were even photos on one site, showing in detail how to clean a pump. I was pondering this attempt, when a line of text on another site got me thinking. Some portafilters (the handle-like gizmos that hold the ground coffee through which hot water is poured for a shot) are pressurized. These pressurized filters offset the pump pressure in the machine so that the machine can pull a shot from pre-ground coffee better than it would otherwise. The picture of a pressurized portafilter looked a lot like mine, if not exactly. These portafilters are typically found on basic home machines. That's what the Starbucks Barista is: basic.
The portafilter seemed an obvious problem since the machine seemed to pump fine till the portafilter was attached. In other words, if the portafilter were clogged the pressure of the whole system would be messed up as soon as the portafilter was put into use. So, I decided to unscrew the portafilter and see if it were clogged. If that didn't work, I'd consider attempting to clean the pump.
Here's what's what: You unscrew the 3 screws on the portafilter, placing them in a safe place all together so you don't lose the little sleeves on them. Then, carefully pull apart the portafilter (it kind of falls apart). I did this all over a mixing bowl, which was a good idea, as there are some small parts that can fall off (a couple of springs). If you need, take pictures at each step to make sure you remember how things go together. I found it pretty straight-forward, but everybody sees things differently.
Our portafilter was packed with gunk. It was frightening how disgusting it was. Were we drinking this? Yuk!
I soaked it all, screws, too, in vinegar with a little hot water, then scrubbed with a brush and used a pipe cleaner (aka chenille stem for you Martha Stewarts out there) for the small/tight areas.
When it was clean, I reassembled it and pulled a test shot.
Blessings on the internet and those fixit folks to whom I owe our dryer and barista machine and a great sense of accomplishment.
Have a happy and productive Friday!
Friday, December 21, 2007
Grace, Partnership, and Family
This morning I read the following article by Larry Wilson in Ethics Daily, an online Baptist newsletter: http://www.ethicsdaily.com/article_detail.cfm?AID=9856. It speaks to many things that trouble me.
This line in particular struck me: "It is often taught that the man is the boss instead of a partner in the marriage, and this is said in the name of the Lord, which often makes God look bad. Grace is all that can save a marriage or any other relationship."
When Frank and I married, my father (an ordained minister) officiated (I am Catholic convert of Baptist background, so... a "Batholic"). He read the vows he and my mother spoke when they married in the 1950's. Part of those vows included a reference to God taking a rib from Adam's side, showing woman was to walk beside man, to be his partner. In other words, not his doormat.
Having grown up immersed in Baptist church culture, Southern culture, late 20th century culture, and a whole lot of Bible study, I have heard the verses recently adopted as creed of the Southern Baptist convention (which until the Fundamentalist coup rejected all forms of creed) that say that a wife is to SUBMIT to her husband. I have heard sermons, lectures, Bible Studies, and read books and articles on what this means. I've heard it put that because women are evil by nature, having sprung from Eve, and Adam's misdeeds flowed from Eve's (who was allegedly more susceptible to the serpent) and not of his own accord so men are not as inherently evil or easily duped into evil as women (strange logic indeed considering he is called a dupe of the so-called weak woman), that man must dominate woman or she will lead him, herself, their children, and society into nothing but evil. Perhaps this is the worst example of the interpretations of that scripture that I've heard, but it is amazing how prolific this interpretation is.
What is more amazing is how destructive it is. I tried to figure out what "submit" meant when I got married. Figuring myself a heathen by a lifetime of habit, I thought I'd gird myself in godly clothes and do this marriage right in the eyes of God and others. Understand, I've been a strong woman for most of my life with occasional bouts of weakness. Sometimes I forget who I am. Obviously, marriage was one of those moments.
Marriage turns everything upside down. I knew beforehand that I was walking Through the Looking Glass. I couldn't know until I'd done it what it was like Through the Looking Glass. It was hard. As my husband says, "the hardest thing I've ever done." When we say this (though I don't say it or think it often), usually we aren't saying that the other is the most difficult person in the world to live with. I'll let Frank say what he means by it exactly, if he wants, but when I say it, what I mean is that finding balance in the partnership, knowing how to be together every day, through thick and thin, better or worse, with such ferocious closeness requires breaking all records for diplomacy, patience, generosity, and thoughtfulness. You merge into one while remaining individual. You weigh in a little more on one count than the other on some days, and on shining, glimmering days, you sail through the balance gracefully.
How do you keep a sense of identity in all of this? In trying to understand "submit", in grappling with the intensity of marriage and then home ownership, pregnancy, and motherhood, I lost the firm hold on my identity. When I became a mother, I felt I had been reborn. Motherhood fit like a glove. (The glove loosens over time, but early on it was blissful.) But I still struggled with "wife".
It makes for an unwieldy relationship for one partner to resign herself to doormat, handing over all adult responsibility for decision-making, et al., to her husband. To question herself constantly. To make one person in the partnership the goal of all activity and joy is like trying to ride a teeter-totter by yourself. Or maybe it's like having one person sit on the teeter totter and the other use her/his hands to pump it up and down from the other side. It makes for abuse, but of which partner to the other? Perhaps the abuse is of the relationship and is conducted by both parties. it's just not a genuine way to be with someone. Or so it was for me. Add children into the mix, and they are as affected by the imbalance as everyone else.
I can't say I was a doormat, but something was askew. In all the soul-searching that came of figuring out who I was within our relationship and family, I came to realize that for our relationship, submit meant each standing on his/her own feet -- together. I had to take responsibility for my words and actions, to stand beside and help shoulder the load and acknowledge that I was shouldering the load. Where I wasn't pulling my weight, I had to confess and buck up. And I had to ask for help sometimes. Submit means I take Frank's interest to heart deeply, but without shirking my adulthood and needs. How manipulative is it for a woman or man not to set boundaries and state her/his needs? It is self-defeating and couple defeating.
You could say to submit honestly, you back up a verse and read that as Christians we are to submit to one another.
The Baptist Ethics article said that only Grace can save a marriage. Our first few years prove the truth of that. I'll show a little restraint and leave out the details, but it was Grace, nothing more or less, that made our marriage. Under the waterfall of Grace as it healed and reconstructed, I sat silent, in awe, with a gratitude I hope never to lose or to find swiftly whenever I misplace it.
I love you, Frank.
This line in particular struck me: "It is often taught that the man is the boss instead of a partner in the marriage, and this is said in the name of the Lord, which often makes God look bad. Grace is all that can save a marriage or any other relationship."
When Frank and I married, my father (an ordained minister) officiated (I am Catholic convert of Baptist background, so... a "Batholic"). He read the vows he and my mother spoke when they married in the 1950's. Part of those vows included a reference to God taking a rib from Adam's side, showing woman was to walk beside man, to be his partner. In other words, not his doormat.
Having grown up immersed in Baptist church culture, Southern culture, late 20th century culture, and a whole lot of Bible study, I have heard the verses recently adopted as creed of the Southern Baptist convention (which until the Fundamentalist coup rejected all forms of creed) that say that a wife is to SUBMIT to her husband. I have heard sermons, lectures, Bible Studies, and read books and articles on what this means. I've heard it put that because women are evil by nature, having sprung from Eve, and Adam's misdeeds flowed from Eve's (who was allegedly more susceptible to the serpent) and not of his own accord so men are not as inherently evil or easily duped into evil as women (strange logic indeed considering he is called a dupe of the so-called weak woman), that man must dominate woman or she will lead him, herself, their children, and society into nothing but evil. Perhaps this is the worst example of the interpretations of that scripture that I've heard, but it is amazing how prolific this interpretation is.
What is more amazing is how destructive it is. I tried to figure out what "submit" meant when I got married. Figuring myself a heathen by a lifetime of habit, I thought I'd gird myself in godly clothes and do this marriage right in the eyes of God and others. Understand, I've been a strong woman for most of my life with occasional bouts of weakness. Sometimes I forget who I am. Obviously, marriage was one of those moments.
Marriage turns everything upside down. I knew beforehand that I was walking Through the Looking Glass. I couldn't know until I'd done it what it was like Through the Looking Glass. It was hard. As my husband says, "the hardest thing I've ever done." When we say this (though I don't say it or think it often), usually we aren't saying that the other is the most difficult person in the world to live with. I'll let Frank say what he means by it exactly, if he wants, but when I say it, what I mean is that finding balance in the partnership, knowing how to be together every day, through thick and thin, better or worse, with such ferocious closeness requires breaking all records for diplomacy, patience, generosity, and thoughtfulness. You merge into one while remaining individual. You weigh in a little more on one count than the other on some days, and on shining, glimmering days, you sail through the balance gracefully.
How do you keep a sense of identity in all of this? In trying to understand "submit", in grappling with the intensity of marriage and then home ownership, pregnancy, and motherhood, I lost the firm hold on my identity. When I became a mother, I felt I had been reborn. Motherhood fit like a glove. (The glove loosens over time, but early on it was blissful.) But I still struggled with "wife".
It makes for an unwieldy relationship for one partner to resign herself to doormat, handing over all adult responsibility for decision-making, et al., to her husband. To question herself constantly. To make one person in the partnership the goal of all activity and joy is like trying to ride a teeter-totter by yourself. Or maybe it's like having one person sit on the teeter totter and the other use her/his hands to pump it up and down from the other side. It makes for abuse, but of which partner to the other? Perhaps the abuse is of the relationship and is conducted by both parties. it's just not a genuine way to be with someone. Or so it was for me. Add children into the mix, and they are as affected by the imbalance as everyone else.
I can't say I was a doormat, but something was askew. In all the soul-searching that came of figuring out who I was within our relationship and family, I came to realize that for our relationship, submit meant each standing on his/her own feet -- together. I had to take responsibility for my words and actions, to stand beside and help shoulder the load and acknowledge that I was shouldering the load. Where I wasn't pulling my weight, I had to confess and buck up. And I had to ask for help sometimes. Submit means I take Frank's interest to heart deeply, but without shirking my adulthood and needs. How manipulative is it for a woman or man not to set boundaries and state her/his needs? It is self-defeating and couple defeating.
You could say to submit honestly, you back up a verse and read that as Christians we are to submit to one another.
The Baptist Ethics article said that only Grace can save a marriage. Our first few years prove the truth of that. I'll show a little restraint and leave out the details, but it was Grace, nothing more or less, that made our marriage. Under the waterfall of Grace as it healed and reconstructed, I sat silent, in awe, with a gratitude I hope never to lose or to find swiftly whenever I misplace it.
I love you, Frank.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Test Results
Monday brought mixed news. My MRI showed a normal brain. How do you take that? Normal? it sounds a little insulting. Other than a few "bright spots", all looked well. Bright spots? Hmm.
In the evening, though, a friend gave me the news about mutual friend who was also having strange symptoms and went for an MRI and other tests. Her news was not so good, not so blissfully bland as "normal with a few bright spots". She has lymphoma of the brain.
In the evening, though, a friend gave me the news about mutual friend who was also having strange symptoms and went for an MRI and other tests. Her news was not so good, not so blissfully bland as "normal with a few bright spots". She has lymphoma of the brain.
Christmas wishes
Poor Little Bear invented a new level of vomiting this weekend. Saturday was a late night, all night Physics lesson: everything that went in came out. She mastered the lesson by Monday morning. I mastered laundry, taking temperature, and forcefully encouraging liquid intake. She's been home with me this week, as Frank has a product launch today and has been close to non-stop work for months.
She appeared to have the flu. The nurse on call said it sounded like flu and that Little Bear couldn't go anywhere for 7 days because she would be contagious.
At first, despair draped me like sackcloth and ashes: how would I finish the Christmas shopping when I couldn't leave the house? Frank couldn't do his shopping because of work, so he asked me. Suddenly I couldn't finish mine or his. Aaaa.
Then, I gave in to circumstances. She and I would make gifts, since we couldn't go shopping. When she felt well enough, we'd do craft projects, learn new skills, listen to Christmas music, learn French and do other lessons. So, we've knitted, glued, stamped, drawn, colored, cut, written, spelled, counted, added, subtracted, multiplied, divided, sung, studied weather, built a sandcastle out of pillows, bowls, toys, and blankets, given the cat a very loving medical examination, researched flu and the proper foods and vitamins for flu, napped, learned new French terms, and hung out.
What seemed to be a hinderance to Christmas (how blind could I be) has turned out to be the best Christmas gift. No, not her being sick. I'd give anything for her not to have suffered. But to have her home doing things we've both enjoyed.
Yesterday evening, the doctor told us Little Bear didn't have the flu, a nasty stomach virus indeed, but not "flu".
She's well now. She ought to return to school tomorrow. Ought. What an ugly word.
I want her home. I want to continue our festival of mess-making. But she ought to return to school. She will. She'll enjoy being with friends and sharing the season's spirit with other children. And she'll sing in the Christmas Program Thursday night, and we'll be there to enjoy every moment of it. And on Friday afternoon, early, I'll pick her up, and we'll continue our non-stop mess-making fiesta till the Feast of the Nativity.
She appeared to have the flu. The nurse on call said it sounded like flu and that Little Bear couldn't go anywhere for 7 days because she would be contagious.
At first, despair draped me like sackcloth and ashes: how would I finish the Christmas shopping when I couldn't leave the house? Frank couldn't do his shopping because of work, so he asked me. Suddenly I couldn't finish mine or his. Aaaa.
Then, I gave in to circumstances. She and I would make gifts, since we couldn't go shopping. When she felt well enough, we'd do craft projects, learn new skills, listen to Christmas music, learn French and do other lessons. So, we've knitted, glued, stamped, drawn, colored, cut, written, spelled, counted, added, subtracted, multiplied, divided, sung, studied weather, built a sandcastle out of pillows, bowls, toys, and blankets, given the cat a very loving medical examination, researched flu and the proper foods and vitamins for flu, napped, learned new French terms, and hung out.
What seemed to be a hinderance to Christmas (how blind could I be) has turned out to be the best Christmas gift. No, not her being sick. I'd give anything for her not to have suffered. But to have her home doing things we've both enjoyed.
Yesterday evening, the doctor told us Little Bear didn't have the flu, a nasty stomach virus indeed, but not "flu".
She's well now. She ought to return to school tomorrow. Ought. What an ugly word.
I want her home. I want to continue our festival of mess-making. But she ought to return to school. She will. She'll enjoy being with friends and sharing the season's spirit with other children. And she'll sing in the Christmas Program Thursday night, and we'll be there to enjoy every moment of it. And on Friday afternoon, early, I'll pick her up, and we'll continue our non-stop mess-making fiesta till the Feast of the Nativity.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Sausages and Shipping Tubes
Today I went for an MRI of my head. There is a certain irony to having an MRI in Advent: the intrinsic waiting and stillness demanded. And there are correlations to the pre-Christmas shopping season: lying in a shipping tube with a hockey mask strapped over your head and a hose up your arm like some demented Christmas present on a noisy Postal Service airplane. Will anyone be happy to open this present? Will I ever be able to ship a stuffed animal or a doll in a box again without wondering whether it finds the ordeal a living hell? Now I know what it feels like to be stuffed in a drum in a marching band.
It would have helped if they'd given me any information on how many tests they were going to run or how long I'd be jammed in the shipping tube while the Green Bay Packers ran back and forth over the machine. Do the techs sit around at break-time laughing at how they stuff ear plugs and noise reducing packs around people's heads and then whisper intermittent instructions to them, apparently asking on occasion, "can you hear me"? If a patient answers, "yes", do they whisper softer for a prank?
The visceral reaction of fleeing that overtook me when they plopped the hockey mask down over my face and slid me into the hole took me completely by surprise. Sure, I sometimes freak out in large, boisterous, pushy crowds and react like a snarling lion when loud noises won't stop. But I didn't realize just how bad this experience would be.
They started running the tests, and at first they told me how long a particular test would last. After the first three fairly short ones, however, they started running them all together, one after the other with no notice. I lay there for what seemed like forever with a fan blowing air in my face in a ring of cacophony wondering when it would end, if swallowing caused too much motion and disturbed the images, if I could move my arm because my elbow was falling asleep.
I began by reciting in my head a bedtime story that I read to my daughter about a little bear that won't go to sleep in the cave because he needs a snack, then a drink of water, then the moon, so that he can sleep. This was a mistake. I got horribly claustrophobic thinking about being stuck in a cave in the cold and dark for the rest of winter. I tried the Lord's Prayer. I tried singing in my head every Beatles' song and every Christmas song I could think of. Those things all worked for a time. I tried singing carols backwards. This didn't work at all. I counted to 100 over and over and over. I made up songs to the percussion of the machine and decided that someone should make an MRI soundtrack, adding in a few string instruments and woodwinds. Each test had a different tone and rhythm. On some there was an intriguing echo. This entertained me for some time. But not enough.
Perhaps you will understand the extent of the problem when I add that I had a horrible cough last night that lingered till today. One of the techs gave me a lozenge that got me most of the way through the tests. But on the last test, one that lasts 4 1/2 minutes, a tickle rose in my throat. I tried swallowing, repeatedly. I tried shallow breathing so as not to aggravate it with air. I tried thinking of something else. I tried willing it to stop. I tried just holding on, wondering how much longer, could I make it if I just held still? NO! A cough erupted, wracking my body. Fluid and goo cascaded down my throat. Water leaked from my eyes. I asked the techs to pull me out of the machine because I was choking.
Silence.
The test kept going. I screamed to let me out because I was gagging.
From a muffled microphone in another room someone said calmly, "Are you okay?"
"No! Get me out of here! I'm choking."
Nothing.
In desperation I began to kick my legs hard, screaming at the top of my lungs for them to get me out of the machine. Finally, FINALLY, they came and slid me out of the machine... but left the mask on. I told them to take it off. I needed to sit up. There was a pause. Then, they complied.
One of the two I shall refer to as The Miss Know-it-all Tech. She wasn't much of a listener. She knew everything about everything and everyone. Taking the mask off didn't seem to sit well with her. I realize it slowed things down and took a little extra care on their part, but I was choking and freaking out. She seemed to want me to be having an allergic reaction to the contrast. There may have been a gleam in her eye. She seemed quite focused on the contrast. Amazingly, if she'd paid attention to anything from the beginning, she'd have known I had a cold with a cough.
I asked the other tech, the one who seemed to understand the concept of conversation, listening, responding, to please get me some water. She did. The Know-it-all made me take the lozenge out, saying that was the problem. I said, "no, I have a cough. That's the problem." I asked if I had to do it again. At this point the tickle was pretty constant. They told me I had to take the test again, that it was a very important test. I got myself calmed down, the throat under as much control as possible, and went back in. I asked them to tell me how much longer the test would take every now and then so that I would be encouraged to hold on to it if the tickle started back in earnest. They told me nothing, or maybe they whispered it. There was some serious sound proofing on my ears. This time I made it through the test till 3 seconds to the end. If only they'd told me how much longer when I wiggled my foot at them as a sign of distress. They rolled me out for the coughing fit, left me caged in the mask, and gave me water through a straw. Then, they slid me back in to retake the last 16 seconds of the test, and said they got a full image putting the first and second runs of the test together, so we wouldn't have to go through it again.
Miss Know-it-all said to get dressed and go. I went back to the dressing room, dazed, and discovered they'd left the catheter in my arm. Miss Know-it-All assured me it was my fault for having such a distracting coughing fit.
I pray, sincerely and with intensity, that I never have to go through that again.
Next week I hope to get the results. We'll see.
It would have helped if they'd given me any information on how many tests they were going to run or how long I'd be jammed in the shipping tube while the Green Bay Packers ran back and forth over the machine. Do the techs sit around at break-time laughing at how they stuff ear plugs and noise reducing packs around people's heads and then whisper intermittent instructions to them, apparently asking on occasion, "can you hear me"? If a patient answers, "yes", do they whisper softer for a prank?
The visceral reaction of fleeing that overtook me when they plopped the hockey mask down over my face and slid me into the hole took me completely by surprise. Sure, I sometimes freak out in large, boisterous, pushy crowds and react like a snarling lion when loud noises won't stop. But I didn't realize just how bad this experience would be.
They started running the tests, and at first they told me how long a particular test would last. After the first three fairly short ones, however, they started running them all together, one after the other with no notice. I lay there for what seemed like forever with a fan blowing air in my face in a ring of cacophony wondering when it would end, if swallowing caused too much motion and disturbed the images, if I could move my arm because my elbow was falling asleep.
I began by reciting in my head a bedtime story that I read to my daughter about a little bear that won't go to sleep in the cave because he needs a snack, then a drink of water, then the moon, so that he can sleep. This was a mistake. I got horribly claustrophobic thinking about being stuck in a cave in the cold and dark for the rest of winter. I tried the Lord's Prayer. I tried singing in my head every Beatles' song and every Christmas song I could think of. Those things all worked for a time. I tried singing carols backwards. This didn't work at all. I counted to 100 over and over and over. I made up songs to the percussion of the machine and decided that someone should make an MRI soundtrack, adding in a few string instruments and woodwinds. Each test had a different tone and rhythm. On some there was an intriguing echo. This entertained me for some time. But not enough.
Perhaps you will understand the extent of the problem when I add that I had a horrible cough last night that lingered till today. One of the techs gave me a lozenge that got me most of the way through the tests. But on the last test, one that lasts 4 1/2 minutes, a tickle rose in my throat. I tried swallowing, repeatedly. I tried shallow breathing so as not to aggravate it with air. I tried thinking of something else. I tried willing it to stop. I tried just holding on, wondering how much longer, could I make it if I just held still? NO! A cough erupted, wracking my body. Fluid and goo cascaded down my throat. Water leaked from my eyes. I asked the techs to pull me out of the machine because I was choking.
Silence.
The test kept going. I screamed to let me out because I was gagging.
From a muffled microphone in another room someone said calmly, "Are you okay?"
"No! Get me out of here! I'm choking."
Nothing.
In desperation I began to kick my legs hard, screaming at the top of my lungs for them to get me out of the machine. Finally, FINALLY, they came and slid me out of the machine... but left the mask on. I told them to take it off. I needed to sit up. There was a pause. Then, they complied.
One of the two I shall refer to as The Miss Know-it-all Tech. She wasn't much of a listener. She knew everything about everything and everyone. Taking the mask off didn't seem to sit well with her. I realize it slowed things down and took a little extra care on their part, but I was choking and freaking out. She seemed to want me to be having an allergic reaction to the contrast. There may have been a gleam in her eye. She seemed quite focused on the contrast. Amazingly, if she'd paid attention to anything from the beginning, she'd have known I had a cold with a cough.
I asked the other tech, the one who seemed to understand the concept of conversation, listening, responding, to please get me some water. She did. The Know-it-all made me take the lozenge out, saying that was the problem. I said, "no, I have a cough. That's the problem." I asked if I had to do it again. At this point the tickle was pretty constant. They told me I had to take the test again, that it was a very important test. I got myself calmed down, the throat under as much control as possible, and went back in. I asked them to tell me how much longer the test would take every now and then so that I would be encouraged to hold on to it if the tickle started back in earnest. They told me nothing, or maybe they whispered it. There was some serious sound proofing on my ears. This time I made it through the test till 3 seconds to the end. If only they'd told me how much longer when I wiggled my foot at them as a sign of distress. They rolled me out for the coughing fit, left me caged in the mask, and gave me water through a straw. Then, they slid me back in to retake the last 16 seconds of the test, and said they got a full image putting the first and second runs of the test together, so we wouldn't have to go through it again.
Miss Know-it-all said to get dressed and go. I went back to the dressing room, dazed, and discovered they'd left the catheter in my arm. Miss Know-it-All assured me it was my fault for having such a distracting coughing fit.
I pray, sincerely and with intensity, that I never have to go through that again.
Next week I hope to get the results. We'll see.
Waiting
In Advent we wait. We wait for the Feast of Christmas, a 3-4 Sunday festival known reminiscently, musically as "The Twelve Days of Christmas. The feast ends on Epiphany or in some customs Three Kings Day.
We Americans are used to waiting. Not liking it, but doing it with varying degrees of grace. We wait in traffic, in checkout lines, for appointments, for test results, for email replies, for letters of acceptance or employment, for gifts to arrive, for babies to arrive, for cookies to come out of the oven. Some who want to wait with us in all those lines for all those things wait now in immigration detention centers.
I think I'll reflect on waiting today. More later.
We Americans are used to waiting. Not liking it, but doing it with varying degrees of grace. We wait in traffic, in checkout lines, for appointments, for test results, for email replies, for letters of acceptance or employment, for gifts to arrive, for babies to arrive, for cookies to come out of the oven. Some who want to wait with us in all those lines for all those things wait now in immigration detention centers.
I think I'll reflect on waiting today. More later.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Mexico
Every year for 4 years, we have gone to Mexico for Christmas. But this year we stay home.
Frank's grandmother turns 100. Presumably Mexico will be there in the months ahead, but the 100th birthday comes once for a person, and not for many of us. This opportunity won't be available other than the day it happens.
We attended the Guadalupe mass in Spanish on Sunday and discovered a vibrant Latino community we did not know before. We will return to St. Mary's for their posada and Christmas Eve mass to share in a tradition that has become our own. After all we go to Mexico at this time to immerse ourselves in Christmas connected to church and home, to God. To escape the Santa Shopping craziness.
I hadn't realized how much we'd separated from the consumer side till last week when I realized I didn't know what to do to prepare for an at home Christmas. It has required us to look at everything with deliberation. Who would have thought?
Frank's grandmother turns 100. Presumably Mexico will be there in the months ahead, but the 100th birthday comes once for a person, and not for many of us. This opportunity won't be available other than the day it happens.
We attended the Guadalupe mass in Spanish on Sunday and discovered a vibrant Latino community we did not know before. We will return to St. Mary's for their posada and Christmas Eve mass to share in a tradition that has become our own. After all we go to Mexico at this time to immerse ourselves in Christmas connected to church and home, to God. To escape the Santa Shopping craziness.
I hadn't realized how much we'd separated from the consumer side till last week when I realized I didn't know what to do to prepare for an at home Christmas. It has required us to look at everything with deliberation. Who would have thought?
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Holiday Hunger
Food and holidays go hand-in-hand in my memory. Either Daddy was sending me to the kitchen to help Mama, or Mama was sending me back to the Living Room (or more likely "Outside") to get out from under her feet. The kitchen became a sacred hub of activity. Unfortunately in my family, this was Women's sacred space. Men's sacred space seemed to be parked in the living room in front of the t.v. or working somewhere other than the kitchen. This caused problems for me. It rankled.
Unless the food preparation had icing to squeeze through tubes into edible masterpieces or colored sugar sprinkles or edible BB's, I wasn't interested. I would rather rake leaves, weave bird's nests from fallen pine needles, climb trees, draw, write, read, play hide and seek and freeze tag, explore the woods, glue paper together, rummage through the trash can for objects to meld into some semblance of something approaching art, play football, or deconstruct my room.
The problem was compounded by my innate sense of right and wrong, of inequality and justice. I was usually sent to the kitchen with a tone that spoke as loudly as the words. The statement or implication was that because I had a uterus, I existed to feed those with penises. Being sent to the kitchen because I was a girl, and possibly because I was a child annoying a parent who wanted me out of the room, did not sit well, because it did not make sense. Not that I've always been sensible. But making sense to me, even in an nonsensical way, seems paramount, at least at times when I want it to.
But this is all a huge detour along the path of my thoughts and one to which I hope to return.
This week I learned from the Family Services Coordinator at my daughter's school that she was getting lots of requests for food for the holidays, more than last year, and more from two-parent-working families than in her memory. These families depend upon the free breakfast and lunch our school provides to feed their children and make ends meet each week. When the children are home all week, the families have to provide these meals. Many are finding they do not have the means to do so.
My daughter's holiday will probably look a lot like mine growing up, only all of us will cook, decorate, make craft projects, work in the yard, and ride the carousel. We try hard to look at everything as a matter of curiosity, a task to be figured out and mastered and not divvied up by anatomy.
I'm looking forward to my daughter being home with me for two weeks, to baking Christmas cookies with icing you squeeze through tubes into edible masterpieces, to hot cider and popcorn to eat and to string for decoration, to taking her outside to fill the bird feeder so that even the birds of the air have food when they come to our yard.
And some mother at my daughter's school is looking to her daughter's/son's holiday homecoming with bittersweet thoughts.
Sure, we can and do provide assistance to these families in many ways. But where's the root of this blackberry bush, this scotch broom, this running bamboo? How do we make the world more just, so that every parent can mark the days off the calendar with expectant joy of a child being home for a little while?
The Gospel resounds in my ears this Advent: In as much as you have done it to one of the least of these, you have done it to me... Let's feed each other and let's change the world so that all have enough without having to beg, but even if -- when -- the world becomes completely equitable, let's still feed each other.
Unless the food preparation had icing to squeeze through tubes into edible masterpieces or colored sugar sprinkles or edible BB's, I wasn't interested. I would rather rake leaves, weave bird's nests from fallen pine needles, climb trees, draw, write, read, play hide and seek and freeze tag, explore the woods, glue paper together, rummage through the trash can for objects to meld into some semblance of something approaching art, play football, or deconstruct my room.
The problem was compounded by my innate sense of right and wrong, of inequality and justice. I was usually sent to the kitchen with a tone that spoke as loudly as the words. The statement or implication was that because I had a uterus, I existed to feed those with penises. Being sent to the kitchen because I was a girl, and possibly because I was a child annoying a parent who wanted me out of the room, did not sit well, because it did not make sense. Not that I've always been sensible. But making sense to me, even in an nonsensical way, seems paramount, at least at times when I want it to.
But this is all a huge detour along the path of my thoughts and one to which I hope to return.
This week I learned from the Family Services Coordinator at my daughter's school that she was getting lots of requests for food for the holidays, more than last year, and more from two-parent-working families than in her memory. These families depend upon the free breakfast and lunch our school provides to feed their children and make ends meet each week. When the children are home all week, the families have to provide these meals. Many are finding they do not have the means to do so.
My daughter's holiday will probably look a lot like mine growing up, only all of us will cook, decorate, make craft projects, work in the yard, and ride the carousel. We try hard to look at everything as a matter of curiosity, a task to be figured out and mastered and not divvied up by anatomy.
I'm looking forward to my daughter being home with me for two weeks, to baking Christmas cookies with icing you squeeze through tubes into edible masterpieces, to hot cider and popcorn to eat and to string for decoration, to taking her outside to fill the bird feeder so that even the birds of the air have food when they come to our yard.
And some mother at my daughter's school is looking to her daughter's/son's holiday homecoming with bittersweet thoughts.
Sure, we can and do provide assistance to these families in many ways. But where's the root of this blackberry bush, this scotch broom, this running bamboo? How do we make the world more just, so that every parent can mark the days off the calendar with expectant joy of a child being home for a little while?
The Gospel resounds in my ears this Advent: In as much as you have done it to one of the least of these, you have done it to me... Let's feed each other and let's change the world so that all have enough without having to beg, but even if -- when -- the world becomes completely equitable, let's still feed each other.
Seeds
Anger self-sows freely. It falls between cracks, on sand or loam, in cold or warmth, and grows.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Snow vs. Rain
It's Seattle. The Rain won.
Yes, we woke yesterday morning to a dusting of snow, enough to make everything around us white. Since I am the Saturday morning Catechist at our church, I put on hiking boots and ventured onto the street to see how difficult the commute would be. The street was fine. However, we bundled up for the trek in case the snow started up again. (Last winter we got caught in our car in the sudden, quick and thick snow fall. It took us 5 1/2 hours to make a 25 minute drive.) We decided this year to be prepared.
A mile from the house, the snow disappeared. Our neighborhood always seems to get hit with the snow more than others.
The morning's Catechesis of the Good Shepherd atrium sessions went well, both Level 1 and Level 2. The children were thoughtful, reflective, and engaged. And even though I had to go from the L1 and L2 rooms to do presentations and see how things were going, I had several moments of quiet reflection and observation, too.
Afterward, the snow started in earnest. Big, fat flakes. A woman got out of her car in front of us at a stoplight and danced as the snow fell around her. Then, she got in and rode away. Her glee permeating the cold. An older father with two small children on a bicycle crossed our path on their way to Volunteer Park. A woman in a long, plaid, wool coat walked her dog. A timeless snowglobe of images.
We attempted to attend a craft fair on the way home, but it hadn't really opened yet. Watching (briefly) the excited energy as they set up was as much holiday cheer as we needed, though. We continued our journey to home, warmth, food, and a snow ball fight. We probably got 2 inches accumulation. A couple of neighbor boys came over to play in our yard. They play too roughly for me, so I baked, made hot beverages for them, and prepared supper.
The snow stopped and started again as night fell. I was looking forward to going out again after the children were in for the night to enjoy the quiet, but it began raining. It rained hard all night and washed the snow away.
The snow, not to be outdone, started up again at daylight, working hard for its winter wonderland life. It began to accumulate. The water iced over on the streets. And then the rains came again, washing away the snow's headway, clearing streets for cars and trucks, returning kids to their video games and couches.
It's nice, the quiet of carless roads.
The sounds of my family chasing each other around with handfulls of snow, squealing, taunting, laughing is enough music to let me know I'm not alone.
Lying in bed and hearing the rain fall, knowing I would not get the opportunity to put snow down Frank's shirt or pop a snowball on Pooh's backside this morning, I wished I'd risked the painful, thoughtless hardballs of the neighbor boys last night, just to get a full winter's romp out of my system. My feet itch for the soft, schmoosh of fresh snow. Making rain angels just doesn't have the same effect.
Yes, we woke yesterday morning to a dusting of snow, enough to make everything around us white. Since I am the Saturday morning Catechist at our church, I put on hiking boots and ventured onto the street to see how difficult the commute would be. The street was fine. However, we bundled up for the trek in case the snow started up again. (Last winter we got caught in our car in the sudden, quick and thick snow fall. It took us 5 1/2 hours to make a 25 minute drive.) We decided this year to be prepared.
A mile from the house, the snow disappeared. Our neighborhood always seems to get hit with the snow more than others.
The morning's Catechesis of the Good Shepherd atrium sessions went well, both Level 1 and Level 2. The children were thoughtful, reflective, and engaged. And even though I had to go from the L1 and L2 rooms to do presentations and see how things were going, I had several moments of quiet reflection and observation, too.
Afterward, the snow started in earnest. Big, fat flakes. A woman got out of her car in front of us at a stoplight and danced as the snow fell around her. Then, she got in and rode away. Her glee permeating the cold. An older father with two small children on a bicycle crossed our path on their way to Volunteer Park. A woman in a long, plaid, wool coat walked her dog. A timeless snowglobe of images.
We attempted to attend a craft fair on the way home, but it hadn't really opened yet. Watching (briefly) the excited energy as they set up was as much holiday cheer as we needed, though. We continued our journey to home, warmth, food, and a snow ball fight. We probably got 2 inches accumulation. A couple of neighbor boys came over to play in our yard. They play too roughly for me, so I baked, made hot beverages for them, and prepared supper.
The snow stopped and started again as night fell. I was looking forward to going out again after the children were in for the night to enjoy the quiet, but it began raining. It rained hard all night and washed the snow away.
The snow, not to be outdone, started up again at daylight, working hard for its winter wonderland life. It began to accumulate. The water iced over on the streets. And then the rains came again, washing away the snow's headway, clearing streets for cars and trucks, returning kids to their video games and couches.
It's nice, the quiet of carless roads.
The sounds of my family chasing each other around with handfulls of snow, squealing, taunting, laughing is enough music to let me know I'm not alone.
Lying in bed and hearing the rain fall, knowing I would not get the opportunity to put snow down Frank's shirt or pop a snowball on Pooh's backside this morning, I wished I'd risked the painful, thoughtless hardballs of the neighbor boys last night, just to get a full winter's romp out of my system. My feet itch for the soft, schmoosh of fresh snow. Making rain angels just doesn't have the same effect.
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